LOVE LETTER TO JAPAN

LOVE LETTER TO JAPAN
by
Katry Rain

 
Introduction
たぶん君は不思議に思うだろう。なぜアメリカ人が日本人にラブレターを書くのかと。僕も驚いている。今までに世界中を旅してみて、住んでみて、魅力的な国をたくさん見てきて、素晴らしい人たちにたくさん会ってきたからだ。どうして日本が僕にとってそんなに大事なのか、どうして日本人が僕の心の真ん中にいるのか？たぶんその疑問に答えるために僕はこの手紙を書いている。君のためだけでなく、僕自身のためにも書いている。
僕が最初に日本に行ったのは1982年のことだ。理由はとてもシンプルだ。僕はアメリカで博士号をとったところだったのだが、僕の人生におもしろいことは何もなかった。出版はしていないが何冊か本を書き、パートタイムで大学で働く毎日だった。そしてまだ独身だった。そのときの僕の状況はというと：35歳、エネルギッシュでフレッシュなアイデアでいっぱい、いい教育を受けていて、でも他人は僕をまるで見ていないように感じていた。僕は透明人間のようだった。だから、友達が「日本に行くから、いっしょに来なよ。」と誘ってくれたとき、僕は10秒足らずで行くと決めた。稲妻が走るかのごとく。
僕のプランは日本に1年いることだった。きっと新たな経験になると思った(ヨーロッパやアフリカに行ったことはあったが、アジアは初めてだったから…)。あとは、僕の研究科目、Social philosophy(社会哲学)がアジアの国にも当てはまるのか試すいい機会になるだろうと思った。驚いたことに、僕は日本に5年もとどまり、その後戻ってまたさらに3年過ごすことになった。
人生の終盤に近付きつつある今、どれほど日本人が僕の心を深く揺さぶったかを感じている。日本人は気づきもしなかったかもしれないが、僕に多くのものをくれた。こうしたことを考える度に、どうやって伝えたらいいのかと思っていた。だから、この手紙を書くことにした。これは日本人である君へのラブレターだ。

Chapter 1
日本での第1日目は、大混乱だった。僕らは成田空港に大きなスーツケース(車輪なし！)とリュックサックと共に到着したのだが、ラッシュの時間帯に東京は市ヶ谷のホテルまで辿り着かねばならなかった。人々は小魚のように電車に詰められていた。僕の日本語は「コンニチハ」と「アリガトー」だけ。友達の日本語は少しましだった。彼女は「ワタシハ　アメリカジン　デス」と「ハジメ　マシテ」は言えた。でも、ほとんど役に立たず、僕らは「Excuse me, do you speak English?」と聞き続けることしかできなかった。
何時間もかかって、混雑した地下鉄を乗り継いで、やっとホテルを見つけた。サンフランシスコからのフライト時間は24時間だったから、僕はとても疲れていた。トラックに轢かれたみたいな感じだった。
その夜ベットの中で、日本に来たのは果たして正しい選択だったのかと思い始めた。僕は、ホテルからホテルへ、もしくはツアーバスからツアーバスへ移ってその国をめぐるような楽しみを探しに来た、ただの旅行客ではない。僕はこの国の文化に溶け込み、できる限りのことを学びながらこの国に1年間住むのだ。とても難しいことのように思えた。だって、国とその国の人々を理解するためには、人は考え方を変え、開放し、広げなければならないと思ったから。こうした考えごとに加えて、時差ボケもあったから、僕はその晩眠れなかった。夜が昼間のようで、トラックがまたやってきて、また轢かれたみたいだった。

僕はここに来てよかったのかと何度も思った。恐怖とは少し違う。僕はこれまでにいろんなことにチャレンジしてきたし、冒険もしてきた。21歳のとき、羊用トラックの荷台に乗って、アフリカのサハラ砂漠を横断した。それから、スカイダイビング(5回はソロダイブ)もした。カリフォルニアのWhitney山(4500m) に登ったり、バックパッカーになって単独でアメリカを横断(4200km)したこともあった。スキューバダイビングもしたことがあったし、タフなバイクに乗ったこともあった。だから、なんで日本だけがこうも挑戦的に思えたのか？たぶん日本がいわゆる未知の国だったからだろう。今までのどんなこととも違っていた。最初の1日を何とか生き延びたとしても、残りの364日をどう過ごせばいいのか、そんなことを考えていた。
その後2、3日も変わらず、眠れなかった。時差ボケで混乱していたこともあったかもしれない。でも、だんだんなんとなくわかってきた。日本の人たつはフレンドリーで僕を気遣ってくれる。もちろん、大都市にありがちなことで、彼らはせわしなくあちこち飛び回っているように見えたのだが、話しかけると思ったよりしっかり聞いてくれた。僕は驚いた。いままで世界中の都会をみてきたが、そこの人達は僕のような外国人を助けた後には足早に去っていったように思う。でも、世界の中でもかなり栄えているであろう東京では、僕の質問に答えるだけでなく、何が起こったのかまで気にしてくれた。たとえうまく伝えられなかったときでも(僕は英語とボディランゲージを交えて話していたのだが)、僕が何を言いたいのかを何とか読み取ろうとしている配慮が感じられた。こんなことはパリでもメキシコでも、アメリカでさえもなかった。だから僕は日に日に、日本に来るという選択は正しかったのだと思うようになった。少なくとも僕はそう信じていた。
君は僕の見解が間違っていると思うかもしれない。東京の人達みんながそんなにフレンドリーなわけがないと思うかもしれないし、冷たくされた経験も実際にあるかもしれない。それはそうだと思う。でも僕の状況を考えてみてほしい。僕は何もできない外国人で、本当に子どものようにシンプルな会話しかできなかった。でも東京の人達は僕に背を向けることはなかった。彼らは僕を助けようとしたし、たとえできなかったとしても助けたいという気持ちが伝わってきた。この感覚は他の国でも体験したことはあったが、いつもほんの一握りの人だ。日本では、本当に多くの人がそうだったのだ。僕にはそれが日本の文化の一部のように感じた。日本人の一つの特徴のように感じた。あれから30年たってこれを書いている今、まだそれを信じている。むしろ、昔よりももっと強く信じている。その後の経験がさらに僕に信じさせているのだろう。
日本人のこうした特徴を感じとってから間もなく、僕は日本語を学ぶことにした。もう子どものままはいやだったのだ！友達は京都に行きたがっていたので、僕はホテルを出て丸ノ内線の豊南町にある「外国人ハウス」に引っ越した。そして原宿のTokyo Academy に入学した。一週間のうちに、日本人に代々木公園の場所や北海道の気候はどのようかなど質問できるようになった。彼らは僕の言葉を完全に理解していたし、僕はときどきは彼らの答えを聞きとれた。初めてぼくはリラックスし、楽しめるようになった。ハネムーンが始まったのだ！

Chapter 2
豊南町では、Tokyo English House に住んだ。全部でだいたい14戸ぐらいで、半分は外国人、半分は日本人だった。僕の家賃は1ヶ月32,000円、日本人は毎日英語を練習できるので75,000円だった。
一部屋の定員は2名で、ほとんどの住人は20歳代だった。でも、僕のルームメイトは38歳のサラリーマンで、名前はジンといった。ジンはそこに1週間に4日だけ泊まり、週末は家族のいる郊外に帰っていた。ジンはもうすぐ海外に行くために英語が必要だったので、会社が家賃を払っていた。僕は1週間にほんの数時間しかジンを見かけなかった。彼はよく同僚と居酒屋に呑みにいっていて、帰りが遅かったからだ。ある晩、ジンがかなりたくさんお酒を呑んで11時ごろに帰ってきたとき、僕らは長い時間しゃべった。寝る前にシャワーを浴びに下の階に行く直前に、ジンは僕にこう言った。「Katry, sometimes when I talk to you, I feel like I’m talking to a Japanese.」(Katry、君としゃっべっていると、ときどき日本人としゃべっているような感覚になるよ。)
外国人ハウスに住んだことは、日本を知るいいきっかけになった。日本語を練習できると同時に日本の食べ物、場所、歴史や文化も学べた。それから、他の外国人(アメリカ人とヨーロッパの人達のミックス)からも日本に対する考えや意見など多くのことを学べた。教師の仕事や東京近郊の観光地のことから歯医者の探し方、よく効く風邪薬といったちょっとした役立ち情報まで得られた。そして、外国人と日本人の考え方は大きく違っていることが日に日に明らかになっていった。
その違いはたくさんあったのだが、特に2つのことが強く記憶に残っている。1つ目はTokyo English Houseに住んでいた「フジコ」という若い女性に関係することだ。彼女と僕はある日の夕方ラウンジのソファーに座って、文化について話していた。彼女は普段物静かでシャイで、ほとんど英語はしゃべらなかった。僕は親切な彼女が好きだった。彼女はいつも他の人達を気にして助けようとしていた。とてもピュアでまるで天使のようだった。どうか笑わないでほしい！世の中にはそういう人たちが本当にいるのだ。
とにかく、僕らはソファーに座っていた。そこに、ある外国人の住人が友達の家から取ってきたスーツケースをもって入ってきた。彼は挨拶をして、スーツケースをソファーの隣に置いた。そして、食べ物を用意しにキッチンに入っていった。約10分後、フジコは僕の方を見て、「わたし、お腹がすいたので、何か食べようと思うんだけど、あなたはどう？あなたの分も作ろうか？」と言った。僕は嬉しかったけど、後で食べるからいい、と伝えた。彼女が立ち上がるとき、スーツケースが行く手をふさいでいた。彼女は僕の方を見て、驚いたことに大きくはっきりした声で「じゃまですね！」と言った。僕はすぐに2つの異なった意味で彼女の言っていることがわかった。1つは、ちょうどその週に日本語の授業で「じゃま」という言葉を習ったので、彼女の言っている言葉がその言葉通りわかった。でも、普段やわらかく優しい声の彼女が、この時は大声で、その外国人の軽率で無礼なふるまいを好ましく思わないことを僕に示したのだ！彼女は社会的義務について考えていたのだが、彼は自分の都合しか考えていなかった。
2つ目の日本と外国の違いの例は、数週間後に起こったものだ。僕はまたラウンジにいた。今度は昼過ぎに4,5人の住人と話していたときだ。そのうちの1人は20歳前後の若くてきれいな女の子だった。彼女は日本人とアメリカ人のハーフで、モデルとして東京で働いていた。彼女の父親はアメリカ軍人で、彼女はアメリカ軍基地で生まれていたので、英語は完璧だった。そして母親は日本人だったので、日本語も流暢に話せた。
ともかく、その日の午後、僕らがラウンジにいるときに、電話が鳴った。彼女が日本語を話せたから、彼女が出た。彼女の声はすぐにとてもやわらかく優しくなり、少しお辞儀をしながら「もしもし、はい、そうです。どなたでしょうか？トムさんですか？(トムは上の階に住むアメリカ人)少々お待ち下さい。」と言い、受話器を手で覆ってから、上の階に続くドアを開けて英語で、鋭く大きく深い声で「Tom! Telephone for you!」といったのだ。ぼくは驚いて彼女をまじまじと見た。彼女の頭の中には全然違う考え方が2つ、同時に存在していたのだ。日本語と英語である。
それ以来、僕は「もし日本にいたら、僕の頭の中にも2つの考え方がうまれるのか？」と考えるようになった。この、僕が2人の人間になれる可能性があるというアイデアに、ショックを受けたと同時に興奮もした。そして時間の経過とともに、これら2つの世界、考え方はほぼ完全に対照的なものだと次第に確信した。

Chapter 3
数ヶ月後、僕はまだハネムーン中で、Tokyo English House での生活を楽しんでいた。僕の日本語は日に日に進歩して、東京近辺の道なら迷わなくなった。お好み焼きやみそ汁、おにぎりといった簡単な日本食も習った。とても楽しくて、おもちゃ屋さんにいるみたいだった。
まもなく僕は、日本では生活の大部分の関心が食べ物に向いていることに気がついた。会話の多くは食べ物に関することだったし、英語の先生をしていて生徒と話すときや、数年後大学で同僚と話すときに、もし会話がつまらなくなったり、静かになったときでも食べ物の話でまた盛り上がることが多々あった。これはとてもいいことだ。日本の食べ物は多種多様でおいしいからそれらについて話すのはとても楽しかった。
君はおかしいと思うかもしれないが、僕にとっては本当に驚きだった。なぜかって？僕が思うに理由は2つ。わかるかもしれないけれど、1つ目は、アメリカの食べ物はあんまりおいしいとはいえない。もし他の国の人がアメリカの食べ物のことを考えたとしたら、彼らはどう思うのだろう？ハンバーガー、ステーキ、フレンチフライ、フライドチキン、ベイクドポテト、サンドウィッチなどなど。もちろん、おいしいかもしれない。でも、アメリカ人はどんなにそれがおいしいかについてはめったに話さない。本当を言うと、食べ物についての話の多くはダイエットについてだ。アメリカ人はいつも、いかに食べる量を減らすかについて話しているのだ！そして、彼らはあまりに多くの“ジャンクフード”(キャンディー、ポテトチップス、ドーナツ、アイスクリームなど)を食べていたので、健康的な食べ物をいかにして食べるかについても話した。だから、話題が“味”であることはめったになかった。もし、食べている間に食べ物の味について話しをするとしたら、デザートについてだったのだ！おいしいアイスクリームやチョコレートケーキについて話しているのを聞くことはあっても、チキンや野菜について話しているのは聞いたことがない。アメリカ人は、「to die for」という表現を使う。これは、貴重でおいしいデザートを説明するときに使う、つまり、とてもおいしいので、それを食べるためなら死んでもいいという意味だ。もちろん、これは大げさな表現！…でもこの表現がハムやオムレツ、高いステーキに使われるのを聞いたことがない。アメリカ人が死んでもいいと思うのはデザートのためだけなのだ！
日本人が食べ物(を食べたり、それについて話すこと)に強く関心をもっていることに驚いた2つ目の理由は、日本に行くまでは食べ物は僕にとって全く大事じゃなかったからだ。それまでは、食べ物がおいしいからではなく、お腹がすいたから食べていた。別の英語表現を使うと…それでもまだうまく表現できないけど…、食べ物を違った見方でとらえていたのだ。つまり、アメリカ人は「I eat to live」、日本人は「live to eat」、違いがわかるだろうか？日本に来て数ヶ月の後、僕の食に関する考え方は完全に変わった。
ある日、Tokyo English House のキッチンで食べ物についておもしろい話し合いをしたことがあった。外国人と日本人の間の、また別の食についての考え方の違いだ。僕は、前日フジコに教わった、お好み焼きを作っていた。普通なら、教わった通りレシピに従って作るのだが、僕がシーフードの缶を開けて中に入れているときに、同じくキッチンで料理していた日本人「マコト」が僕をいぶかしげに見て「なにやってるの？」と言った。「シーフードを入れてるんだよ。」と僕は答え、「それからにんじんもきれいに切って入れようと思ってるよ。」と続けた。マコトは信じられないといった顔で「なんで？」と聞いてきた。「お好み焼きだから…フジコは“好きなように”っていう意味の料理だって教えてくれたから、僕の好きな物を入れてるんだよ。」と僕は答えた。マコトはショックを受けているようで、「でもその作り方じゃないよ！」と言った。
これには驚いた。日本にいる間に驚いたことのうちの1つだ。説明させてほしい。“好きなように”つくる料理というと、僕にとっては好きな物を入れていい料理ということだ。作っている料理の“形式(作り方)”が大事とは思わない。“中身”が大事だと思う。でもマコトは、お好み焼きの“形式(作り方)”を重要視していた。たとえ“好きなように”という名前でも、彼にとってはいつも同じ方法で作られるものだったのだ。
これらは、日本と外国のかなり大きな違いを表わしていて、僕が何年もかけて理解しようとしてきたことでもある。シンプルに言うと、しばしば日本人にとって“形式”は“中身”よりも重要であるように思えた。日本人は“入れたいものを何でも”お好み焼きに入れることはしない。正しい形式ではないからだ。ちょうど、お茶に砂糖をいれない(たとえ苦かったとしても！)こと、ビールを自分では注がないこと、最後の一貫の寿司は皿から取らないことと同じだ。すべてのものには“形式”がある、つまり、正しい方法があるということだ。例えば、名刺を渡すビジネスマン、お客さんの買ったものをラッピングするデパートの店員さんなどなど。アメリカ人として、僕は真逆のことを習ってきた。“中身”のほうが大事だと。例えば、名刺に載っている情報のほうがどうやって渡すかよりも僕にとっては重要だ。もしくは、ふたの空いたビール瓶があって喉が渇いていたら、僕は自分で注いで飲む。それから、もし最後の一切れのピザがテーブルに残っていたら、誰かがさっさと自分のピザをたいらげて、そのラスト一切れを食べようとする！だから、アメリカ人にとっては“正しい方法”、“形式”は2番目に大事なこと、ということだ。
そんなわけで、この形式すべてを学ぶのに、日本で僕がどれだけ間違ったことをしたか、たぶん想像がつくだろう。でも、そうしているうちに、僕はその形式を受け入れ始め、“形式”ルールを不注意に破っている外国人がちょっと愚かな野蛮人に見えた。僕が形式を破ったことに気付いた日本人に、「ヤバンジンデスネー」と冗談で自虐を言うこともあった。
日本に住んで八年目(1982年～2007年の間で合わせて)になっても、僕はまた“形式”について大きな間違いをした。僕はもう60歳近い大学の教師で、日本の文化に対しても経験を積んできていたから、本当に恥ずかしかった。何があったか説明させてほしい。　
その頃、僕の大学での仕事の1つに、教師訓練アドバイザーがあった。僕は生徒が“教育実習”をしていた学校を訪れていた。その日はその学校でバーベキューがあり、お招きされたのだ。肉や野菜ができあがるのを待つ間、先生方が皆に氷入りのレモネードが入ったグラスをくれた。氷を飲み物に入れることは日本では珍しかったので僕は驚いたが、その日はとても暑かったので冷たい飲み物が嬉しかった。約30分後、僕は食べ終え、飲み終え、テーブルにはたくさんレモネードのグラスがあった。僕はそれを取ってみて、ぬるいと感じた。たぶんテーブルが日光にさらされていたからだろう。僕は先生方に氷のある場所を聞こうとしたのだが、みんな忙しそうだった。それなら、煩わせないで氷は自分で取ろうと思った。辺りを見回すと、別のテーブルに大きなプラスチックの保冷バックがあった。僕は歩いていってそのふたを開け、テーブルにあったトングを使って氷を取ってレモネードの中に入れた。僕にとってはこれは完全に自然な行動だった。でも、先生方のうちの1人、年配の女性が近づいてきて、僕の約3メートル手前で立ち止まり、冷たく、大声で「なにが気に入らないんです？氷がないと飲めないんですか？」と言った。そして去っていった。　
始めのうち、僕は怒った。なんて失礼な人なんだ！「僕を子ども扱いする人とはしゃべりたくない！」と思った。そのあと、別の“形式”の間違いを犯していたことに気がついた。でも、確かではない。たぶん、気楽な屋外バーベキューで、僕はゲストで、外国人で、そして、先生方を煩わせないように僕が自分で氷を取りにいったからだと思う。僕には“中身”は大丈夫なように見えた。でも後になってこの話を大学の同僚にしたら、「氷を取りにいくべきじゃなかった。」と言われた。僕の“形式”が間違っていたのだと。　
この出来事によって、分かったことがある。1つ目は、僕はまだ野蛮人なのだ！ということ。たとえ日本の文化を何年かけて学んだとしても、僕はまだ間違えたのだ。2つ目は(これが僕にとって一番重要なのだが)、それまでに日本で何百回(何千回かも！)間違えてきたが、その学校の女性が公衆の面前で僕を非難し、否定的な感情を表した最初の人だった。だから、それまで、僕が間違えたときでも、それを優しく指摘して直してくれたり、他の方法を探そうとしてくれた日本の全ての人に感謝すべきだと思った！あの女性の冷たく硬い声は、逆に、それまでどんなに日本の人達が温かく親切だったかということに気付かせてくれた。　
僕はあの女性を探し出して感謝すべきではなかろうか。

Chapter 4
日本に来てから数ヶ月がたっても、僕はまだハネムーンの最中だった。この東京での暮らしの中で、父が言っていたあることを思い出した。父と母が退職してフロリダに引っ越した後のことだ。父はいつも“Every day is Sunday in Florida.”と言っていた。これはまさに僕が日本に住んでみて感じたことだ。
でも、僕は仕事を見つけなければならなかった。だいた6ヶ月分のお金は持ってきたが、そんなにすぐにアメリカに帰りたくなかった。僕のプランは1年間いることだ。毎日が日曜日みたいに素晴らしかったとしても、僕は働きたかった！
Tokyo English Houseでの2週間目、あるイギリス人女性がニノミヤさんという、高田馬場でコミュニケーションラウンジを開いている人を紹介してくれた。ニノミヤさんは、金曜日に僕をそこに招待してくれた。そのラウンジはお風呂場が3つある大きなアパートで、部屋は6人の外国人(ほとんどがかわいらしくて若い女の子)に貸されていた。彼女たちは、金曜と土曜の夜にコミュニケーションラウンジに参加すれば家賃を割り引いてもらえた。リビングに彼女たちが入ってくるたびに、ニノジマさんはキャンディーをもらった子供みたいに笑っていたから、かわいらしくて若い子が好きなんだということは僕にはすぐにわかった。

ともかく、僕はそのラウンジに午後5時に着いた。たくさんの人としゃべって、たくさん笑って楽しんだ。時間はあっという間に過ぎ、すぐに9時半になった。ニノミヤさんは僕に4,000円くれて、また次の週も来てくれないかと言った。
英語の先生は1時間に2,500円くらいは稼ぐことを知っていたので、4,000円は少し安く感じたが、不満はなかった。僕はパーティーに出た！その上お金がもらえる！そしてこの頃、1週間に8,000円(金曜と土曜を合わせて)もらえれば400円のお弁当や100円の地下鉄の切符がたくさん買えた。そして3週間目、ニノミヤさんは、僕が有名人だからと言って、一晩5,000円くれるようになった。
もちろん、その稼ぎだとそう長くは暮らせなかったから、僕は教師の仕事を探した。そのときぼくは“Cultural Visa”(日本語を勉強するためのビザ)をもっていたので、1週間に15時間までの労働が許可されていた。仕事はいっぱいあるようにみえた。1980年代はバブル経済の時期で、たくさんの人が英語の授業にお金をかけていた。語学学校はあちこちにあった。The Japan Times 新聞(後に多くの文化的記事を載せることになった)には4,5ページにわたって教師の仕事の募集を載せていた。でも僕の場合、僕に合った学校を見つけたかった。1ヶ月のリサーチの後、ついに見つけた。
名前はEvergreen Schoolといって、東京南部の祐天寺、自由が丘、多摩プラザ、青葉台に姉妹校があった。経営者のナイトウさんに電話すると、すでにその枠は埋まってしまったけれど、とりあえず会いに来てほしいと言われた。僕はそこに行き、長い間しゃべった。彼は物静かで礼儀正しい人で、アメリカのキリスト教大学で学んだことがあると言っていた。あまりにも優しかったので、僕は驚いた。アメリカでは、こうも優しい人にはめったに出会えない。ましてや経営者ではありえない。成功するためには人はアグレッシブでなければならないと僕は教わってきた。日本もそうなのだろうが、僕がその後何年間かで何度もみてきたように、日本では物静かな人も成功することがあるのだ。
彼との会話でおもしろかったことがまだある。僕が自分自身のことを話した後、彼は僕に「君は、昔の中国の哲学者みたいにあちこち巡って知識を求めているんだね」と言った。この表現に、僕はハンマーで頭を殴られた気分だった。自分の人生をそんなふうに感じたことはあったが、それを見極めて僕に伝えてくれたのはナイトウさんが初めてだった。それまで何年もの間、僕が旅に出たり、大学に戻ってもっと勉強するといったことをやりたがると、家族や友達は止めようとした。「現実をみなよ！」と言った。「時間を無駄したらお金を稼げないよ！」と。ナイトウさんは知識を重んじていて、学ぶこと(学校だけでなく、読書や旅、自然などすべての学び)の価値をわかってくれた初めての日本人だった。彼によって僕は日本で自分が「外の人(外国人)」ではなく「内の人(内国人)」みたいといっそう感じるようになった。実際、5年後にアメリカに帰ったとき、また外国人のような感覚になったのだ！オモシロイデスネー。
ナイトウさんは、僕の仕事の枠がないことを謝った。でも、Evergreenで働いてほしいと言った。「1週間に1時間から始めてもらってもいいですか？君には僕の先生になってもらいたい。」と言われた。彼の英語はとてもよかったので、彼の提案は実際は心付けだった。次の週、彼はもう1時間プラスし、僕は彼の高校生になる息子、トモの先生になった。トモはインターナショナルスクールに通っていたので流暢な英語を話した。そして、1,2ヶ月のうちに週15時間に達した。給料は1時間3,000円で、当時にしてみればとてもよかったし、1時間は実際1コマ50分だった。
ナイトウさんと奥さんについてはまた後で言おう。奥さんもとても素晴らしい人だった。ほぼ30年たった今でも、ナイトウさん夫妻と僕はとてもいい友達だ。

Chapter 5
僕は、金曜と土曜、高田馬場のコミュニケーションラウンジ引き続き通った。楽しかったし、たくさんのことを学んだ。例えば、徳川将軍について学んだ。「秀吉がパイを作って、それを信長が焼いて、それを家康が食べた」という粋なフレーズもここで教わった。ペリーと「黒船」についても、日本の視点から学んだ。浮世絵についても教わった。約10年後アメリカで出版した環境関連の本の表紙にも北斎の「神奈川沖浪裏」を使ったほどだ。高田馬場に行くたびにニノミヤさんにお代を払わなきゃ！と思った。
しかし、数ヶ月のうちに、状況は変わった。僕がEvergreenで教える時間が増えたのだけが理由じゃなくて、僕の人生が大きく変わったからだ。ケイコに出会ったからだ。
ケイコは、僕の日本語学校Tokyo Academyの先生だった。彼女は僕と同い年で、かわいくて生徒の間で人気だった。とても知識が豊富なのに、禅らしいシンプルな考え方をしていて、そこがとても僕は好きだった。彼女と話していると、まるであったかい温泉につかっているみたいだった。とてもリラックスできた。僕は作家だから、いつもいろんな考えを巡らせるし、とても感傷的でもある。だから彼女の落ち着きに魅かれたのだ。
僕が彼女を誘った初めてのデートは、午後どこかで待ち合わせをした。何をしたのか思い出せない(たぶんピクニックに行っておにぎりを食べたと思う)けれど、彼女が自転車に乗って来たことは覚えている。とても強く印象に残っている。彼女はとてもピュアで生き生きとしていた。そのイメージは今でもなお、僕の心に輝かしく残っている。そしてそのとき、僕は彼女を求めているのだと感じた。
Evergreenでの仕事が忙しくなって僕が日本語学校を辞めた後でも、僕らはデートを重ねた。彼女といるととても楽しかった。でも僕らには、いつも夕方になると問題があった。僕は豊南町に住んでいたが、彼女は二子玉川園の近くで、終電に乗るのに走らないといけなかった。もし彼女か僕の家にいたら、2回乗り換えが必要だったから、どちらかはまだ早い時間に電車に乗るのに走らないといけなかった。数ヶ月の後、僕は勇気を出して言った。一緒に住まないかと話したのだ。
僕は、彼女がショックを受けないことを祈っていた。彼女が伝統的な日本の価値観をもちながらも、同時に現代的な女性であることは分かっていた。彼女は海外を旅していたし、イギリスで1年暮らしてもいた。そして彼女は35歳でまだ独身だったから、現代的な考え方をもっているはず！と思った。でも、海外でいろいろな経験をしても彼女の性格は変わらなかったのだと思った。もっと何も気にしなくなってもよさそうなのに、彼女は思いやりがあって、ピュアで、人に親切で、お年寄りに敬意を払って…他にも褒めるべきたくさんのいいところがあった。彼女は伝統的なのか、現代的なのか、どちらのタイプなのだろう？僕が勇気を出して一緒に住もうと言ってみた理由はこれだ。彼女は伝統的な女性だから、Yes、とは言わないだろう、でも現代的な女性でもあるから、No、とも言わないだろうと僕は思っていた。

僕の聞いた答えは、完全に予想外だった。彼女はYes、と言った後に、まず僕が父親の許可を得にいかなくてはならないと付け加えた。彼女は現代的、かつ伝統的な女性だったのだ！でも、聞きたくなかったことがあった。何かって？彼女の父親は、戦争の終盤までずっと日本陸軍の兵士だったキャリアがあり、とても強くてたくましい人だったのだ。彼はアメリカ軍と戦ってきたのだ！彼女の実家に行くたびに軍の歴史を思い知った。彼女の父親は兵士のように強く静かで自信に満ちたふうに振舞っていた。侍みたいだった！
状況をさらに悪くしたのは、僕の日本語はまだまだ十分じゃなかったこと。そしてお父さんは英語を全くしゃべらない。カタカナさえ使わなかった！どうやってコミュニケーションをとればいいんだろう？それでもケイコはぼくがお父さんに頼むべきだと言った。一緒にいるけど、何も言わない、とも言った。僕は、何を言うか準備をするのに数週間待ってほしいと頼んだ。
ついにその日が来た。ケイコと僕はリビングルームに一緒に入った。お父さんは、座布団に座ってジャイアンツの試合を見ていた。
「お父さん。」彼女は言った。「Katryが話したいことがあるんだって。」
僕らは座った。お父さんはテレビの音を消し、僕の顔を見つめた。たぶんあんなに緊張したのは、何年も前、パラシュートをしょって飛行機からダイブした時以来初めてだったと思う。僕は現存する侍と話をするのだ！恐くはなかったが、半端なく緊張していた。たぶん恐怖と半端ない緊張はとても似ているから、つまり、僕の気分はよくはなかった。

「サトウさん。」と言って僕は始めた。「最近、私は娘さんにたくさん会ってきたこと、ご存知、と、思います。私は彼女が好き、です。それは、彼女も同じ、と、思います。私たちは、もっと多くの時間を、一緒に過ごす、ことについて、話し合い、しました。でも、それは、難しい、です。ですので、一緒に住むことが、いいかどうか、聞きたいです。」
彼の顔は、乾いた湖のように空っぽでフラットだった。何の感情も読み取れなかった。でも彼は僕の顔をまだじっと見ていた。じっと見て、何も言わない。たぶん僕の言ってることが分からなかったのだろう。僕は少し待って、また話し始めた。
「これが大きな決断だということ、知っています。私たちは、とても真剣です。いいと思いますか？」
彼は、咳払いをして何か言ったが、僕は聞き取れなかった。「どこ」という単語は聞き取れたので、近い場所(彼女の実家とEvergreenに近い場所)を探していると伝えた。彼は、「わかった。」というようなことを言った。ケイコが立ち上がったので、僕も立ち上がった。僕は彼にお辞儀をし、お礼を言って、そして僕らは帰った。家の外で、僕は終わったことにホッとした。でもお父さんの答えを早く聞きたかった。
「いいって言ってた？」僕は聞いた。
「いいや。」
「ダメだって言ってた？」
「いいや。」
「じゃあ、答えは何なの？」
「たぶんお父さんには難しかったのよ。でもダメって言わなかったから、たぶんいいってことだと思うわ。」
「ほんとに？」
「うん。だから場所を探しましょ。」
僕は、「日本を理解することは絶対無理。」と思った。でも、これは挑戦だ。僕は挑戦することから逃げたくない。その晩僕はベッドの中で思った。「今まで間違っていた。僕は、日本を絶対に理解するんだ！そうしたら、もしラッキーだったら、日本も僕を理解してくれるはずだ！」と。

Chapter 6
I was a little worried about finding a suitable apartment. I remember my first day in Japan, seeing all the danchi from the window of the train between Narita and Tokyo. I didn’t want to live in such a building. You, the reader, may be living in one [a danchi] now, and maybe you are happy there, but please try to remember that I lived most of my life in America—at all the places I lived, there was open space, grass, trees, a garden! I knew I couldn’t find an American-style place (with my budget!) [amount of money to spend], and to tell you the truth, I wanted to live like Japanese people live. You know the saying, “When in Rome…” [When you are in Rome, do like the Roman people do], but I wanted some green [Nature], too!
Luckily, there was an apartment available in Miyamaedaira, twenty-five minutes by train from Shibuya, and only ten minutes from Keiko’s parents’ house. And two of Evergreen’s four branches were within fifteen minutes. The Naitos were so kind to schedule my classes at those two branches.
The apartment was part of a unit of four; two upstairs and two downstairs. It was on a corner, so there was an L-shaped garden [shape of the letter L]. Our apartment was on the ground floor nearest the garden, so we were glad about that. The garden had roses, hydrangeas [ajisai], and other flowers and bushes. There was some open space in the back, where the sliding glass doors of our bedroom opened, and we decided to plant some vegetables there. The rent was cheap, the train station was a four-minute walk, and the neighborhood still had many farmers’ gardens. Across the street was a small field where daikon was growing. I thought I could be very happy there, and I thought Keiko could be happy there, too.
The first day, we were in the kitchen, unpacking some boxes and putting things away. I heard a noise from the open window. I looked, and I saw four or five children sitting on the stairway going upstairs, staring at me through the window. “Look, Keiko,” I said. “This is a zoo! And I’m the animal!”
I heard a neighbor call to them and tell them to go away, and they finally did, reluctantly [slowly, because they didn’t want to go]. One child came back for a quick second look, and then it was quiet again. “Try to get used to it,” Keiko said. “There aren’t many foreigners around here.”
Many years later, when I lived in Sapporo, there were more foreigners in Japan, so the children didn’t pay so much attention to me. But in 1983 in Miyamaedaira, I was the zoo’s favorite exhibit!
We lived there for the next four years, before we moved to America. We worked together in the garden; we had some parties and invited our Japanese friends and a few interesting foreigners I had met; we looked at maps and planned many trips; we chatted a lot and listened to a radio program with beautiful music called Jetstream. It was a good life. And I had a lot of time to write.
Most of my English classes were scheduled between 4-9pm, so I got home around 9:30. One of my favorite pastimes [activities] at that time was to sit by Keiko on a zabuton at a low table (and in winter, kotatsu), drinking hot nihon shu and eating nori potato chips with a dip made from cream cheese, shōyu and goma. So delicious! I can truthfully say that some of the best moments [times] of my life were spent at that table in the quiet evenings, eating, drinking, and talking to Keiko.
Years later, after a year in America, I returned to Japan for a short visit, to help the Naitos at Evergreen. At that time, somebody told me that my apartment building in Miyamaedaira had been demolished [destroyed by workers] in order to build a Lions Mansion. Maybe to some people, this is progress, but I was very unhappy about it. When you have sweet memories of a place, you never want to see it destroyed. But this is the world we live in, the world of progress. We’re always looking for something “better.” But when something is already good, how can it be “better?”
At that moment [just then], I had an interesting thought. I suddenly wished that I lived in edo jidai. It [edo jidai] was a time when tradition was so important, and the construction mania [kōji suru kichigai] in Japan hadn’t started yet.

Chapter 7
I liked working at Evergreen. I had students of all ages and backgrounds, and I enjoyed seeing them every week. I made some good friends, too. To me, this was much more enjoyable than teaching social philosophy—and I could save all my “heavy thinking” [difficult ideas; serious intellectual concepts] for my writing.
Many foreigners think teaching English is boring, because it seems to be repeating the same thing, again and again. But I never found it boring. On the contrary [hantai], I discovered that my students were full of interesting ideas, stories, and dreams [kibō]. I tried to make the students comfortable enough that they would feel that they could talk about anything. So, many of them spoke frankly, saying things in my class that I think they might never say to other Japanese outside the classroom.
This was one of the aims of my classes: to get students to “open up,” to reveal more of their true ideas and feelings. To me, this was as important as my teaching of grammar and pronunciation, because the new freedom they felt would be associated with [connected with] English. I hoped that it would give them the desire to keep learning it all their lives. And maybe they would feel that their life was a little more free, too.
Many of my students asked me, “What is the key point [the best way] for improving my English?” I always told them that speaking good English involves two things: memory and emotion [feeling]. I explained that human memory for language is short, unless you can get the new learning [recently learned things] to move from the “short-term memory” to the “long-term memory.” Much university research has demonstrated that people forget almost half of new material [new studies] within three days, unless they review [study] it. People who review it daily remember over 90%. After five to twenty days—depending on the person—the new learning goes into the “long-term memory,” and after that you need to review it only occasionally or not at all. But if you don’t review in the beginning, you will forget.
The second key point for improving your English is connected to the emotions. Negative emotions—fear, nervousness, embarrassment—causes a block or wall [barrier] to be created between your brain and your mouth. You may have years of English study, but when you try to speak, something is blocking the path [way; michi] of the words, so they often come out poorly or not at all. You must relax completely to make this block disappear.
Let me give you an example. In my Japanese language class in Harajuku, I noticed something very interesting. The American and European students, most of whom [most of them] were university graduates, spoke Japanese slowly and sometimes poorly, but the Philippino students, with no university education, were soon speaking quickly and smoothly. Why? We Westerners in the Japanese class didn’t want to make a mistake. Our educational system is competitive, and it judges us on how close to perfection we reach [we achieve], so we’re embarrassed if we make a mistake. The Philippinos simply [just] didn’t care. They were more practical—communication was their goal, not perfection. So they were relaxed when speaking Japanese, and there was no negative emotion blocking the flow [movement] of words. Their words came out [of their mouths] like a wide river, calm and free. We were nervous about making mistakes, so our words often came out like a narrow stream with many rocks in it.
I think that in this regard [related to this topic], Japanese people are similar to Americans. We don’t want to make a mistake in front of other people. It embarrasses us. But to master English, you must overcome this feeling. You must try to think more like a Philippino when you speak: “I want to communicate, and I don’t care if I make a mistake.” You might think that with this attitude, your English will be bad, but that’s not so. In fact, the opposite is true. The more relaxed you are, the better your performance [ability to do] will be. This is true, not only of English, but also competitive games and sports, and even business and courtship [finding a lover].
How can you relax more? There are several ways. I’ll tell you the two easiest ways. One: training your mind by telling yourself again and again that you will relax. (In hypnotism [saiminjutsu], this is called “auto-suggestion”—repeating an idea many times causes you to believe it.) Second: by doing what we call The 3 P’s. What are The 3 P’s? Practice, practice, practice. The best way to overcome nervousness is to do something so many times that you lose your fear of it. If you speak English enough, it will start to become automatic and you won’t even need to think about it. But you know this already!
Chapter 8
There were many excellent and friendly English teachers at Evergreen, but I’d like to talk about a few of the more interesting ones.
My favorite teacher was Susan. [From here, I have changed most of the names.] She was a tall American with short blond hair, about thirty years old. She was attractive [good-looking but not pretty or beautiful] but still single. Susan was very loud [okii koe], and she was always talking. It was like she had a fire burning inside her, and it [the fire] kept her moving all the time, in order not to go out [so the fire doesn’t stop burning]. She wouldn’t sit down between classes, but instead she circulated among the students, the office ladies, the teachers, like a toy doll with a spring inside that has been wound [turned] too tightly. I knew her for a couple years, but I never saw her sitting down! You might think that this behavior was annoying, but in fact, it wasn’t, because she was so sweet. And she cared about her students so much and was so interested in them that they all seemed to love her. They liked the attention she gave them—she was a little like [sukoshi nitte iru] an old unmarried aunt, always giving them encouragement and advice. (And of course, the men were very attracted to her; she was big and blond!) I don’t know what the force [energy, power] was that drove [pushed, motivated] her, but I sensed [I could feel] a little bit of loneliness and frustration in her. It seemed like she was looking for something and she couldn’t find it—was it love?—so she was sharing all her love with the people around her, along her journey [her search for something].
I liked Susan a lot. It was hard to become friends with her, though, because she was too busy and she moved too fast—but I really enjoyed being around [near] her. She was like a bright, sunny day, even in the darkest rainy weather. And when she finally left Japan to return home, I could feel a big empty space at Evergreen where her spirit [her bright personality, energy, strong image] had been.
John was the opposite of Susan. He was quiet, distrustful of people [he didn’t trust people], and cool to the Japanese [he didn’t have a warm feeling for them]. I don’t know why he was a teacher or why he was in Japan. In fact, I had heard about him even before he came. He had worked at Evergreen before, and some of the teachers told me about him. They said he was extremely intelligent; that was his good point. But he was big [tall], fat, sometimes unfriendly, he didn’t bathe [take a bath] regularly, and he always had holes in his socks—which people could see because we took off our shoes and put on slippers when we taught. I asked one of the long-time teachers why Mr Naito would let him return to Evergreen. He replied, “Mr Naito is a Christian, and he’s probably helping John because nobody else will help him.”
I found out that everything the teachers had said about John was true. Unfortunately. He wasn’t pleasant to be around [it wasn’t pleasant to be near him]. He didn’t like Japanese life—I say this because when I saw him with students, or when I walked with him to the o-bento shop, he seemed “like a bull in a china shop,” as we say in English [the bull {male cow} will break all the dishes in the shop—so he doesn’t belong there]. And this was his second trip to Japan! He seemed oblivious to [unaware; he didn’t see] all the social customs that make life go smoothly. I already told you that I made many mistakes in Japan, but at least I tried to learn Japanese ways and not cause problems for other people. John didn’t seem to care. His attitude was: “This is the way I am, and I don’t intend to change.” So although I think Mr Naito liked him, he wasn’t so popular among the other Japanese.
One event concerning [about] John sticks [stays] in my memory. The school was having a Halloween party and everyone wore a costume. Someone suggested that John dress like a sumo wrestler because he was big and fat. So the school provided him with [gave him] a mawashi and he went into an empty classroom next to the office to change clothes. Five minutes later he called out for help, because he couldn’t tie the mawashi properly. Mrs Naito was standing there next to me, and she told the office lady, “Go in there and help John-sensei.” It’s difficult to describe the look on the office lady’s face; it was something like the look of a person standing at the top of Kegon Taki, ready to jump. I knew what she’d say even before she opened her mouth. “Iya da.” But like a dutiful [she obeyed her duty {giri, sekinin} ] Japanese, she went in to help, her face as red as an adzuki bean. So that’s John. I cared for [had an emotional connection to] him as a human being, but I just couldn’t warm up to him as a person [I couldn’t find any warm feelings in my heart for him]. And I’m sorry to say that when he left Evergreen about a year later, I wasn’t sad at all.
Another memorable teacher was Barbara [ba—ba-ra]. The first time I met her, she was in the office, talking to one of the office ladies in fluent Japanese. It was very impressive [inshōteki na koto]. She told me that she had studied Japanese language and culture at university in America, and although my Japanese was improving a lot as time passed, listening to her speak to the office ladies made me feel very stupid! Anyway, she was about twenty-three, very intelligent, full of energy, and I was happy to have her as a colleague.
I began to notice immediately, however, that Barbara was a member of a new generation [age-group] of women—independent, opinionated [very strong opinions and she thinks she is right], and very direct (almost rude) in her speech [speaking]. Some women in my generation were similar in many ways. I was a university student during the Viet Nam War era [jidai], and we had similar qualities [ways; characteristics], but we were fighting for important principles; principles like ending the war, having racial equality [black people equal to white people], and freedom of speech [being able to speak your opinions freely, even if the idea was unpopular]. Barbara was fighting for little things, like freedom from wearing socks—she preferred bare feet! We put on slippers at Evergreen, and nobody wanted to wear the same slippers that she wore after she had walked a kilometer from the station in the Tokyo summer heat! (But of course, later, we wouldn’t know which pair of slippers she wore!) I remember being there when the office lady politely suggested that she wear socks. Her reply: “I don’t like socks. They make my feet hot.”
Another time, Barbara was arguing with Mrs Naito about salary and working conditions, and I was there trying to mediate [to be the “middle person”]. Barbara wanted American-style conditions, and was fighting against Mrs Naito’s way of organizing work. The conversation was completely in Japanese, and Barbara was using a direct translation of aggressive English expressions, like “listen well [yoku kiite] to what I’m saying,” with a hard [katai, tsumetai] American tone [sound of voice]. This was so different from the half-American half-Japanese woman I had met at Tokyo English House, who spoke so softly and politely in Japanese and so loudly and directly in English. Barbara was speaking loudly and directly in Japanese. And she was speaking to an older woman who was her boss! I was surprised. Why would someone who had studied Japanese language and culture be so ignorant of [unaware; don’t know] how to speak to a Japanese person? Mrs Naito wasn’t intimidated [she wasn’t made afraid; she didn’t feel pushed back;], though. She’s a strong woman; maybe the strongest woman I’ve ever known. She considers all the factors [different points] of an argument, and then she makes up her mind [decides], and she doesn’t change it [her mind, her decision]. I admire her for that. So of course she won the argument, and Barbara left the office, angry and frustrated. I didn’t think she would stay long in Japan.
Years later, when I had left Japan and had returned to visit the Naitos, we were talking about some of the former teachers. Mr Naito said that Barbara had returned to university get a Ph.D., and was now teaching Japanese culture at an American university. I looked at Mrs Naito and said, “What does she know about Japanese culture?” [My meaning was, “She knows nothing about Japanese culture!”] However, I think Barbara has mellowed a lot [become milder, softer, more mature] over the years [as years pass]. She visits the Naitos when she goes to Japan, and they say she is very kind and relaxed now.
Not all English teachers go to Japan for a year or two and return home. Jim, a smart young teacher, married a Japanese woman and he decided to stay. Jim was an interesting example of a teacher because most English teachers in Japan have a strong personality—either good or bad—because that’s the type of person who is strong enough to leave the comfort of their home country to go to live in another country whose way of life is so completely different. But Jim’s personality wasn’t so obvious [clear, easy to see]. He was more like a normal person [futsū no hito]. You couldn’t see anger in him (unlike Barbara!), or loneliness, frustration [kakkasōyō], independence, pride, or any other emotion. So we say in English, he wasn’t a “colorful” person. He, like most cats, was gray. He came to work, smiled, did his job, and went home.
English schools at that time were very competitive [much competition {kyōsō} between schools] because there were so many of them, so we had teachers’ meetings and training sessions, in order to improve the quality of the school. The Naitos asked me to observe teachers in the classroom and give them advice. Over the years, I observed Jim many times, and although he was a very good teacher, he never made one improvement. I knew he had the ability to be a better teacher, even a great [wonderful] one. I tried to encourage him, although subtly [quietly, indirectly], because I knew he resisted [fought against] change. He seemed to listen to me, but nothing changed.
After I left Japan, Jim became the head teacher because he had been there the longest time; I returned to Japan many times to help the Naitos improve the teachers, and Jim never changed. He had found a comfortable pattern and he was content to simply [just] repeat it. He didn’t even bother [take the time] to learn Japanese. This troubled me [made me feel uncomfortable], maybe because I’m American. We feel a need for constant improvement. So it’s difficult to say if the problem was Jim’s or mine [Jim’s problem or my problem]. In any case [anyway], the last time I visited the Naitos, around 2005, more than twenty years after Jim had begun working at Evergreen, he was still there. And he hadn’t changed at all.
I selected these four teachers to talk about, not because they represented the typical English teacher, but because there was some point about them that stuck in my mind [my memory]. In fact, all of them were popular with students, except maybe John. But even John might have been [possibly was] appreciated by his students, because of his deep and intelligent mind—he was very clever—and his interesting [unusual, chotto hen] behavior.
What kind of teacher was I? If I tell you my opinion, it might sound very un-Japanese, as if I’m bragging [boasting; saying I’m wonderful]. So I will lower my eyes [avoid direct eye contact] and say to you, “So-so.”
Chapter 9
I’d like to talk a little about Mr and Mrs Naito. It is possible that they, with Keiko, are the ones [the people] who cemented [to glue; to make permanent] my relationship with Japan.
Mr Naito is a very quiet man, and I learned from him the value of silence [not talking] in a conversation [I learned this from many conversations with him, not just one]. In most countries, people together talk constantly [all the time]. In America, for example, we feel very uncomfortable if we are talking with someone and suddenly there is a silence. We think, “Quick! Think of something to say!” I found [I experienced; I discovered] that when I talked with Mr Naito, sometimes there were periods [times] of 10-60 seconds of silence. “What’s this?” I thought. But I began to realize that the empty spaces in the conversation gave me time to think about the topic a little, or just enjoy being together peacefully with him. This was a new experience for me, and I learned it at age 35!
Another thing I learned about those quiet conversations with Mr Naito: although the topics were sometimes not so deep [not difficult; not so important], I began to feel his deep feelings about them [about those topics]. This was another surprise for me, and it taught me another difference between Japanese people and Westerners. Japanese [nihongo] communication is often implicit [gengai; anmoku] : the silence, or what is not said, can be very important. In America, we think just the opposite [hantai]. Everything must be clearly and directly expressed [said]. Several English expressions [kotowagi; hyougen] highlight [show; point out; demonstrate] this. “Lay your cards on the table” (torampu no ca—do o misete) or “Don’t beat around the bush” (this comes from hunting animals by hitting bushes with sticks to make them come out; if you beat around the bush, the animals will not come out). Another saying is, “Say what you mean.” These sayings (and there are four or five more) show how we feel that it is important to be clear and direct when we speak, so that there is no misunderstanding [no mistake in understanding]. So when I arrived in Japan, I wasn’t prepared for the Japanese style of communication, which requires [you need to use] intuition [chokkaku]. My sense [ability] of intuition was weak because I didn’t need to use it much in America. To understand Japanese people better, I had to develop [make stronger; improve] this skill. Mr Naito was my first teacher (although he didn’t know it) [he didn’t know he was my teacher], and because he was a quiet person, he was the best teacher.
Mr Naito is a gentle person, and a very religious one, so I was surprised when he told me that when he was a young man, he had been called [taken] into the army. He was just a boy, but the army needed soldiers because Japan was preparing for the coming American invasion [the attack on Japan in 1945]. I was shocked [okii bikkuri; akireru] to hear that he was beaten [hit many times] almost daily, in order to toughen him up [make him stronger] for the attack. He was to be sent [the plan was to send him] to Miura Hantō to face the American troops [soldiers], to protect Japan by sacrificing his life [gisei ni suru; sasageru]. What a terrible experience that must have been [that was surely a terrible experience], being treated like a dog [the army made him feel like a dog] so that even death would be welcome [he would be happy to die]. Just before he was sent to fight, the Emperor came on the radio and said that the war was over [finished]. This story made a very deep impression [inshō; strong feeling] on me, and it made me feel how lucky I was that he survived the war. I have met many men in my life; how many of them can I say [they] are good and pure? Mr Naito is one of those good men, and I am glad that he was spared [his life was saved; he didn’t die in the war]. I know for sure that the world is a better place because he is in it.
One more point about Mr Naito (although there are many more; enough to fill a book!). He went to college in America and learned to speak very good English, so you might think he is a very modern person. But, in fact, he is one of the most traditional Japanese I have ever met. In his time in America, he didn’t lose any of his “Japanese-ness” [nihonjinrashii kanji], but [he] just added some international experience [keiken] to it [to his Japanese-ness]. I can think of many examples of this, but there is one that is clearest in my mind. I have known him for more than twenty-five years, and what does he call me? “Rain-sensei.” You might think that this is because I am not “uchi” but “soto” to him, but I don’t think this is true. I could tell you so many examples of how he has treated me [acted to me] with “uchi” behavior. I feel almost like part of his family. I believe the real reason he calls me Rain-sensei instead of Katry is because he is, as I said, very traditional. He respects [uyamau] education, and he respects age. And I know he respects Americans. Calling me Rain-sensei is a way for him to express this.
Mrs Naito is a very serious and hard-working woman. But when I got [became] to know her, I found that she is very quick to see the humor [okashii koto] in things. She laughs easily, so it is very enjoyable to talk with her. I wonder [ayashimu; kashiritaitoshiu] if everyone knows this about her. Like I said, she is very serious, maybe because managing a large language school is serious business. Mr Naito is very easy-going [yasashii] and, being a Christian [because he is a Christian], I think he would be very happy to give English lessons to everyone for free [tada], if it was possible [dekireba]. Mrs Naito keeps the school moving [operating smoothly]. If Evergreen School was a car, Mr Naito is the driver and Mrs Naito is the engine. They are both very strong, but his strength [strong point; power] is in his character [seikaku] and his beliefs [the important things he believes in], and in his incredible [unbelievably strong] commitment [genshi] to education. I don’t think he will ever retire! Her strength is in her character and in her management ability. When I was teaching at Evergreen, some of the other teachers thought that she was strict [kibishii], but only the strongest ones, like Barbara, challenged her. The way I see it [my opinion is], she sympathized with the teachers for wanting more pay, a different schedule, more vacation days, etc., but to her [Mrs Naito], the school comes first [it is the most important thing]. This attitude gave the teachers the impression that she was inflexible [not flexible]. Yet [but] in my case, she was very flexible. My hourly pay was higher than the other teachers; I was able to choose the number of hours I would work; and when I occasionally asked for an extra vacation day or two (usually because Keiko and I had trouble getting airline reservations at the beginning or end of the vacation), she always consented [agreed]. Why? To repeat what I said before, the school was the most important thing to her, so it seems reasonable that the more a teacher can offer [give to] the school, the more flexible she is. Here [in this place in this writing], the truth is painful but it must be said [I must say the truth]: I think that many of the English teachers in Japan would like to have a high salary and an easy schedule, but they don’t have a strong commitment to their school. They want to put in their time [to work the necessary hours] and go home [back to their apartment], so that they can enjoy their life in Japan. In the beginning, I had this attitude, too. But when I got to know Mr and Mrs Naito, I wanted to help Evergreen School, not by working more hours, but by giving more of my abilities, my ideas, even my heart [feelings; genshi]. So, maybe Mrs Naito was strict only when she needed to be [strict].
Later in this book, I want to talk about another woman manager, who was also thought to be inflexible [the professors thought she wasn’t flexible]. When you read that, you may wonder why I agree with Mrs Naito and I disagree with this other manager. I’ll explain more later, but for now, I can say that the difference [between the two situations/schools] is that at Evergreen, almost all the teaching staff are Westerners, but the college [tandai] where I worked later had a staff that was almost completely Japanese. And as you know, Japanese work very hard! So there was no reason to be so strict.
Mrs Naito is traditional, like her husband, although both of them have many modern and open-minded ideas. One example of Mrs Naito’s traditional ideas sticks [stays] in my mind, and even now I smile when I think about it. One night, after a long and difficult day at work, I was having tea and o-sembe with the Naitos in the conference room at the Yutenji branch school. Mrs Naito surprised me by asking me if I wanted her to massage my shoulders [kata] to relax my muscles. Of course I did! I had had several massages in America, and the gentle touch [of the masseuse {massager}] always seemed to remove the tension [tightness] and make me feel better. “Yes,” I replied [answered], “I would like that.” She got up [stood] and came behind my chair and started. It felt like a lion had jumped on my back! She dug [to dig; to put] her fingers deep into my muscles, and I didn’t feel relaxation, I felt pain. Extreme pain.
This is yet another [even one more] difference in thinking between Japanese and Westerners. In America, for example, we think pain is terrible and unnatural, and we take aspirins [pirin] and other pain medicine easily, like it is candy. But Mrs Naito had a different idea: even if her shiatsu-like [shiatsurashii] massage was painful, it was the best way to loosen [make loose; relax] the muscles. If she did that to someone in America, they would call the police! Just kidding [jodan], but I think you can see my point. To her, pain was a natural and sometimes necessary part of life, but to me, it was a human being’s [ningen no] worst enemy [teki]. Interesting.
I experienced another example of this difference in thinking about pain, when I was in the hospital. I had collided with [butsukatta] a player on the basketball court, and my jaw [agobone] was broken. I had surgical treatment [shujutsushitsu] to straighten [make straight; correct] it [my jaw] and it was very painful. The Naitos came to visit me that day in the hospital, and I felt in terrible condition [my condition was bad] and I couldn’t talk to them. Fortunately [luckily], the doctor said I could have pain medicine every four hours, so I began to feel a little better. That evening about eight o’clock, I pushed the button by my bed to call the nurse. I was in extreme pain and she gave me another pill. Soon I went to sleep, but I woke up around 11 pm, in pain again. I knew I couldn’t get another pill until midnight, so I suffered [I felt pain] for so many long minutes, lying there in bed [to lay on the bed] in the dark. Finally, at 11:55, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I pushed the button to call the nurse. “What is it?” [doshita no?] she asked me. “I’m in severe [very strong] pain,” I said; “I need another pill.” “I’m sorry,” she replied; “you have finished all the medicine that the doctor wrote on your chart [information page].You can’t have any more.” Do you believe that? Of course you do. You’re Japanese! But I’m not! I can’t describe [egakenai; disukuraibu dekinai] how shocked I was, except [but] to say that if I had had a bad [weak] heart, I would probably [80-90%] would have had a heart attack [shinzo mahi]. [Meaning: I didn’t have a weak heart, but if I did, I’m sure I would have had a heart attack at that time. This is meant to be funny, not serious.] “I never heard such a crazy [kichigai] thing!” I said to the nurse, [I was] in a bad mood because of my pain; “in America we don’t suffer pain, we get rid of it! [make it go away].” I’m sorry to say that I argued with her for a couple of minutes, and finally she said, “Okay, I’ll give you just one more. But that’s all [sore dake].” I can laugh about this now, but at that time, it wasn’t funny at all.
When I look back over my life, I often think about these things. How strong is my character? I think about Mr Naito getting beaten as a young soldier, and how [the fact that] he went to America after the war to study, the home of the enemy! I think about how he, a quiet and reflective man, started a school and built it into four branches. I think about how he and Mrs Naito started work early and got home late every day, and although I could sometimes see weariness [tsukareta kanji] on their faces, they never complained. And I remember Mrs Naito’s shoulder massage and her surprise when I winced [I jumped a little; I jerked] in pain, like a child.
I wonder sometimes if I didn’t live up to [meet; achieve] their expectations [sasuga; ate]. In America, I always thought I was strong. I lived my life independently, without a career or money to support me [hold me up]; I faced many dangerous challenges almost without fear; I continued to write books, and to believe in [tessuru; sonzai o shinsuru] my writing, even after years of making no money with it [hon kara okane o mokenakatta]. But when I think about the Naitos and compare myself [ni kurabete] to them, I wonder sometimes if it would have been better for me to be born in Japan, where my character would have been made stronger. I hope I didn’t disappoint the Naitos.

Chapter 10
In this chapter I’d like to talk about my worst experience and my best experience at Evergreen. And although both of them occurred many years ago, the memory of one still gives me pain, and the other, much pleasure.
I studied at UCLA (University of California, Los Angeles), and I got my doctor’s degree (Ph.D.) at the University of Oregon. I suggested to Mr Naito that we develop [make] a program to send students to an American university to study English, and I chose the state of Oregon because it seemed much safer and more suitable for study than Los Angeles. I contacted the head of the University of Oregon English department, and he liked my idea. We exchanged letters and phone calls; he sent me pamphlets and prices, and the program was eventually [finally] ready. Mr Naito put some advertisements in newspapers and magazines, and we waited. He soon got a letter from the University of Oregon that upset him [made him feel emotionally bad—hurt, worried, can’t relax] very much, and he showed it to me. It was the rudest [ichiban shitsurei] letter I have ever read.
The letter said that the administration [managers] and even the president of the university were very distressed [upset, nervous, feel terrible] that “you (Mr Naito) are falsely claiming to be a Japan branch of the University of Oregon. If you don’t stop immediately, our legal department [lawyers] will take strong action [go to court] to make you stop.” I asked Mr Naito if he wrote in the advertisements that Evergreen was a branch of the University of Oregon. He said he didn’t use the word “branch,” but “connection.” I called the man in Oregon who wrote the letter, and I tried to explain the situation, but he was as rude on the phone as he was in his letter. He said the university had established [made] a branch at Waseda University in Tokyo, and when those people read Mr Naito’s advertisement, they became angry. I told the man that Mr Naito had used the word “connection,” which was accurate, because I had developed [made] a connection with the university’s English department. The man said that was a lie—we had no connection to the university, and that Mr Naito was a clever [intelligent, but like a fox] businessman who had probably used the word “branch” because it had more prestige [status]—and he could make more money that way. I told the man that Mr Naito wasn’t a businessman; he was a Christian who truly [really; deeply] believed in education, but the man wouldn’t listen to me [he refused to believe my words]. As a way to solve the problem, I said we would change the advertisement, so that the words “branch” or “connection” wouldn’t appear [wouldn’t be in the ad], and he replied that we must not use the words “University of Oregon” at all! Finally, we ended the call.
I immediately called the head of the English department at the university, and told him about the letter. I asked him to call the other man and explain that we had developed a connection. He refused [he said no]. “Why?” I asked him. “Because I don’t want to get involved” [get into the middle of this trouble], he answered.
This situation hurt me very much [kurushikatta; caused me sadness]. I told Mr Naito the result of these two telephone calls, and I suggested that we cancel the program. I felt like I had let him down [disappointed him]. Not because I was ashamed as a person, but because I felt ashamed as an American at that time, because of the behavior of the two Americans in Oregon. Like the old [mukashii no] cowboys who reached for their guns at the first sign [indication, hint] of trouble, too many Americans today get angry and reach for their lawyers. It shows [it’s an example of] impatience, and a lack of desire to hear the facts and try to solve the situation reasonably. I think that’s the result of a society that is too competitive and people don’t trust each other enough. And because of this, the people at the University of Oregon lost a good international exchange program, our students lost a valuable experience to study abroad, Mr Naito lost a chance to help people, and there were bad feelings [negative emotions] on both sides [our side and University of Oregon’s side]. “Mr Naito, I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. I was deeply sorry.
But now let me tell you about something good that I accomplished [did] at Evergreen; something with a result that I was very happy with.
I’m sure you remember me talking about Mr Ninomiya’s conversation lounge. I told the Naitos that I thought that such a lounge would be a good thing for Evergreen. We sat down and discussed it, and they agreed with me. We decided to have it at the Tama Puraza branch, because it was centrally located in Tokyo’s growing [more and more people] southern suburbs. The Naitos bought nice sofas, chairs and a stereo, and soon the lounge was full of people every Friday and Saturday night. I went almost every time, sometimes even for ten minutes between my classes if I was teaching one of those nights at Tama Puraza. It was a lot of fun. We turned off the overhead [ceiling] fluorescent lights and used table lamps, so the mood was warm and friendly. We listened to good music, like Kitaro’s “Silk Road.” And every night, different people and different Evergreen teachers came, so the conversation was never boring. I even recruited some foreigners I met on the train, because they were quite nice, and they liked to meet new people and earn some extra pocket money.
We had some fantastic [wonderful] parties at the conversation lounge, too. There was delicious food and drink, and often dancing. Almost every time, I liked to play a pop song with a strong beat [rhythm], and lead [be the leader of] a “dance parade” around the room, out the door and down the corridor and back into the room, everyone holding onto the shoulders of the person in front of them, and kicking their legs to the right and then to the left, to the beat of the music. It was such indescribable [can’t describe it] pleasure! Everyone had a great [wonderful] time, and these parties were very popular. Everyone seemed to feel free.
After I left Japan to go to America with Keiko, I returned briefly to Tokyo to help the Naitos with teacher training, and I discovered that the lounge had closed. The number of attendees [guests] had been dropping—I think because of the sudden burst [breaking] of the “Bubble Economy,” and also because of the number of [so many] new English schools in that area—so there just weren’t enough customers to keep it open. While I was there, I made copies of two cassette tapes that we had often played in the lounge. When I listen to those tapes today, a wave [nami] of good memories floods [kōzui mitai] my mind. And sometimes I even notice a tear on my cheek.

Chapter 11
I liked living with Keiko. Before I talk about that, let me begin by saying that she likes Americans. It goes back to [this liking comes from] her childhood [kodomo no toki]. She went shopping with her mother, and they saw an American G.I. [soldier] who had been stationed [sent; put] in Tokyo after the war. She stared at him because she had never seen a foreigner before. He smiled at her and approached [came to her], and she was afraid. Then he bent down and gave her a banana! This may not seem like such an important event, but Keiko told me that in those days [at that time] in Japan, bananas were very rare, and although children loved to eat them, they only got one [a banana] on a special occasion; when they were sick, for example. So, to be given a banana by this unknown [shiranai] foreigner was a wonderful, even magical event for her. And since that time, she has always had affection [liking; warm feelings] for Americans.
However, let me make clear [explain clearly] that she loves all people; white, black, or blue. When she studied in England, her best friend was a Thai woman named Wajana—who I want to tell you about later—and she loved to visit a very old and traditional Englishman she called “Old Nick.” (I later met Wajana in Thailand and Old Nick in England. The first thing Old Nick said to me was, “Why do you Americans speak the Queen’s English (British English) so poorly?”
Anyway, let me get back to my story: living with Keiko. The language school in Harajuku where she worked had closed—the rumor [gossip] was that the school had borrowed money from the yakuza and couldn’t pay it back—so she found a job at another school. She worked days and I worked nights, but that wasn’t a problem because I was usually home by 9:30pm, and we had most weekends together. I told you how we would spend the evenings talking, often with hot nihon shu, especially in winter. What I didn’t tell you about was our routine [usual habit] after this: the bath.
Keiko would heat the bath water, and we would both undress and enter the bathroom. She would wash me from head to foot as we sat on plastic stools, me standing when she washed my lower body. Of course, she washed “everywhere” [this hints that she also washed my pleasurable “private parts.”] It would be difficult to describe the warm feeling this thorough [complete] washing gave me, both physically and emotionally. Then she would rinse me off and I would get into the tub while she washed herself. She took her time [washed slowly], and we sometimes talked and sometimes were silent. By the time [when] she was finished, I got out of the tub and she got in, and I dried off with a towel and got into the futon. Soon she joined me [got into the futon, too]. In winter, if my feet got cold while waiting for her, I knew that hers would be warm, so I put my feet on hers, or on her warm legs. Of course she cried out [small shout] and laughed, but I was persistent [didn’t stop]. Then I’d snuggle [cuddle; get close and comfortable] next to her and we went to sleep. Or sometimes I would angle my body [turn my body on an angle] and lay the back of my head and shoulders on her stomach, staying that way until I was almost asleep. To me, this was like heaven [tengoku mitai].
Keiko and I traveled a lot. If I told you every place that we went together, you might think I was exaggerating. My first priority [number one goal] was to see Japan. I wanted to see all of it, not just Tokyo and Kyoto—which I had already seen. At first we took short trips: Hakone, Izu and Miura Hanto, etc. We sometimes went to onsen hotels with her parents. Then we went farther: Nikko, Oze, and later, ten days in Hokkaido—in winter!
Hokkaido was spectacular [wonderfully beautiful], like a woman in a beautiful dress of cold white diamonds. And in that season, it wasn’t crowded at all. We were like the king and queen of some of the guest houses we stayed at, getting delicious meals—especially [toku ni] delicious because we were the only guests—and [also getting] excellent service [attention], permission to use the same onsen bath together, and so on. In Hokkaido we skied [to ski] at Sapporo’s Mt Moiwa, we saw the tanchō tsuru in Kushiro, the frozen Lake Akan, the rustic [simple, plain] Nukabira onsen, and the million-dollar view in Hakodate. I’ll never forget that trip. But to tell you the truth, I’ll never forget any of our trips. Memory is a wonderful thing. The bad memories may stay with you [anyone], of course, but the good ones survive, too. Not only survive, but they grow [become larger, stronger]. When you are older, they can be like a beautiful flower garden, with so many colors and shapes. And you can visit that garden of memories whenever you want.
I’m going to tell you something now that you might not believe, but I swear [vow, make a serious promise] that it’s true. You see [I’ll explain], I did a lot of hitchhiking in America, especially when I was a university student with not much money, going home for the holidays. Do you know what hitchhiking is? You [anyone] stand beside the road, sometimes with a sign with your destination written on it, and you hold out your thumb to point in the direction the cars are going. If anyone wants to stop to pick you up, you get in their car and ride for free. After I graduated from university, I did this in Europe for a year. When I suggested to Keiko that we try it in Japan, she was shocked. “People don’t hitchhike in Japan,” she said. “That’s not true,” I replied; “you don’t hitchhike in Japan. I’m sure that someone has tried it.” After I explained in more detail [more clearly] how it was done [how to do it], she agreed to try it. This says [describes] a lot about her character. We were about thirty-seven years old at that time. She didn’t say, “I’m too old,” or “Isn’t it dangerous for a woman?” She listened to me, trusted me, and she said yes. She was an exceptional woman [different from other women, in a very good way; better than others].
I got a map and planned our trip. We would take the subway and a bus to the Chuo Expressway interchange, then start hitchhiking from there. Our first stop would be Matsumoto, to see the beautiful reflection of the mountains on the water. We made reservations at a youth hostel there—people of all ages stay at youth hostels, and at ¥2,800 per person, nobody complains about the price! Next, we would go to Itoigawa on the coast, and have a lunch there. Then we would continue on [go] to Kanazawa, where we would spend two nights. I wanted to see the famous ninja-dera, and also try [eat for the first time] Kanazawa’s delicious ama-ebi. Then we would continue through Nagoya and back to Tokyo.
Our average wait [usual waiting time] for a ride was 5-10 minutes, and never longer than twenty. We made small cardboard signs for Matsumoto, Kanazawa, and Tokyo, and these helped a lot. All our Japanese friends asked us later if trucks stopped for us. That was the image in their minds. But in fact, salespeople, office workers, and even a teacher stopped to pick us up. Maybe when they saw a foreigner, they thought it would be a good chance to practice their English. Or maybe they just wanted to help us. When you meet a stranger [shiranai hito], you don’t know his mind; you know only his actions.
We had such a lovely [perfect; beautiful in every way] trip, and when we got back, Keiko was excited. “When can we go again?” she asked. I didn’t make her wait long. The following [next] year we had another fantastic trip planned. Here’s what it was: to hitchhike to Osaka; take the all-night ferry boat to Beppu; hitchhike to Aso, then go through Kumamoto to Nagasaki and stay there a couple of days; then to Ibusuki and its onsen beach; then to Kagoshima for a couple of days; then go through Miyazaki to Beppu, take the ferry boat to Osaka, and then back to Tokyo. It turned out to be [it became; it was] a fabulous [very wonderful] trip, with perfect weather, easy rides, and not one trouble. It was more than a week of pure enjoyment, and how much did it cost—transportation, food, lodging [hotel]? About go man yen per person! I should add here [say something more now] that I don’t like to take something and give nothing in return [back]. So, while riding in people’s cars (and only one truck!), I tried very hard to help them [help people who picked us up] to enjoy English conversation, or if we spoke Japanese, to tell them about myself, about America, or just about my impressions of Japan; I hoped that afterward [later], they would feel glad that they had picked us up.
Another excellent trip that we did a few times wasn’t so far from home, but it was very special to us. It’s a place just south of Tokyo called Ō-yama. We took the Odakyū Line south for about forty minutes to Hon-Atsugi station, then we took a bus to the base [bottom] of the mountain. There are steps going up, like at many small mountains in Japan, with little shops along the way up. We brought onigiri, though, and we had a picnic at the top, away from all the people. You can imagine the wonderful view we had. Coming back, we didn’t go back down the steps; we knew from our map that there was a little path [michi] going down the other side of the mountain, so we took that. It went down through bushes and trees, and we hoped that it was going to where [the place] we thought it was going. I wasn’t worried, though. I knew it was going somewhere. Wherever “somewhere” was, we could go home from there. The path was really primitive [basic, crude]—no houses, no people, just Nature—until, about an hour or more later, we finally came to a road. I was relieved, but of course we would have to decide which way to go. Judging by the sun [seeing the position of the sun], we turned north, the direction of Tokyo. I had no desire to walk to Tokyo, of course, but I knew from the map that there was an onsen to the north of Ō-yama, and I was pretty sure [80% sure] that the road would go there. So we followed the road—there weren’t any cars at all—and after a while, we came to a tunnel. The tunnel was so long that the light at the far end was just a pinpoint. “Do you want to go through it?” I asked Keiko. “Sure,” she replied. It was a foolish question, though, because the only alternative [other choice] was to go back up to the top of Ō-yama and back down the steps, and we were much too tired for that! So we entered the tunnel. It was so dark and almost fearful [kowa-sō], and for sure, a new experience for both of us. We didn’t know if there was a bear in there, or a wild boar [enoshishi], and I didn’t want to step on a mamushi! When we finally reached the other side, you have no idea how good it was to see the sun again [you don’t know how good—in other words, it was so good to see the sun, and I can’t explain how good]. Fear, in small doses, like medicine, can be good for you. In any case, after another twenty minutes of walking, we arrived at the onsen. It was like we had arrived at the gate of heaven. There was a picturesque [as pretty as a picture] rotenburo, where we sat and relaxed our tired muscles. (After many hours of walking, I’m sure you know how good this feels.) Then, we took a bus from the onsen to the nearest station on the Odakyū Line. We had a delicious dinner in a restaurant on the 6th or 7th floor of the station building, then we got on a train and went home. It was a perfect day. A year later, we did it again.
After we had seen much of Japan, we started traveling internationally on our holidays. Thailand, Hong Kong and China, the Philippines, Nepal; and we even took Keiko’s parents to Bali. I enjoyed all those places, especially Nepal. But I think that the travels and the places that I enjoyed most were in Japan. Today, memories of those travels fill my mind, and I often feel that I have been a very lucky person.
Life is very difficult for a writer, but it also has its pleasures [Even though life is difficult for a writer, life has pleasures {enjoyments}, too]
Chapter 12
A custom among foreigners living in Japan at that time was to go out the night before rubbish [gomi] collection day to look for items [things] of value. Remember, this was during the time of the “Bubble Economy,” and Japanese people threw away many things that were still useful, including furniture, stereos, kitchen appliances [electric mixer, toaster-oven, etc], and so on. There were no second-hand shops then, so many [“dakara takusan,” not “sō nani takusan”] foreigners who were living on the usual teacher’s salary of ¥250,000 per month went around their neighborhoods at night to find goods that they could use in their apartments. When I mentioned this in one of my classes, the students were shocked. They couldn’t imagine [couldn’t believe] that someone could do such a thing. Now, of course, times have changed [conditions are different] and there are many second-hand shops in Japan.
Keiko and I never went out looking for goods, but sometimes we took a walk at night, and if it happened to be [if it was] rubbish night and we saw something good, certainly we would examine [look at] it to determine if it was worth [if it had enough value] bringing home. If this sounds strange to you, you have to realize that in many Western countries, especially the English-speaking countries, people regularly buy and sell second-hand goods. There are so many second-hand shops, often run [managed] by charities [groups that help poor people].
There is also the custom of having a “yard sale,” where a family puts lots of their unwanted goods outside in front of their house to sell. Often they put an advertisement in the newspaper, and people from all over the city go to have a look. On a typical weekend in an average-size city, there might be 25-30 yard sales. Some people drive to many of them on the same day, looking for good-quality items. You know [my opinion was], when you go shopping at department stores, many of the goods seem to be similar; but at yard sales (and on the nights before rubbish collection in Tokyo), there were many interesting and unique items. When Keiko and I moved to Seattle, in America, we furnished [we bought furniture for] nearly our entire [almost all] two-bedroom apartment by visiting yard sales. We saved [didn’t spend] many thousands of dollars, and we were able to use that money for travel in the summer and many ski trips in the winter.
I remember two things we found during our evening walks in Miyamaedaira. One was a portable stereo, and it worked very well. Another was a beautiful hand-made wooden box, about 25cm tall and 15cm wide and deep [25x15x15]; the front piece was a door that opened by sliding upward, and it had some beautiful calligraphy on it. It was very artistic, and I liked it a lot. I kept that box for many years.
Let me explain something here that might make this topic easier for you to understand. I have been a writer since I was seventeen years old, and because I didn’t earn any money from it, I have been teaching all these years, to pay my bills [monthly expenses]. In order to have time to write (and to think carefully about what I was going to write), I have usually worked part-time, or sometimes full-time for a year or two, and then I take a six-month break in order to write. So it should be clear to you that my income over the years [during my life] was usually low (except in Japan, where I earned more money—which I’ll talk about later). If that is so, how can I afford [able to pay for] a year traveling in Europe, pay for my education, ski for five months in Colorado [state], scuba dive in many countries, travel frequently to wherever I want to go, buy fast convertibles [open cars] and motorcycles, and so on? By living cheaply, of course. And two things helped me a lot: hitchhiking, and buying second-hand goods! That’s the price I pay for my rich [not rich in money, but rich in experiences {keiken} ] lifestyle.
Chapter 13
I didn’t choose to be a writer. It chose me [Fate or destiny {unmei} decided for me]. The focus [subject] of my writing has always been about people [ningen], and ways that they could get along better [cooperate, live happily with each other]. My first writing, a short play [drama] I wrote in high school, was about a man who was criticized [agetsurau; kōhyō] by his friends and even his wife, because he became friends with a Black man. I got into trouble with that play, because the language was so direct [strong] and the topic was so controversial [some people strongly disagree] that the teacher, even though she liked it, thought she should show it to the Principal, before letting our class perform it. The Principal read it, got very angry, and threatened to call my parents. This is how my writing career began. Later, I wrote novels [shōsetsu] and non-fiction books about the difficulty of people trying to find happiness in our modern, materialistic [money and goods {mono; kaimono} ] society. The theme of my books is that we have a duty to respect each other and take better care of each other—and maybe to find love! I don’t know why I’ve had only one book published in all these years. Maybe Americans are too busy trying to achieve “the American Dream”—more money, more sex, more goods, more independence, and if possible, fame [to become famous]—and they don’t want to listen to somebody (me!) telling them that these things won’t bring happiness. How can they think about balancing the material [physical; money, goods, sex] side [part] of life with the spiritual side, when the entire society is so in love with money and sex? Of course, there’s nothing wrong [bad] with money and sex, but when they are the main [omo na] goals of life, there can be no happiness; only temporary pleasures. Must we settle for that [that=temporary pleasures; settle for: to take something {like temporary pleasures} because you think you can’t get anything better than that], when life can give us so much more? Americans say that they understand this, but their behavior shows me that they don’t [don’t understand it]. So I have always believed that my books won’t be published until my countrymen [my people] are ready to listen to this message. But maybe it is like Carl Jung [pronounced “yoong”] (the Swiss psychiatrist [seishin ka-i] who was a student of Freud) said, “It’s an insult [shitsurei na koto] to talk to one’s [a person’s] countrymen about things that they don’t know about [shiranai koto]. Maybe that is so, but unfortunately, a writer has no choice but to write about what he believes to be true. That’s my opinion. But there could be another reason my books aren’t published: maybe they’re just no good! But who can live with a thought like that, [the thought that my books are no good], after a lifetime of work?
In many ways, I found living in America difficult. First, because I’m an educated person, and education isn’t respected or valued so much in America. Of course we say, “Get a good education,” but by that [with that saying] we mean that the purpose of education isn’t knowledge [to know a lot] or wisdom [to be wise; to have understanding], but instead, to get skills to earn more money. So, in America I was, as we say in English, “Like a fish out of water” [umi no soto no sakana no yō na hito no kanji.]. I felt like I was in the wrong place—what I needed, in order to live, was not there.
Second, I worked part-time or changed jobs before getting promotions, so my position [social status] and income [salary] were usually low. I think many people thought I was lazy—but they didn’t know how hard I worked on my writing! In any case, living on such a low income, (especially when I had the education and skills to “earn a lot of money,”) created a lifestyle for me in America—and an image—where I received very little respect from other people. When people don’t respect you, they don’t listen to [don’t pay attention to] your ideas. And I was trying to change society! Like it says in the Christian Bible, “A prophet [teacher of new ideas; someone who can see the future] is without honor [respect] in his own land” [his home country].
Finally, living in America was difficult for me because my thinking was often just the opposite of the people around me, so it was a little bit lonely. I wasn’t so interested in the American Dream, as I said; I didn’t work hard in order to buy a bigger house or a new car. I didn’t want to earn a lot of money in order to show how “good” I am. And I thought our society was too competitive. We struggled against each other for our own private success, instead of helping each other so that more people could find success. Although I love my country—it gave me freedom and it gave me education—I just didn’t think the same way as my countrymen. It’s like the title of an old novel someone wrote: I felt like “a stranger in a strange land” [an outsider in a faraway, unknown country].
This might help you to understand better why I’m writing this love letter to Japan. Because the people of Japan gave me what Americans couldn’t [couldn’t give me]—respect [they respected me]. They listened when I talked. They appreciated the knowledge I got from university, travel, reading, and trying to understand life. They liked my desire [want] to cooperate. And they felt a duty to take care of each other. For the first time in my life, this fish [me] had found water to swim in! [I wasn’t a fish out of water anymore.] I think people saw me more as I really am. I’m not a bum [a lazy, worthless person], as maybe I am sometimes judged in my own country. I’m a writer, an old [mukashi no] Chinese philosopher [tetsugakusha].
One of my French friends in Tokyo said that I was wrong about the Japanese [nihonjin]. He said you liked me because I spoke English. He said that you gave me respect because I was a mature [older] white male, and not because of my character. But I disagreed with him. Of course, I understand that my status would have been lower if I were a young Korean, for example. I’m not so foolish to believe that Japanese society, like every society, doesn’t have strong ideas about status [people’s position in society]. That’s human nature. But I think I understand people. I’m a writer and I must understand them. Yes, I’m sure that some people treated me well [they were kind to me] because I was an educated American man. I also know that some others were just showing tatemae. But I look into a person’s eyes and I can usually see his heart. That’s one of my natural gifts [I was born with this natural ability]. And I saw many true feelings in Japanese people’s hearts.
The care and respect I showed to Japanese people, you returned to me. If this happened occasionally in America, I was glad for it. In Japan, it happened every day. This is why I felt like I had found a home. And this is the reason I’m writing this love letter to you.
Chapter 14
In an earlier chapter, I mentioned Keiko’s friend from Thailand, Wajana. I’d like to tell you a little story about her. But first, let me begin by telling you about one of my Japanese students, because both stories fit together, like opposite sides of the same coin.
In one of my English classes in Tokyo, there was a young woman about twenty-two years old. She had been in the class for about four or five months. She didn’t say much, but she was very sweet, and when she smiled, she got lovely [attractive, good-looking] little wrinkles [lines in her skin] in the outside corners of her eyes. To me, it was a heart-warming smile [it made me feel good, or comfortable].
One day, she said in class that she had to quit her English studies. “Why?” I asked. “Because I’m getting married,” she said. “That’s wonderful! Congratulations!”I said. I asked her what kind of man her fiancé [future husband] was. She said he was kind, and very romantic. Other ladies in the class liked that! She said he held her hand when they walked together, and even kissed her in the park sometimes if no one else was around. A few of the older women smiled, and one of them said, “I envy you!” [urayamashii, na!]
The next few weeks of class, I could feel her absence [I could feel strongly that she wasn’t there]. But because students are always coming and going [joining and quitting classes], I thought about her less and less, and I finally forgot about her.
Anyway, about eight months later, a new student entered that class. She looked so familiar [as if I had seen her before]. “Have I met you before?” I asked her. “Yes, I was in this class earlier this year,” she answered; “I left because I was going to get married.” Like a bell ringing in my head, I suddenly remembered her. I asked her how married life was [kekon seikatsu wa, dō desu ka?]. Her face changed from a smile to something cooler. She told me this story:
“The first weeks of marriage were heavenly [tengoku mitai] for me. He was affectionate [always hugging and kissing] and attentive [he paid attention to me]. He even called me if he was out drinking with his colleagues and he was going to come home late. Soon, he stopped calling. When I asked him why, he answered that the last time he called, his colleagues laughed at him. ‘The honeymoon is over,’ they told him; ‘you don’t need to call her all the time. She’s not your mommy.’ So he stopped calling. And the hand-holding also stopped, and the romantic kisses in public places. Soon, I felt like a typical Japanese housewife.”
I’m sure this story isn’t so surprising to you. It may even be a familiar one [story]. But it did surprise me. And it became part of my education about Japan, just as [the same way as] it became part of hers [her education about Japan].
Now, let me tell you about Keiko’s friend, Wajana. Keiko met her at Exeter University in England, where they were both studying. Keiko said to her that it must be difficult to be so far away from her husband, who Wajana had said she loved very much. “Yes, but he and I have a custom [shūkan], and it helps to make us feel closer.” Keiko asked her to explain. Wajana said that at the same time each day, both she and her husband would go to a quiet room—Wajana in Exeter and her husband in Bangkok—and they would sit quietly and think about each other, and send warm, loving thoughts to each other. Just for a few minutes. These daily communication times, she said, almost made them feel like they were together, and it gave them comfort [peace, relaxation].
Why do these two stories, Wajana’s and my student’s, go together? I don’t think I need to explain. But it seems to me that although foreigners can have some strange ideas about love, some of these ideas, when I look at them deeply, can be quite beautiful [high value; worthwhile]. Most people think that it is important to love someone, but maybe it’s also important to recognize [to know; be aware] that there are many ways to express it [to show love].
Chapter 15
One day I was in Shinjuku Station in Tokyo, waiting to take a train. I had to make a telephone call, so I went to a long line of public phones, and took out my wallet to get a piece of paper with the telephone number on it. I put the wallet on the little counter [table] next to the phone, looked at the telephone number, and dialed. As I was talking, I forgot about the time. Suddenly, I looked at my watch. I had one minute to get to the platform! I quickly said goodbye to my friend and ran down the corridor to the stairs. This [running in the station] was difficult because Shinjuku is the busiest train station in the world—there are so many people!
I was finally able to get to the platform. When I got there, I found that my watch was a little fast [ahead of time], because the train hadn’t arrived yet. A minute later, it came into the station. As it stopped and the doors opened, I reached for my wallet in order to put it into my front pocket, to protect [guard] against pickpockets [suri]. (It’s a habit I learned from my travels.) But my wallet was gone! A pickpocket had already taken it!
I stood there like a fool, thinking about what to do next. Should I forget about it? [do nothing]. Should I call the police? Then I suddenly realized: a pickpocket hadn’t taken my wallet. I had left it on the counter of the public phone! But by now, it would be gone for sure, because thousands of people could see it there. I made my way [I went] as quickly as I could to the corridor, and went to the phone. The wallet was still there! I opened it. The money was still there. “Oh my God!” I thought; “I love Japan!”
I know there are suri and dorobo in every country, even Japan. But possibly nowhere else in the world can you leave your wallet in a busy train station, and find it there later. It is generally agreed [people usually agree] that Japan is a safe country.
The only exception to this [something not safe], several Japanese people told me, was umbrellas. They said that people sometimes take someone else’s umbrella from a public place. But it really isn’t stealing, they insisted [said strongly], because most umbrellas are similar, and not very expensive, so if someone takes yours, you just take another. I never had an umbrella stolen from me, so I don’t know how true this story is. However, I left an umbrella on a subway train once, many years later when I was living in Sapporo. The next day, I called the train company, and they told me where the “Lost and Found” office was. I went there, and found my umbrella.
These two minor [small; unimportant] events—the wallet in Shinjuku Station and the umbrella on the train in Sapporo—impressed me [made an impression on me; gave me a positive feeling]. Although they seem unrelated [not connected] and unimportant, I think they show something important about the Japanese character [seikaku; values; beliefs]. It’s not perfect, of course, because things do get stolen in Japan. But what better way is there to evaluate [judge the value of] a people [a country’s people] than to compare them with other countries’ people? In other words [to say it another way], even though Japanese character may not be perfect, if we compare it to the character of people in other countries, Japanese character is excellent. And maybe this kind of comparison is the best way to evaluate Japanese people—not by comparing them to “perfection,” but by comparing them to people from other countries.
Frankly, I like and I admire people from many foreign countries. I admire Swedes [Swedish people], for example, and Germans, and French. I like Mexicans and Irish [Ireland people] and Nepalese. But I’m only writing one love letter.
Chapter 16
Let me continue for a bit [for a short time] about this idea of safety. The opposite of safety is danger. In eight years of living in Japan, I never felt danger. And because of my lifestyle—hitchhiking is an example I’ve already mentioned, and I’ll talk about another example now—I am nearer to danger than the average person [futsū no hito; daihyōteki na hito] is.
In Miyamaedaira where I lived, there was a small park that I had to pass through on my way home to my apartment. Because there are no lights in this park but only nearby street lights, it is quite [very] dark at night. One night, as I was coming home at around 11:30pm, I saw the dark shapes of people alongside [beside] the park’s path, about twenty meters in front of me. I didn’t turn around and go the other way, because I wasn’t worried. I have a strong belief that if you do good [ii koto; if you try to be honest and kind, try to help people] in this world—and if you are lucky!—good will come back to you. This is the Buddhist “Law of Karma” [the rule that whatever you do, the same will come back to you in the future], although I think people of other religions believe it, too. Also, I have a strong belief in fate: if danger is destined [planned by destiny] to come to me, I can’t avoid it, no matter what I do or where I go. So I continued walking.
As I got closer and my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that it was a group of young men, about eight of them, around twenty years old. Normally I would just walk past them, but I saw that they were pushing one of them [one of the men] violently [hageshiku], and I stopped. “What are you doing?” I asked.
I know you think I am foolish for doing this, but it might be useful for you to know that this seems to be a part of my character. In other words [to explain by saying it differently], if I see the strong [people] trying to hurt the weak [people], I always interfere [try to stop it]. Most people can’t understand this, and the only way I can explain it is to say that I have felt this way all my life. Once [there was a time], I stopped a fight between two groups of teenagers in America because one boy had a broken bottle in his hand as a weapon [buki] and I didn’t want anyone to get injured [kega suru]. Several other times, I stopped men from hitting women in the street. This isn’t a popular thing to do, and it can be dangerous for me, but I can’t deny [refuse or stop] my feeling. Like I told you about me becoming a writer—it chose me, I didn’t choose it [it was my destiny].
“What are you doing?” I asked the young men in the park in Miyamaedaira. The young man who seemed to be the leader took a step toward me and said, “Get lost!” [Slang for “Leave here now!”] “I will,” I answered, “after you tell me what you’re doing.” “It’s none of your business!” [“Kankei nai!”] he said with a strong voice and a threatening look [he looks ready to be violent] on his face, which I could barely see in the dim light from a faraway street light. “When you act like this, it is my business,” I said, looking at him face-to-face to show him that I was serious and I was not going to be intimidated [frightened, scared away]. Then I turned to the boy who was being pushed. “Are you okay?” [“Daijō bu desu ka?”] I asked. He didn’t answer, but I didn’t have to ask again because the leader said “Let’s go,” and they began to walk through the trees to the street, where I saw many small motorbikes parked. I continued walking home. The hot bath was nearly ready, and Keiko and I did our usual evening ritual [the bath was our custom, almost like a religious custom]. I didn’t tell her what happened because I didn’t want her to worry.
Was I afraid? No. Like I said, I feel a sense [a feeling] of destiny. I live my life as I feel I must live it, and I’m prepared [ready] for whatever comes. There’s no use in worrying about it [it’s useless or a waste of time to worry]. But there’s something more I want to say about this. When I interfered [stopped someone’s behavior] in order to protect someone in America, I wasn’t afraid, either, but I felt a sense of danger. In other words, I knew that something violent could happen. I had heard about such things many times. You [anyone] don’t know who has a knife or a gun in America, or who has taken a drug and can’t control himself. I didn’t feel this in the park in Miyamaedaira. It was dark, I was outnumbered [there were more of them than me], and the leader was full of negative emotion, which I heard in his voice and I saw on his face. And yet [but], I felt perfectly safe. Why? Because this was Japan?
Please don’t think I’m naive [innocent, inexperienced, foolish]. I’ve been to more than fifty countries, and I’ve observed people carefully, trying to understand them. I’m not a childish [kodomoppoi] man who dreams that Japan is completely safe. I know it’s not, and you know, too. We can prove this [that Japan is not always safe] just by reading the Asahi Shimbun. So, that night in Miyamaedaira, I knew that there was a possibility that the young men were high [intoxicated; mentally changed by a drug] on drugs or even the cough medicine “Bron,” and that they could have had knives. I knew this, so I wasn’t being naive. I know what can happen. In any country. But I’m just describing my feeling that night. I was so surprised, because I didn’t sense any danger.
Let me say just one more thing about this subject [topic], but something a little less serious. One day, I was outside a small and unfamiliar [shiranai] train station, and I didn’t know which direction to go in order to find a friend’s house. The only person there was a fearsome [kowa-sō] guy dressed as a “punk” [in the “punk” style]—his hair was formed into long spikes [points sticking up], he had metal studs [small round pieces of jewelry] in his lip and eyebrows, he wore black leather clothes with metal spikes, and so on. I think some people might be afraid of him.
I walked up to him and said, “Excuse me,” [sumimasen] with a slight [little] bow. “Hai!” he said enthusiastically [with much positive energy], returning the bow politely. And he was so sweet and friendly, and so glad to help me. I never forgot that guy.
So what’s the meaning? I think if I approached [went to] such a man in another country, I probably [80% sure] would have had one hand on my gun and the other hand on my samurai sword. In Japan, I always felt that the only weapons I needed were a firm [confident, strong] voice, or a smile. Those things alone [sore dake] prepared me for anything.
Chapter 17
This may be the shortest chapter. Here is definite [sure, certain] proof that I am a hen na gaijin: I like nattō ! Yes, you’re reading this correctly—I like nattō. I avoided it for the first six months because all the foreigners said it tasted terrible, but I finally said to myself, “Hey, Katry, don’t run away from a challenge.” So I tried it, and I liked it. And I also like enka, because it suits my sentimental nature [the strongly-emotional way I am]. And also tako yaki; the story of “the mujina;” uni; Mishima Yukio’s bi-ishiki; ba-sashi; atsukan nihon shu; “My English is poor” students; the word “yappari” (there’s no suitable English equivalent [same meaning] ); silent places [no talking for a moment] in Japanese conversations; old ¥10,000 bills with Prince Shōtoku; chikuwa; Tora-san; shakuhachi; onsen tamago; Hachikō no hanashi; Kyoto’s Ryōanji temple; nori-flavored potato chips with cream cheese, shōyu and goma dip. Only [sore dake] my desire not to bore you [tsumaranaku naranai yō ni] prevents [stops] me from continuing this list for many pages.
The world is rushing toward globalization [the new world-wide economic system]. There are new products [seihin; mono] to buy, and new opportunities for business. Many people are getting rich. People are traveling more. There are new challenges every day. But many old things [dentōteki na koto] are slowly disappearing.
I’m a little worried. I don’t want to lose so many good friends.
Chapter 18
I like how [the way] I didn’t have to say everything so strongly [say a strong opinion] and directly [say it exactly] in Japan. What I mean is [to iu no wa], it didn’t seem so important for me to always express my opinion and get people to understand it.
In America, opinions are very important. We’re encouraged to express ourselves [say what we think and feel], and to give convincing evidence why that opinion is valid [true, useful]. In a conversation, everyone expresses their opinions, and like gladiators [Roman fighters] in a Roman arena [fighting place], these opinions compete with each other; everyone gets a sense [an idea, an understanding] of what others believe, and who is correct. This is part of the competitive American society I told you about—although I think most Americans aren’t even aware of [don’t know] this, because it’s all they know [they don’t know another way] and it seems natural to them. I didn’t know it until I went to Japan.
For people who are competitive, noisy [urusai], or outgoing [social; talkative personality], this American communication style suits them, and they can usually be successful. In my case, as the British say, “It’s not my cup of tea”—it doesn’t suit me.
When I first arrived in Japan, some foreigners said that Japanese people weren’t so direct in expressing their opinions. Of course, at first I didn’t know what this meant. The foreigners explained to me that Japanese people are “hiding something” [keeping something secret] and I looked for examples of that, but couldn’t find any. Some Americans used the English expression, “They’ll pat you on the back with one hand and stab you in the back with the other hand.” What does that mean? Because Japanese don’t always express their meaning clearly, foreigners may feel like they are saying something positive (“pat you on the back”) while they mean something negative (“stab you in the back” with a knife)—so, you can’t trust them. Frankly, I didn’t believe this.
Even so, this indirect style of communication was a big puzzle to me, because it was more difficult for me to know what a Japanese person was thinking. And the reason why it was more difficult to know wasn’t clear to me at all. In America, I had read Ruth Benedict’s book about Japan, “The Chrysanthemum and the Sword” [kiku and katana] and it helped me to understand Japan a little better, but not on this point—it didn’t help me to understand the Japanese style of communication.
Several months later, I took a trip to Kamakura, and I got a quick education [I learned fast about the Japanese style of communication]. As you know, a visit to Kamakura isn’t complete without going to the Great Buddha [daibutsu], and of course I went there to see it. I saw a Japanese woman and her son, who was about ten years old, go inside. I went in behind them. No one else was inside at that time. The son was quiet for a moment, looking up with wonder [awe; very impressed]. Then he turned to his mother and said, “Omoshiro-sō.” Those words hit me like a bolt [arrow] of lightning. He didn’t say “Omoshiroi.” He said “Omoshiro-sō.” Her reply: “Sō da, nē.”
I almost wanted to shake their hands, to thank them for solving the puzzle for me. You see, an American boy would have said, “It’s interesting” (omoshiroi), and the mother would have answered, “Yes, it is” (sō desu), or even “Not really; I’m disappointed” (chigau; gakkari desu). Each would have expressed a definite [clear; exact] opinion, and each would then know what the other person thought. If they disagreed, each would defend their opinion in order to try to prove which opinion was correct, or they would say nothing more about it. But there is usually pressure to defend your opinion when someone disagrees with you. That’s the nature [way] of American society. And like I said, people do this without even realizing they are doing it. I wasn’t aware of it [I didn’t know it] until I went to Japan and learned that there was another way.
Inside the daibutsu, with me as their thankful audience [the person watching them], the mother and her son, with their tentative [hesitating, indirect] expressions using sō and nē, [they] helped to create a situation where no competition between opinions was necessary. He gave a soft [indirect, mild] opinion—omoshiro-sō, [it seems to be interesting] and her use of the word “nē” softened her reply by including him in it (in this case, nē = Yes, it is, isn’t it). Do you understand what I’m saying? Their use of special words in the Japanese language—sō and nē—made the conversation less opinionated and less direct: that’s why no competition was necessary. Neither person was trying to make the other person believe their opinion. So, their conversation wasn’t creating a pressured [pushed; forced] situation, but instead, a comfortable one. Was this the reason that I felt so comfortable in Japan?
After I heard this conversation, to me it suddenly seemed foolish that so many foreigners interpreted this Japanese communication style to mean they are “hiding something.” That’s not correct [chigaimasu]. In fact, the Japanese style was “creating comfort.” But it had taken me several months to figure out [understand this situation], and maybe those foreigners hadn’t figured it out yet.
After that, I listened to Japanese conversations very carefully for evidence [signs; indications; proof] of this “creation of comfort,” and I experienced [heard; saw] it every day. What it actually shows is mutual [for both people] respect. I respect you by trying to make a comfortable communication between us, and you respect me by doing the same. Neither of us tries to prove his opinion, or force it on the other person. Japanese language is just one way of showing mutual respect. Bowing is another. So is gift-giving. So is leaving the last piece of sushi on the plate. In America, our conversations are competitive. We don’t bow to each other. We limit gift-giving to just a few occasions. And some people eat faster if there’s a last piece of food on the plate!
So what about “respect” in America? In conversations, we have to earn [work hard in order to get] people’s respect by being successful in the daily verbal [speaking] arena [fighting place]. We may like quiet people, but noisy people get more respect. And this happens without thinking, without even knowing.
Something else struck me [I strongly realized] during those next days after visiting Kamakura: I began to realize that “nē” is the most important word in the Japanese language. It’s a part of every conversation. It helps bind [connect; tie] people together by expressing the feeling [or idea], “Don’t you think so, too?” When you say something and I reply using “nē,” it means I agree with you; or if I don’t agree, it shows you that at least I understand how you think or feel. Therefore, “nē” isn’t just an ordinary word; it’s a word of the heart—it pulls people together with each other. And the number of times you hear that word every day shows how important it is. If you don’t agree with me about this, try not to use “nē” for a day. Just one day. I really don’t think you can do it.
If a foreign enemy occupying [living in and controlling] Japan wanted to cripple [make weak; injure] Japanese society, all [sore dake] they would have to do is forbid the use of [tell people they can’t use] the word “nē.”
Chapter 19
I mentioned in the last [previous] chapter the topic of an enemy occupying Japan, so let me say something about Japan and America being bitter [strong; hateful] enemies during the war. Do such strong feelings ever go away? How did I feel, as an American living in Japan? How did people feel about me?
As I mentioned in an earlier chapter, Keiko’s father had been a soldier. I’m sure he learned to hate Americans, just as Americans learned to hate Japanese at that time. And this was less than forty years before I arrived in Japan. In a country’s history, forty years is a short time.
Two or three times a month, Keiko and I would go to her family’s home for dinner. Her sister Yuko and her sister’s husband Yasuo would also be there, and sometimes her brother, Masahiro and his wife Pika-chan, with their two young boys, Hiro-chan and Shō-chan. I always used to arm-wrestle with Hiro-chan, and I would show Shō-chan magic tricks, with a deck of cards [to-ran-pu] or making a coin disappear. I loved those boys! In fact, the whole family was very special [important] to me. I had a strong feeling for all of them. They let me come into their family when I was a stranger [shiranai hito], a foreigner, an American! They trusted Keiko, and if she trusted me, they would trust me, too. We did many things together: eating and drinking, going to onsen, barbecues, making New Years rice cakes, walking the dogs. I came to love that family, and I felt like a true family member.
We always ate dinner at a long table, with Keiko’s father sitting at the head [end of the table]. The family always put me next to him. At that time, my father was no longer [not anymore] alive, but my mother was still strong and active. Every time, Keiko’s father would ask about her. “How is your mother? Healthy? How old is she now?” Although he never met her, he seemed to care about her, and I appreciated that.
After about an hour of eating and drinking, his face would be red, and a couple of times he talked about the war. I was a little bit nervous because, of all the family members, for me he was the hardest to get to know and understand. Even his Japanese was hard for me to understand. Sometimes he didn’t pronounce words clearly, and he spoke in a deep and rough voice like the men in the chambara dramas on TV. And he never used katakana words from English. Keiko always sat beside me, and I often asked her to interpret, especially in the early years.
So, one night, sitting next to me at dinner was a muscular, powerful, deep-voiced ex-Imperial Army soldier (her father), wanting to talk about the war, and to my surprise, there were tears in his eyes. He talked about the loneliness, and the physical pain and discomfort. I knew that the Pacific War [U.S./Japan, compared to the war in Europe] was very difficult, because it was mostly fought in hot jungle countries with snakes, mosquitoes, and disease. A person would have to be very strong to survive. His memory of it was painful [kurushii] and filled with sadness. For the first time, I began to see the war from his point of view. Before that time, I had been taught that the Japanese soldier was cruel, and even heartless [no emotion; no feeling]. And although I knew that many cruel things [zankoku na] had been committed [done] in the war, I saw that even this strong and loyal soldier wasn’t heartless at all. He had a big heart [he was a good man; he had strong emotions]. I got a tear in my eye, too, as I listened to his stories, even if I couldn’t understand all the words. His meaning and his feeling were both very clear to me.
There was a very good movie at that time, called “Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence” (in Japanese: “senjo no merii kurisumasu”), which I saw in Tokyo. That movie, and talking to Keiko’s father, helped me to better understand the Japanese soldier. It helped me not only understand how the soldiers could sometimes be cruel in battle [fighting], but how Keiko’s father could eat and drink with me in the 1980s—I was the son of a former enemy—and treat me like a family member. He could even cry in front of me without embarrassment.
I realized so clearly then, the importance of duty in Japanese life. When Japan was at war, the enemy could be treated harshly [unpleasantly rough; too strong or sharp], but when General MacArthur put the Emperor on the radio to say that the war was over, and that people should cooperate with the Americans, behavior changed. It became the duty of Japanese people to cooperate with the Americans, in order to rebuild Japan. Past animosities [bad feelings; hate] might not be forgotten, but they were pushed to the side in order to carry out [do] the Emperor’s wishes [wants; orders]. I’m sure this surprised the American soldiers in 1945, who were so nervous because they had been told several months earlier that the Japanese wouldn’t surrender, but instead, they [Japanese] would fight until every man, woman and child in Japan had been killed. When U.S. soldiers arrived to find Japanese people cooperative, industrious [hard-working], and optimistic about the future, it must have shocked them. I came to [ni naru] admire and respect Keiko’s father very much, as time passed. Although I never really knew his opinion of me, I can say that he treated me very well; he always took care to check if I was comfortable, if I got enough to eat, or if my glass of osake was full. I lost the nervousness I felt at first when I was around him, and instead, there was a more relaxed feeling. He and I were as different as night and day, but that didn’t seem important. I liked him a lot.
I’d like to say one more thing about him before finishing this story. When he started talking while drinking, the female members of the family would often laughingly [while laughing] criticize him. “Otō-san! What are you saying? Don’t talk so foolishly!” I complained several times to Keiko about this. “He’s your father; give him more respect,” I said. She replied, “But when he gets drunk, he says such silly [foolish] things sometimes.” I said, “I think he has earned the right to do that, don’t you think? He fought in the war, he took care of his family, so he should be able to talk foolishly sometimes! Anyway, he’s getting old. Someday he won’t be here anymore, and you will regret not being nicer to him.” I think Keiko finally paid attention to me, because after that, she didn’t join in with the others so much to complain about him.
One more thought about this. Several years later, Mr and Mrs Sato came to visit us when Keiko and I were living in Seattle. It was their first time in America, and we had a wonderful time together. We picked strawberries; we drove into the mountains to a famous restaurant to eat gourmet [high class; top quality] hamburgers (have you ever heard of gourmet hamburgers?!); we watched Fourth of July [Independence Day] fireworks; we visited beautiful places in the countryside. When we drove to nearby Mt Rainier, they couldn’t believe how much it looked like Mt Fuji! Mr Sato talked about that trip many times, and I could see on his face and hear in his voice that no matter what happened in history, he had developed a new and positive feeling about America. And maybe even a stronger acceptance [approval] of me [stronger than before].
Chapter 20
Let’s talk about money. You already know that I live like a poor Chinese philosopher but I lead [I live] a rich life—not rich in money, but in experiences. But in Japan, suddenly I was making more money than ever before. I told you that my first years in Tokyo were during the “Bubble Economy,” and if you were around [alive] at that time, you know that the yen were flying everywhere! A person could almost reach out and grab [take] them from the air. I caught many.
I’ll talk about just two opportunities I had—because they suddenly and unexpectedly appeared, and they were typical of how things happened to me at that time, money-wise [related to money]. The first opportunity involved Susan. Do you remember Susan, the lively [nigiyaka na] blond-haired Evergreen teacher who was so bright and sunny? Well, when she finally decided to go back to America, she asked me if I would be able to teach a small group of her private students. I asked her for details [more information], and she said she went to Fujigaoka Hospital once a week to teach four doctors. The lesson was 1 1/2 hours, and they each paid ¥5000 per week. “Yes, I think I would like to meet those students,” I replied. Of course I would like to meet them!
When I arrived for the first class, they took me to the doctors’ lounge, where we sat on sofas and drank tea. They didn’t want lessons, but just a chance to practice English conversation. So we just chatted, told stories and jokes, and the time passed quickly. Just before I left, I received ¥20,000. It may not seem much, but to a poor writer and English teacher like me in 1985, this was a fortune! “See you next week,” they said to me in English.
It resembled [nitte iru] Evergreen’s conversation lounge and I enjoyed it completely. But I also have some medical knowledge and some knowledge of how to do presentations at international medical conferences, so I wasn’t just taking enjoyment from them, but also providing them with [giving] useful information. Teaching is fun for me, but I’m also very serious [majime] about it.
Within a month, one of the doctors, Tsutsui-sensei, asked me to teach his children once a week, and the pay was again high. Too high, I think. But I didn’t complain! And to this day [ima made], I have warm memories of the doctors and Tsutsui-sensei’s family. All of them were kind to me, and we enjoyed stimulating [interesting, exciting] conversation. And I got paid for it! Try to think about what this meant [dō iu imi] to me. At that time I was about thirty-seven years old, and for the first time in my life, I actually had money in my pocket. But my lifestyle didn’t change. Everything [all that money] went into my bank account—I was saving for my unknown future [shiranai mirai; dō iu mirai wakaranai].
Another time [another example of a job opportunity], Keiko’s friend asked her if I could teach some company executives [managers]. Because it was a large and well-known joint-venture company [two companies together, from different countries], I decided that instead of asking for an hourly payment, I would design a new course, select the textbook, and teach the class—a complete package. I thought I would charge ¥75,000 a month, which included teaching them for two hours, twice a week. I thought that was a fair price.
When I arrived at the company office, I was surprised at how large and expensive-looking it was, and suddenly I realized that I would be asking for too little money [tsukunai; tarinai]. So after discussing the course with a manager—he told me I would teach the president, the head of marketing, the head of finance [accounting], and the top salesman—he asked me how much payment I expected . So instead of saying ¥75,000, I suddenly said ¥150,000. I was sure that he would say it was too high. But without a thought [without thinking about it] the manager said, “Fine. Can you start next week?” On my way home, I thought, “Money is nothing [completely unimportant] to them! I should have asked for more!” But in fact, I was very satisfied, and that job continued for a year. Yes, the yen were flying at that time. And my circumstances [conditions] had certainly changed since I had worked for four and a half hours at Mr Ninomiya’s conversation lounge in Takadanobaba for¥5000!
To tell you the truth, there was something more important than money about these work situations. How shall I describe it? [What’s the best way to describe it?] I was very busy. Because I did my writing in the mornings, I was busy from morning until night, but by doing that, I learned another interesting lesson about Japan. Unlike the competitive life in America, where most of my energy was drained [lost; taken from me] by working there, I found that being busy in Japan, with so much contact with Japanese people, was actually energizing—it gave me energy! And that was such a pleasant surprise.
We have a saying in English: “Money can’t buy happiness.” Everyone says it, but they don’t really believe it. It seems like everybody wants more [money]. In my case, I enjoyed earning money, but I didn’t enjoy spending it. I still checked the prices on the menu in a restaurant before ordering food. Yes, I might daydream about driving a Ferrari—I love fast cars!—but even if I could afford it [even if I had enough money], I wouldn’t buy one [a Ferrari]. I might, however, order a large sushi plate instead of a small one now and then [toki doki].
Chapter 21
Sometimes I think that too much money flies upward in Japan! It goes from lower people to higher people in society. I say that because it seems like a person in Japan is obligated to [he must] give money to someone who already has a lot of money, and for no logical reason! [There isn’t a logical reason.]
To explain what I mean, let me talk about my dear, sweet landlady for a moment. (Except that [but] she wasn’t so dear and sweet!) About sixty years old, she was a farmer’s wife whose land in Miyamaedaira became valuable after the war, and even more valuable after the Den-en-toshi Line was built. Without actually doing anything [even though she didn’t do anything to earn it], she became a millionaire. And I mean millions of dollars, not yen! She and her husband lived in a big house; she owned several apartment buildings; and she still had several vegetable gardens around the neighborhood. She also owned a nursery [plant shop] near the station.
I found out when we moved into our apartment that in addition to a “damage deposit,” we had to pay one month’s “key money.” I asked Keiko why. “Japanese custom,” she answered. We also had to pay one month’s “gift money.” Again, I asked why. “Japanese custom,” Keiko replied.
I’m sure this seems natural to you. To me it seemed very strange. Why should Keiko and I, hard-working teachers, pay this rich lady the equivalent of [equal to] two month’s extra rent, for no reason? Maybe to you, there is a reason. But the only reason I could see was to take money out of our pockets and put it into hers! Fukōhei desu, nē ; that was my feeling. Not only that, but we had to buy our own water heater, stove, refrigerator, and washing machine—these are things that landlords in other countries buy for the apartments. I started to feel that the economic system in Japan was “top-heavy”—all the money was gathering at the top.
A few months later, there was a problem with the toilet. It wouldn’t flush properly. Well, the building was more than twenty years old, so of course there would be occasional problems. We called the landlady and she sent a plumber [pipe fixer]. He fixed the pipe and gave me a bill for ¥8,000. “Give this to the landlady,” I said. “No, she told me to give it to you.” “But we didn’t cause the problem,” I said; “we’ve only been here for a short time.” He shrugged his shoulders [a gesture showing “shoganai”].
We went directly to the landlady’s house with the bill. Keiko did all the talking. Keiko is usually a quiet person and very respectful to elders, but when she feels that it is a question [situation] of right and wrong, she can be very stubborn [ganko]. The landlady soon found this out [she soon realized that Keiko could be stubborn], so, after some discussion, the landlady agreed to pay half. She wasn’t happy about it, and I could see on her face that she felt that we were troublemakers. She was probably thinking, “This is what happens when nice Japanese ladies get involved with [connected to] foreigners.”
There was another incident [happening] unrelated to money but indicative of [showing] the attitude of the landlady, making it even more difficult for me to accept what I thought was an unfair economic relationship. Keiko and I had worked very hard in our garden, pulling out weeds, pruning [trimming the plants], and so on. Just before going on a trip, we spent a lot of time preparing the ground outside our back door for a vegetable garden, and we planted many different kinds of seeds. We were looking forward to returning to see all the new plants. But when we got back, we found that all of them were dead and brown. We didn’t know how it could have happened, because there is a brick wall and fence around our yard, and the only way into the garden was a narrow path that began near our front door. We asked the landlady about it, and we were shocked when she said that she had sprayed weed-killer [poison to kill unwanted plants] on them! “But that was our new vegetable garden,” Keiko told her. “No,” she replied; “you rent the apartment only. The garden is mine.”
Yet another [even one more] unpleasant [iya na] incident happened when the landlady came to our apartment to talk about something. As she was standing in our open doorway, a neighborhood stray cat [nora neko] that we were fond of [we liked a lot] came to the door. The landlady saw it and kicked it away. In all my life and in all my travels, I have never seen anyone kick a cat, and I had a feeling of disgust [a sick feeling] for the landlady at that moment, that I can’t describe. Later, even the quiet and respectful Keiko said to me with strong emotion in her voice, “I almost shouted [sakebu suru] at her!”
Anyway, back to the story of money going upward. Four years later, when we were ready to move out of that apartment and go to America, we asked for our “damage deposit” back. We had given the landlady key money and gift money, so we should get the damage deposit back because we hadn’t done any damage. The landlady said that she was going to put in new tatami, and give us whatever money was left over, which amounted to a few thousand yen! I wasn’t very happy about that, because our money was paying for maintenance [keeping in new condition] of the apartment—which landlords in other countries pay for. It seemed to me that people on the lower side of Japanese society were required to pay for the lifestyle [seikatsu] of those on the upper side, even if the upper people weren’t nice or weren’t worthy [having enough value or merit] of it [being paid so much]. To me, this was a distasteful [unpleasant, disagreeable] practice [way of doing things] resembling the feudalism [mukashi no fukōhei shakai] of many centuries ago.
During those years in Tokyo, I saw many other examples of this, like paying doctors “gift money” before an operation; or banks making millions [lots of money] by loaning out their depositors’ [people who deposit money] money but paying those depositors less than one percent interest. (In most other countries, the interest is 4-8%.)
Although these things bothered me [made me uncomfortable or sad], I’m not writing about them to complain. I just think it’s important to realize some of the differences between Japanese and foreigners’ ways, especially foreigners who grew up in a more egalitarian [everybody is equal] society, like America or Canada. We feel that rich people shouldn’t have any special privileges [rights; favors]. If people are rich, that should be enough for them. We shouldn’t have to help make them richer.
I’ve read a lot of Japanese history, and I understand about the daimyo and how people had to work hard to support [take care of; give money to] them. Even though conditions have changed, I think there is still a similar thinking in Japan today. There are no daimyo, of course, but high people are still being taken care of by people below them. Historical patterns are hard to break. For example, in America two hundred years ago, people needed guns to survive, and even today millions of Americans have guns, even though the conditions have changed.
So, money still [even today] flies upward in Japan, even in this modern, more democratic era [jidai]. If I were [if it is possible for me to be] a powerful god and I could snap my fingers to change this [change this situation, using magic], would I change it? I’m not sure. The problem is, all the parts of society are connected, so if we change one part, the other parts will change, too. Eliminating [getting rid of; throwing away] one tradition will weaken other traditions, so we must be careful about that. As I told you before, there are many traditions I’d like to keep.
Today, when I think about the landlady, I realize that I never had any ill-will [hostility; hate] toward her. I actually felt sympathy for her. She seemed like a lonely and friendless [no friends] person, and I don’t think she got much benefit [good things] from her money. Even though it surrounded her like the eager arms of a lover, it was a lover with a cold heart.

at Tokai University in Sapporo, occasionally went to work after lunch; and if, for example, he finished teaching at 11am and he had no meetings that afternoon, he went home! At my college, when I finished my teaching at 11, I had to stay at school until 4:30. Another friend, who works at Massey [MChapter 22
Japanese people seem to have learned to accept their destiny with a “shikatta ga nai” attitude, while Americans suffer [have] the anxiety [continuous worry; nervousness] of struggling [fighting] daily to become the boss of their destiny. Let me give you an example, which you might find petty [small, unimportant], but try to see this example in its larger significance [importance].
I’m a peaceful person, but there was a time in high school when I was involved in a fight with another student. It wasn’t my choice, believe me. I was dating a girl named Laura [pronounced LOR-a] who lived in my city but attended a Catholic girls’ high school. We broke up [separated; stopped dating]. About three months later, during the New Year’s holiday, I called her to ask her how she was [o-genki desu ka?]. After talking for a while, we agreed to go on a date the following week. When I went back to my high school on Monday, a boy named Leonard [LEN-erd] confronted [faced] me angrily. “Did you ask Laura to go on a date?” he asked. “Yes, I did. Why?’’ “Because she’s my girlfriend!” He pushed me. I pushed him back. There were teachers nearby, so he said he would meet me after school to fight. I agreed. I had to. [I had no choice.] This is a man’s duty, everyone at school thought.
By three o’clock the whole school knew about the fight, and as we walked to the school’s parking lot, about two hundred students followed us. I guess [I assume] it was going to be the afternoon’s entertainment! Taking off my coat and handing [giving] it to my friend, I put up my fists. Leonard and I began to box, but we soon ended up [ni naru] wrestling on the ground. In less than a minute, the police came, and they put us in the back seat of the patrol car. “Shake hands and be friends again,” one policeman said. And as we shook hands, I noticed that one of my fingers was bleeding [chi ga deru]. While we had been wrestling, one of my knuckles [finger joint] had scraped the concrete, tearing a small patch [piece] of skin.
What does this have to do [what’s the connection] with destiny? Nothing! The only connection is that damaged [kega shita] knuckle. A few weeks later, as a scar[kizu ato] formed, it became a small lump. This kind of scar is called a “keloid” scar [pronounced KEE-loid]; it is common, and harmless [not dangerous]. But many of my friends asked me what it was. Every time I took a girl out on a date, she would rub it with her finger and ask, “What’s this?” When my elder brother, a diplomat [American embassy worker], came home to visit, he said, “Go to a doctor and have it removed. It’s unsightly” [unpleasant to look at]. Finally, after a couple years of hearing many people’s comments [their opinion] and complaints, I went to a doctor and asked him to remove it.
You see [I will explain something], Americans are very aware of imperfections [things not perfect]. If there is something we don’t like about ourselves, we change it or remove it. And even if we don’t care about it (like me with my small keloid scar), other people will keep talking about it until we do care about it. They won’t let us forget about it.
When foreigners arrive in Japan, one of the first things they notice is that most Japanese people live with [they don’t change] their imperfections. They seem to accept them [their imperfections]. I heard many foreigners’ comments about this, especially from Americans. For example, “Why don’t they go to an orthodontist [dentist who straightens teeth] when their teeth are crooked?” [not straight]. One American woman I met at Mr Ninomiya’s conversation lounge said to me, “Look at that girl when she smiles. She looks like Dracula!” [vampire]. A British woman said to me, “One of my students has a mole [brown spot growing on skin] on his cheek, with a long black hair growing out of it! It’s so ugly!” To me, these remarks [sayings] highlight two different attitudes about the way we look [our appearance]. In America, we change it if we (or other people) aren’t satisfied; in Japan, most people seem to accept the way they look.
Like I said earlier in this chapter, you might think the example of my scar is petty. As we say in English, “It’s not life or death”—it’s not so important. It’s just something minor [small, superficial]. But sometimes the little things in life teach us the most important lessons. If I felt anxiety [worry] about other people’s reaction to my keloid scar, causing me to have it removed, why don’t the Japanese have the same high level of anxiety about their imperfections? Even if they don’t like them, they seem more able to accept them. Why do I believe they accept them? Because they don’t change them!
I don’t know if this attitude comes from Buddhism, where fate has a central role [part; importance], or if it comes from Bushido and its idea of “gaman.” Maybe it’s a combination of both, or maybe it’s something else completely. The important point is, there’s more of an acceptance of life as it is [konomama] in Japan, that many Westerners just don’t have. Could this be the reason why Japanese live without complaining in a land of earthquakes, typhoons, tsunami, volcanic [kazan no] eruptions? Or the reason why Japanese society was able to quickly adopt [take; use] so many Western ways after the arrival of Perry’s “Black Ships,” or change their opinion of Americans, from “enemy” to “friend” after the war? Is this the reason that so many sararīman work such long hours with no rebellion [to fight against company or bosses], or people don’t rush to the doctor’s office to have every small imperfection on their skin removed? What a gift it is [it’s a wonderful thing] to take life “as it is” without fighting it [life] every day! I wish that my countrymen [Americans] and I could learn to do this more, even though many of us might see this as a weakness. After all [I say this because], in the West we are taught to “grab destiny by the tail!” [shippo]. Like taking a tiger’s tail, in order to control it, we should try to control our own destiny.
To me, there’s a virtue [it’s a strong point; a good thing] in accepting life as it comes [as it happens to a person]. In my case, I feel like I have been fighting destiny, struggling [sōdatsu] every day to be the “master” [boss] of my life, and feeling anxiety or disappointment when it [my life] didn’t become what I wanted [what I wanted it to become]. Now, with more experience, I’m just beginning to accept my life as it is. I tried to do it in Japan but I couldn’t; maybe that’s because I felt too frustrated—I was writing good books but no one was interested in reading them. To me, it was like being a doctor with no patients; an architect [kenchikuka] who designs houses that no one builds; a baseball pitcher who wonders why there is no batter. I’ve spent my whole life like this. How could I accept it? I had to fight destiny, just as I had to fight Leonard that day after school.
So I struggled [I fought] against my destiny, while [but; at the same time] Japanese people seem to be more accepting of their destiny. In high school I quickly began to dislike my scar, while a high school girl in Japan with Dracula teeth smiles without a worry. Who is the luckier person?
Chapter 23
I wrote in Chapter 16 that it was probably going to be the shortest chapter, but I’ve changed my mind. This chapter will be the shortest.
As I wrote in the last [previous] chapter about Japanese sararīman working long hours and not rebelling, it made me remember an interesting point about that. During my time teaching in Tokyo—in the “Bubble Economy”—I sometimes asked the businessmen in my classes why they worked so hard. The answer was always the same: “We are working so hard because the economy is strong and we have to build the country!” [make Japan strong]. When I asked the same question to businessmen more than twenty years later, again the answer was always the same: “We are working so hard because the economy is weak and we have to build the country!”
Is there no rest [take a break] for the Japanese worker?

Chapter 24
Now I’d like to tell you about my hanko. I’m sure that you’ll soon agree with me that it’s very unique. But what could be unique about a hanko?
First, let me tell you about my name. Katry Rain. If this book gets published, you will see this name on the cover. But it isn’t the name on my birth certificate. My family name is Williams [pronounced WILL-yums], and my parents gave me the name Dennis [DEN-us]. I liked that name. All my aunts, uncles and cousins called me “Den” or “Denny.” It’s a good name.
At age twenty-eight, I wanted to return to university to get a Ph.D. The course I entered, social philosophy [shakai tetsugaku], was extremely difficult. The other students were very intelligent. And my professor told me that in America, only 15% of students studying for a Ph.D.—in any subject—are able to graduate. The others fail or quit. They don’t quit because they’re not intelligent enough, but because they can’t take [tolerate] the pressure [stress]. This pressure was good for me, though, because it made me work harder, and it also forced many ideas to the surface [top] that were deep inside me. Pressure sometimes causes deep thought [thinking].
One day as I was sitting in a seminar [zemi], it suddenly occurred to me [an idea came into my mind suddenly] that I was very different from the other students. Although people said I was easy-going [yasashii], and I think I was well-liked by them, still [even so] I could feel a definite [clear; for sure] difference. I was a writer. And although they had the same desire to understand the world that that I did, I wanted to make it over [change the world] in my own image [in the way I thought would be best]. Of course, not all writers think this way. Some writers are mostly chroniclers [most of the time, they just describe what they see], like Jane Austen or Ernest Hemingway. Others, though, like Thomas More or George Orwell, want to change the world [to improve society or human relations]. I am that type—a world-changer.
My favorite person from history is Thomas Jefferson, America’s third president and the author of the Declaration [statement; document] of Independence. He wanted not only to change the political system in order to create social freedom [freedom to vote, freedom to choose your lifestyle, etc], but to free [to make free] the human mind, too [to permit everyone’s mind to think freely and independently]. I have similar ideas, although to compare myself to him is like comparing a Toyota Corolla to a Lexus.
So, as I was sitting there in the seminar, I thought, “I’ve always been quite different from the people around me” [other people]. And at that moment, as if by magic [like magic], my hand picked up my pen and wrote on my notebook page, “Cat Tree Rain.” I looked at it for a moment. What was this? What did it mean? Then I suddenly understood. It was my name!
What kind of name is that? Certainly a strange one! But somehow [in some way], it seemed to fit me [pittari desu]. It was a natural [shizen na] name, and I love Nature. I believe that one of the biggest reasons that human beings have become so stressed and uncomfortable with life nowadays is because we have become estranged [divorced; separated] from Nature. We live in an artificial [not natural] place that isn’t good for us. We have gained mastery [become the boss] over the world, but we have lost our connection to it. Nowadays, the land is not our spiritual home—it is real estate [fudōsan] that we buy and sell to make money. Years later, when I was thinking about why “Cat Tree Rain” came into my mind, I realized that it represents the three parts of the natural world: animal, vegetable [shokubutsu], and mineral [kōbutsu]. Was this a coincidence? [angō; fugō]. I don’t know. I don’t think so.
Later I told a couple of my close [good] friends that I was going to change my name. I said I would go to the courthouse [saiban; city’s legal office] to change it legally [by law]. Of course, they weren’t as enthusiastic [full of positive energy; excited] about it as I was, and they advised me to wait until I had finished my Ph.D. After all [let me explain something], if I suddenly told my professors about my new name, maybe they would hesitate to pass me [hesitate to allow me to finish my program]. Because it was such an unusual name, maybe they would think that the pressure of the course [Ph.D. program] had caused me to go crazy! [kichigai ni naru]. After thinking about it, I knew my friends were right. So I waited.
I also began to spell it Katry Rain—it has the same sound—because Americans certainly wouldn’t accept that my name was Cat Tree Rain. I changed the spelling so that they would feel more comfortable with the name. If people asked me questions about it, I even began to say that it was an old Welsh [from Wales] name—my grandfather came from Wales—because so many people laughed at the true story, or they thought that the name was stupid. In Japan I also spelled it Katry Rain, but I told my students to remember it as Cat Tree Rain so that they wouldn’t forget it. I wrote Katry Rain on the board [whiteboard], and under each syllable [word part], I drew a picture of a cat, a tree, and a cloud with rain falling from it. No Japanese person ever forgot my name.
One day Keiko asked me if I had a hanko. I replied that I didn’t. A week later she handed me a small present. I opened it and found a beautiful hanko case inside. When I took out the hanko and made my mark, I saw my name in kanji: “neko ki ame.” That made me very happy. Sometimes I think my mind [thinking] is very simple—little things [things that seem not so important] please me very much.
Naturally, you might think this is strange, just like the teller [worker] at the Sumitomo Bank did [he thought it was strange] when I used that hanko on a bank document. “What’s this?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face. “It’s my name,” I replied; “neko ki ame means Katry Rain.” “I’m sorry,” he sputtered [to speak quickly in a confused way], “but foreigners’ hanko must be in katakana!”
So I wasn’t able to use that hanko for marking [signing] documents, but there were so many foreigners in Tokyo without a hanko, so we were permitted to just sign our names. Anyway, I enjoyed showing my hanko to my students and friends. Unlike [different from] the bank manager, they didn’t complain! So I used it a lot, for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of the people around me.
Many years later, when I lived in Sapporo, the office manager from my university asked me to have a proper [correct] hanko made (in Hokkaido they call it an “inkan”). To me, neko ki ame was proper but, of course, it was not acceptable for legal documents, so I had an inkan made in katakana. “Rain,” it said [it was written]. So boring!
About a year after that [after I had my inkan made], I went down to Tokyo to visit the Naitos at Evergreen School. Mr Naito asked me to go with him to Aoyama Men’s Suit Store, because they were having a sale. He wanted to buy himself a suit, and he wanted to buy me one, too. I didn’t want to accept, but I knew that it wasn’t polite to refuse a gift, so I went with him to the shop. I chose a really nice suit, and when the salesman asked me what name I wanted sewn [to sew with a needle] into the lining [inside the suit], I said “neko ki ame” in kanji. Then, when I went back to Sapporo, I had a good suit to wear to all my university’s social functions [parties, meetings, ceremonies]. When I wanted to liven up [add interest or energy to; nigiyaka ni naru] a conversation with people, I would open my jacket and show them the name in kanji. When they were puzzled, I would explain it to them. They would always smile, and I would say, “Hen na gaijin desu, nē!”
One more thing [point] about that suit. After a couple more years in Sapporo, I decided to go to Cambodia to do some work there to help the people rebuild their country after many years of war. The cost of living [bukka] was cheap, and because my Japanese work visa was going to expire [finish], I thought I might even retire there. But I found that the weather was too hot for a suit, and besides [and one more point], almost no one wears a suit there. So one day I took the suit out of my closet, zipped it into its bag [plastic clothes bag], and went outside with it. I was looking for a woman who pushed a heavy cart through the streets all day, calling out for cardboard [danbōru] to be recycled. After ten minutes I found her, and I offered her the suit. She spoke no English, I spoke no Khmer (Cambodian language) [pronounced k’mair], so she didn’t know what it was. I opened the zipper for her and showed her the suit. She moved her fingers over the material [cloth, fabric], and suddenly she got tears in her eyes. I zipped up the bag and handed it to her, nodded [nodded my head to her], and went home.
I wonder sometimes what she and her family thought when she got home that night and opened the jacket, seeing not English, but Japanese kanji written there. There are many Chinese people in Cambodia, so somebody could have translated [honyaku] it for her. “What’s his name?” she would ask. “It says, ‘neko ki ame,’ ” they would answer. “Honto ni? Omoshiroi desu, nē.”
I hope that if Mr Naito reads this, he won’t feel bad about me giving away that beautiful [wonderful; good quality] suit. But he is a good man, and I think he wouldn’t mind at all, considering the circumstances [thinking about the conditions, or reason I did it—for the lady’s benefit].
Chapter 25
After five fascinating years living in Japan, four of them with Keiko and working at Evergreen, I was preparing to return to America. I had written a book and several musical plays, and I was ready to go back and “take on the big boys” [compete with the top people; join the influential Americans]. I was strong, I was experienced, and I was confident of my success [my future success in America].
This wasn’t such an easy decision, though, because I had enjoyed Japan so much, and I had made many good friends—many more than I’ve written about here. Although I haven’t mentioned their names, I will never forget them and the close feeling we developed. Above all [the most], I came to love the Naitos very much. We worked together, talked together, ate sushi together. We went to Atami in Izu Hanto and took a bath together. I don’t think I can ever repay them [not money, of course] for their kindness to me. I think they saw me as I really am [the real me]—the good and the bad—and they accepted me [they liked me as I am]. There are no words to express my appreciation.
I can say the same thing about Keiko’s family, even though I said it in an earlier chapter: I was a stranger and they took me into their family. That was very important to me. I had good relations [relationships] with them all, especially Keiko’s sister Yuko, who was so gentle and sweet. But I felt that it was time to return to America. And Keiko’s brother’s son Hiro-chan, with whom I had arm-wrestled every time we met, had become a strong teenager and he had finally beaten me [he won the arm-wrestling], so maybe that [that winning the arm-wrestling] signaled [announced; showed] the end of an era [jidai no owari].
There was one small problem. Keiko and I weren’t married, so she would only be able to get a short-term tourist visa for America. That wasn’t good. Well, we could solve that by getting married. She was my best friend, so it seemed natural [an obvious thing to do]. Because I felt that we had more of a friendship than a “romantic” relationship, I didn’t want a big, romantic wedding like so many young people do. She seemed to agree with me that something small was better. We preferred a quiet dinner with her parents in a nice hotel, and we did that. It was a wonderful experience, quiet and deep [emotionally deep; satisfying]. And I still have one of the wedding photos we had taken. She looked so lovely—beautiful, but also spiritually beautiful—she had inner and outer beauty.
I had strong emotions about leaving Japan. To keep from getting sad [kanashiku naranai yō ni], I tried to think only of the future. But I couldn’t help [couldn’t stop myself] thinking of my first confusing days in Tokyo; my time living at Tokyo English House; the hours of enjoyable conversation I had at the conversation lounge in Takadanobaba; the nihon shu and hot baths with Keiko in Miyamaedaira; our travels around Japan; our climbing Ō-yama and going down the little path on the other side of the mountain; my students at Evergreen; my many quiet talks with Mr and Mrs Naito; the wonderful friends I had made; the many enjoyable trips Keiko and I took; all the fascinating experiences I’d had… and I began to feel very nostalgic [natsukashii]. I realized that I didn’t feel like I was going home, but that I was leaving home.
In any case, Keiko and I had made a plan, so there was no turning back [we couldn’t change our minds]. And because we both liked to travel, we decided to go to America the long way—going west—instead of a direct flight east across the Pacific Ocean. We were looking forward to that.
This is the way we went: From Tokyo to Beijing by plane; we stayed in Beijing a couple days, and also visited the Great Wall. We took a train to Mongolia, then to Siberia. We stopped in the city of Irkutsk [eer-KOOTSK], beside Lake Baikal [BAI-kul]. Then we crossed Siberia by train, with spring flowers blooming everywhere. We stayed in Moscow a couple of days; in 1987, there were very few restaurants, and almost no shopping! (But many people on the street asked us if they could buy our jeans, our jackets, our sports shoes!) We took a train to St Petersburg, and stayed a day or two. Keiko visited the famous Hermitage Museum; I stayed in bed in the hotel with a cold [kaze o hita]. Then we took a train to Helsinki, Finland. Then a ferry boat to Stockholm, Sweden. We hitchhiked across Sweden to Oslo, Norway—so easy, and so fast! Then we flew to London. We took a bus from London to Exeter to visit Keiko’s friends, including “Old Nick” (who told me that Americans can’t speak proper English!). We visited Cornwall, an old part of England, and stayed by the sea a couple of days, then we went back to London. We flew to New York, stayed with my cousin, then took a bus to Washington, D.C. to visit my brother. Then we went by bus to Florida to visit my mother. Then we bought a car and drove to California, where we lived for one year, then to Seattle, where we lived for six years. There it is [our trip], in one paragraph!
What was my feeling, being back in America? Like I wrote in an earlier chapter, “Like a fish out of water.” But it’s more complicated [complex] than that. I actually had two powerful sensations [feelings, emotions] at the same time. I loved Japan, and I loved my country. But if I loved my country, why did I feel like a fish out of water? Or to reverse it: if I felt like a fish out of water, why did I love my country? As you can see, it’s complicated!
I love America very much. When I criticize it, as I sometimes do in my books, it is like a parent criticizing a wayward [leaving the correct path; doing something wrong] child. I love that child, so I long for [yearn; be hungry for] its improvement. And like I said before, I think it’s a writer’s duty to try to write about the truth, even if some people disagree or misunderstand.
These are some of the things that I love about America: I love its unique revolutionary [kakumei] history, and all the brave people who fought in the American Revolution in 1776—to be free. I love this wonderful idea of freedom and building a country where all people can have a chance for dignity [respect; honor] and success. I also love the majestic [grand and dignified, like a king] mountains of Colorado; the tall, wet grass and palm trees of Florida; the golden brown hills of California; the shady [they give shade] oak and elm trees of Michigan; the rugged [rough; wild] seacoast of Maine; the quiet desert of Arizona, sacred [special; God’s place] like a church. I like the fact [the idea; the reality] that so many Americans are kind and friendly, and that they are willing to [agreeing to; ready to] help a neighbor. I like the endless [so much] creativity, which produces so many unique gifts [good products or discoveries] for the world in science and art. I admire America.
Just because [even though] I love Japan and its people so much, that doesn’t mean I have turned my back on [turned away from; tried to forgot] America. A man can love two countries, as easily as he can love two women. In my case, the difference between the two women is that one of them thinks that I am a prince, and the other one thinks that I am a bum [a worthless, lazy person]. That’s why, for the next seven years in America, I missed Japan every day. I wanted to be a prince again.
Chapter 26
Life in America was difficult. I had some minor success getting one of my musicals [musical play] produced [performed] in Los Angeles, and a publishing company in Boston published one of my books, but neither one [neither the musical or the book] made any waves [nami] in the big sea that is the American consciousness [mind; thinking]. There’s a saying there [in America]: “If you’re not ‘somebody,’ you’re ‘nobody.’ ” This means something like, taisetsu na hito ja nai to, kanzen ni shiranai hito desu. For seven years, I was “nobody.” And Keiko and I finally separated.
The reasons for the separation were complex. I’ll try to explain it simply if I can. First, I should say that we never argued. We seemed to be matched perfectly. Whatever she liked, I liked, and vice versa [and the opposite: whatever I liked, she liked]. People always say that “marriage is difficult,” but I didn’t understand what they meant. Marriage was easy. It was easy because it was friendship. Having a friend is easier than any other kind of relationship. People become friends because there’s a comfort between them. They like each other. They get along [their relationship is smooth; they don’t fight].
I have a very strong and maybe unusual idea [opinion] about friendship. To explain it to you, I’d like to tell you a little story. My first year at university, I lived in a dormitory. There were four students in each room, and the first day, I was anxious [excited, looking forward to] to meet my roommates. The first two [roommates] came in the early afternoon, their parents helping them with their suitcases. They seemed like nice, normal [futsū no] guys. But when the last roommate came later, he was alone, and he carried his own suitcases. And his hair was combed back [toward the back of his head] with lots of hair cream [greasy {oily} hair product].
In those days in America, there were two styles for young guys: the frats and the greasers. The frats were university-types [good students, attending or planning to attend university], and the word “frat” comes from “fraternity,” the word for a university social club for men. Frats had medium or long hair, and they let it hang freely and naturally. (“The Beatles” rock group started this look.) The other type of guy was called a “greaser,” because he put greasy [oily] hair cream on his hair and combed it back, like Elvis Presley. Greasers did poorly in school, got into trouble a lot, and after high school graduation, they got a job working on cars or some other manual labor [a job using their hands]. Now [now that I have explained it], maybe you can understand why I was so surprised to discover that a greaser was one of my roommates.
His name was Gary [pronounced GAIR-ee]. He was very strong and muscular, and looked like a body builder [a weight-lifter who wants to build big muscles]. But when I got to know him, I found that he was a very gentle and intelligent person. This is how I learned first-hand [for myself; from my experience] the meaning of the English saying, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.” (I would learn this lesson again later in Japan, even more powerfully, but you will have to wait until later for that story [I will tell you later] ).
Gary told me that in his hometown, Detroit, he and his friends wore black leather jackets and rode big black motorcycles. They never looked for trouble [they didn’t want trouble], but sometimes trouble came to them. “Weren’t you worried?” I asked him, because I knew that there were some tough [strong, bad, wild] people in Detroit. “Not much,” he replied; “because we backed each other up” [we supported or helped each other; we stood behind {“we backed”} each other for support]. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. He said, “If there’s trouble, I know that my friends will stand by me. They won’t run away. And they know that I’ll stand by them. No matter what” [in any situation, even if dangerous].
I thought about that a lot. I wondered which of my friends in my hometown would back me up. I suddenly realized that this was the true meaning of friendship: a true friend would always back you [his friend] up.
I learned early in my relationship with Keiko that she would back me up. Agreeing to live with me without marriage, and standing up to [facing with courage; not running away from] our landlady in Miyamaedaira are just two examples of this. If I had a strong belief about something, she would support [help; stand by] me, even if it was difficult. I think she did this because she was loyal to me, but also because she had the same strong belief.
If I had any doubt about Keiko’s ability to back me up, it [doubt] was dispelled [pushed away; got rid of] by an incident that occurred [happened] while we were traveling from Japan to America. We were staying in a Moscow hotel, and we booked a tour guide to take us on a boat ride on the Moscow River. Our guide was a young and helpful Russian woman from “Intourist,” the government tourism agency. At the end of the boat ride, she said she would return by boat. She said we could go back with her, or we could return by bus and see more of the city that way. We decided to take the bus. “Get on the bus at that bus stop over there,” she said, pointing to a nearby bus stop, “and when you get on the bus, buy two 5-kopek tickets from the machine.” (Five kopeks was less than five yen). I put two 5-kopek coins in my hand and we got on the next bus.
When I looked around, I saw that there was no ticket machine, so I kept the coins in my hand and we sat down. We could pay later if the driver or ticket-taker asked us. Two stops later, a ticket-taker got on the bus. When he came to us, I tried to give him the coins but he refused them [he wouldn’t take them]. He held up a ticket, as if to say, “I only take tickets, not coins.” Then he took out his wallet and showed us his identification card. I couldn’t read Russian well, but I could see that the card said “Transit [public transportation] Police.” By now [by that time], we had come to the next stop and he took us off the bus. Turning a leaf [page] in his wallet, he showed us a notice that had “20 Rubles” written on it. He wanted us to pay. “No way” [I won’t pay], I said to him; “that’s four hundred times [400x] the cost of the ticket. And besides [also], the Intourist guide told us to buy our ticket on the bus, but there was no ticket machine.”
Of course, he spoke no English. We didn’t speak Russian. But our meanings were clear: he wanted us to pay twenty rubles and we were only willing [agreeing to] pay 5 kopeks each. Twenty rubles isn’t so much; maybe only ¥2,000. But the money didn’t matter to me; the principle [the idea; the philosophical point] was more important. And I wasn’t going to be intimidated [made afraid; pushed back] by this policeman, especially because I was sure that I hadn’t done anything wrong. Keiko and I were only following the Intourist guide’s instructions.
He became very hostile [angry, war-like], and began to insist [demand] that we go with him to the police station. I understood this by his voice, his pointing to his Transit Police identification card, and his gestures. I wouldn’t give in [wouldn’t give up; wouldn’t agree to obey him], although I was a little worried because the year was 1987 and we were in the old Soviet Union. I knew that the police could be very severe [strict, harmful, extreme]. I didn’t want Keiko to get into trouble. But as he kept [continued] pointing to his identification card and gesturing for us to go with him, Keiko stepped forward and looked directly and strongly into his eyes. “No!” she said; “we won’t obey you. It’s not fair [fukōhei]. We’re guests in your country and you shouldn’t treat us like this.” This is what I mean by “backing someone up”!
To make a long story short [let me finish this story quickly], an English-speaking Russian businessman walked by, and he asked us if he could help. We explained our story, and he acted as [he became] an interpreter. After ten more minutes of the policeman’s anger and our stubbornness [ganko], the businessman said something strongly to the policeman, who then scowled [the policeman made an angry, ugly face] and finally walked away. I sensed [I guessed by the tone of his voice] that the businessman had said something like, “Look [try to understand], they’re tourists. Don’t make such a big deal out of it [don’t make it seem so important, because it isn’t]. They’re not going to change their minds, so just forget it” [give up your fight]. We thanked him, and I had even more respect for Keiko than I’d had before. That woman was strong! Even in a difficult and potentially [possibly] dangerous situation, she had backed me up.
Things [the situation] changed in America. We started to grow apart a little [become less emotionally close]. We didn’t have a kotatsu to sit under and talk. She wanted to buy a TV, so our talking decreased anyway. Our nightly bath together was replaced by separate showers. We didn’t have a garden to work in together. So the lifestyle we had in Japan that held us together so strongly was being replaced by an American lifestyle that created more distance [emotional distance] between us. But to me, the most important thing was that several times in Seattle, she didn’t back me up. Both times [that she didn’t back me up] may have been minor [unimportant], but to me they were very important.
The first time [the first example] involved one of my former private students in Japan (who became Keiko’s friend), a middle-aged [40-55 years old] lady named Mrs Kitamura. She called us from Japan and said she wanted to study in Seattle. She asked me to help her. I spent several weeks gathering information from different universities and their programs, meeting with professors, looking for an apartment for her, and sending her application materials and advice. When she finally arrived, I drove her everywhere, and soon she began to act [behave] like I was her chauffeur [driver]. “Take me here, take me there,” she said, not asking me but telling me. I got tired of it very quickly. And she had never even thanked me for all the work I did to help her come to America. I told Keiko that she wasn’t really a friend but was using [exploiting] us, and that I was going to tell her [Kitamura] that I wouldn’t do it anymore. Instead of backing me up, Keiko said I was wrong, and told me that I should continue helping the woman. So I continued, for Keiko’s sake [benefit], but I felt terrible inside [in my heart].
The second time she didn’t back me up was when she and I were invited to a dinner at an American man’s house with his Japanese wife. I knew him from the community college [tanki daigaku; tandai] where I worked, although I didn’t know him well. I think he invited me because we both had Japanese wives. He also suggested that I bring my other American friend, who had a Japanese girlfriend.
Anyway, at the dinner, everyone was speaking Japanese and my friend with the Japanese girlfriend didn’t understand any of it, so I suggested several times that we use more English, because everyone was fluent in English. The host [the man who invited us] continued speaking in Japanese, and he even started teasing [annoying by joking about] my friend in Japanese about his inability to speak it. I was getting irritated, because the host was obviously creating laughter [making people laugh] at my friend’s expense [he was using my friend in order to make people laugh]. I thought this was extremely rude, and I asked again that we speak English. The host ignored [didn’t pay attention to] my request. I almost got up from the table and left, but I didn’t want to embarrass Keiko. And I was surprised that she didn’t say anything to defend my friend, because she knew him very well, too.
After dinner, we sat in the living room and the conversation continued—in Japanese, of course. Although I tried to speak casually and politely, I was getting more and more irritated with the host. Finally, I couldn’t stand it [couldn’t tolerate it] anymore, so I stood up and said politely, “Well, we’re going to go now.” Keiko took my hand and pulled me back down. “No,” she said; “we shouldn’t leave yet.”
I know that it [what I’m going to say] might sound ridiculous [foolish], but at that moment, something broke between Keiko and me [an emotional break occurred]. It was such an unimportant event, but in fact, it meant a lot to me [the meaning was very strong to me]. My feeling was, “Have we grown [become] so far apart that she doesn’t want to back me up anymore? Even on such a little thing?”
I know it sounds like I’m putting all the responsibility [blame] on Keiko. I’m not. I’m the one [I’m responsible] who set this high standard, this unrealistic expectation. I tried to think more Japanese-like [nihonjin-rashii], in order to flow along with the river’s current [movement of water], but I couldn’t. I was stuck [glued] to my view [idea, opinion] and I couldn’t let it go [couldn’t think differently]. “Backing someone up” was an important belief to me, and I couldn’t give it up. So it was probably my weakness, not hers. Or, if it’s not a weakness, let’s call it “the way I am.”
But this is only half of why we separated. The other part is difficult to explain, and embarrassing, too, but I’ll try [to explain]. If you find it too embarrassing to read, please go to the next chapter, where I go back to Japan!
The second reason we separated has two parts, and they are strongly connected. The first part is that as I got older, I felt more and more disappointed because no one appreciated [liked; was thankful for; valued] my writing. I wanted to have my books published, I wanted to be asked to speak at universities and conferences, to appear on radio and TV, to be asked to write magazine articles—in other words [to say it another, clearer way], to be able to influence [to have an effect on] people in a positive way. But after a lifetime of writing, only one book was published and one play was produced. I was still that baseball pitcher (that I mentioned in an earlier chapter), waiting for a batter who never came. Standing there with the baseball in my hand, polishing [rubbing] it, tossing [throwing] it endlessly [forever] into my baseball glove, I was frustrated and lonely. I felt like the loneliest man in the world. I began to lose interest in life [I began to be less interested in living].
When I was younger, I had always been intensely [extremely, with high emotion] interested in life. But my awkward [odd, uncomfortable] social position [place in society] gradually put me outside the flow [movement, like a river] of life. While everyone else was moving forward, I was standing still [not moving]. How could I feel fully [completely] human, when I tried so hard in my writing to express my deepest human-ness and no one appreciated it, and no one even cared? That was my feeling. I needed something to help re-connect me to the flow of life, re-connect me to the excitement of being alive. I had tried adventurous travels, motorcycling, sky-diving, skiing, scuba diving, but something was still missing [there was still an empty place in my life, in my heart]. “Maybe I need romance,” I thought, “to make me feel more excited about life, to feel more wanted [by other people] as a human being again.” I didn’t actually think this; I felt it.
This connects to the second part, which is that I had a very deep friendship with Keiko, as I have said. But it was a warm and quiet feeling, not a passionate one [full of energy and emotion] that pulled me back into life [in other words, it didn’t pull me back into life]. It was a spiritual relationship, which I wanted and needed, but I felt like I also needed a stronger animal [physical, sexual, worldly] relationship, to shake me like a pair of hands around my throat, shouting, “You’re alive! Don’t give up on life, because you’re alive!”
Obviously, these two things—my feeling that my awkward social position and people’s rejection of my writing was causing me to be more and more outside the stream [river, movement] of life, and my calm and deep love relationship with Keiko that gave me peace but not the intensity [extreme emotion] to keep me interested in life—these two things could only cause trouble for me.
I tried so hard to avoid other women. It was difficult because I had two opposite ideas in my mind at the same time: if I have another woman, it’s not fair [fukōhei] to Keiko because I’m her husband; and yet [but], if she is my friend, she should let me do anything I can to get some satisfaction [not pleasure, but deep satisfaction] from life, because I was so hungry for it! These two ideas would fight inside my brain all the time that we were together, like two bears trapped in a cage; and for sure, there would be blood.
I had a one-month romance while we were living in Japan, when I had briefly gone back to America to do some research for a book I was writing. Keiko knew about it and it made her unhappy—she had found a letter I wrote—so I felt a lot of pressure to give up looking for romance. I wasn’t completely successful [in giving up], because I was so hungry for that intense human connection, but I tried to avoid trouble. But finally, years later, at the height [high point, peak] of my frustration of being a “nobody” in America, I fell in love.
“Yappari,” you are probably thinking. I’m sure you know by reading the last few pages [the few pages before this page] that my situation would cause big problems for me. You’re right [correct]. I was so blinded [can’t see] by my frustration that I let my emotions run wild [become too free, uncontrolled]. I fell in love. The woman was a Japanese [nihonjin] student at the tandai I was working at in Seattle, although she wasn’t in my class at that time. She was about twenty-eight years old and quite ordinary [futsū], except that she had an intense energy about her [I could feel her strong energy]. She kept chasing me [trying to meet me, talk to me], and for several weeks I did nothing [I didn’t respond to her]. But gradually my feeling for her began to grow, and one day she invited me to her house and I kissed her there. She told me to stop, because she said that she was very emotional, and she felt that she couldn’t control herself. To me, that was like an invitation, and from that moment, I couldn’t control myself. I called her and tried to meet her every day. Keiko immediately saw the change in my behavior, so I told her [about the woman]. She said I was acting crazy. “I know I am” [acting crazy], I replied, “but it’s a craziness I have needed for a long time.” But I was still so unhappy!
As you might expect, life at home with Keiko became difficult, so I decided to move to another apartment in order to ease the pressure. But the situation with the other woman didn’t continue, because a couple weeks later she returned to Japan; she told me that she was too confused and too emotional to stay in Seattle. And to my surprise, I didn’t care so much! Because I began to realize that although I was “in love” with her, I really didn’t like her. I thought she was narrow-minded [narrow thinking], confused, and boring to talk to! You might think it’s impossible to be in love with someone that you don’t like, but I’m telling you [I assure you] that it is possible. So my connection with her was very weak. I had kissed her a few times, but nothing more. I realized that I had let myself become a victim [person who suffers or is injured] of romance. Romance isn’t love, but an emotional reaction to someone’s presence [being near them]. It’s not a good foundation for a relationship, so I let her go [I didn’t try to stop her from returning to Japan, and I gave up on her]. I never saw her or heard from her again—not one letter, not one phone call.
Keiko didn’t fight to get me back [she didn’t do anything to try to get together with me], so I figured [I thought; I concluded] that being with me was too difficult or painful [kurushii] for her. For my part [in my case], I didn’t want to hurt her anymore, so we continued living apart.
At that time, I wanted to write a book about skiing, which I planned to call “The Three Buddhas of Skiing,” [something like “ski no san nin no butsu”] because I wanted to show how the principles of Buddhism could be applied to [used for] sport. So I went to Colorado for the winter to ski and write. Keiko visited me, and we enjoyed our time skiing together, and then she went back to Seattle. I finished the book, but I was unable to find a publisher. Where was the batter when I was ready to pitch the ball? And I also realized that without Keiko, there was no reason for me to live in America anymore, so I told her I was going back to Japan. She enjoyed America, so she decided to stay. We said goodbye.
I told you this story because I think Keiko represents [is like] the best kind of person, not only of Japanese, but of all people. So I thought it might be important to explain more clearly why I would separate from such a good person. And as I think about it today, I realize I was so foolish! But I’m sure you already know that!
There’s more to this story, and even a happier ending [happier than the story I just told], but I’ll talk about that later. First, let me tell you about my new life in Japan.
Chapter 27
I visited the Naitos when I arrived in Tokyo. I had already met them several times since I had left Japan in 1987. Almost every year, I spent a couple weeks in Tokyo. I worked at Evergreen, evaluating [checking] teachers and giving them advice, and talking with the Naitos about how to build [increase] the school by attracting more students. They [Naitos] paid for my airplane ticket and a salary. But this trip, around 1994, it was a different Tokyo. The “Bubble Economy” had burst [broke], and the yen weren’t flying around anymore. People weren’t spending much money, English schools were closing, and I even began to see second-hand shops! I hadn’t realized that it [the situation] was so bad. So although I did my usual work for Evergreen, I felt bad taking [to take] money from the Naitos, so I decided to stop doing this consulting [sodan] work for them.
There didn’t seem to be any work [job] for me in Japan at that time, so for the next five or six years, I worked and wrote in New Zealand and Australia. A New Zealand publisher decided to publish my “The Three Buddhas of Skiing,” but the editor changed his mind at the last minute [just before publishing it] because he said the New Zealand ski book market [people who buy ski books] might be too small. I told him that the book was about more than just skiing; it was about the mental attitude necessary for all sports. Because it was short and it contained [had] many interesting stories, it would be suitable even for people who didn’t play sports. But he had already moved on to another book [he had decided to publish a different book].
I enjoyed New Zealand a lot, but when I finished writing another book and I couldn’t find a publisher, I decided to go to Australia. In Australia, I really began to miss Japan. Frankly, I was homesick [I felt sad to be away from Japan, my “home”]. I wanted to return, but I wasn’t sure if I could find a job. Many foreign university professors and English teachers were losing their jobs in Japan at that time, so the situation was not good. Then I decided that I could try to get a “cultural visa,” to study Japanese language, and look for a job—like I had done in Tokyo so many years ago. But this time, I decided to go to Sapporo, because I had liked Hokkaido so much when Keiko and I had bought a shu-yu-ken [train ticket] and had a vacation there. And at age fifty-seven, I would be a student again!
I was still in contact with Keiko. She even visited me in New Zealand. I also met her later in Tokyo. So, although the marriage seemed to be over [finished], our friendship was not [not finished].
Chapter 28
I was going back to Japan—I was going home. Suddenly the world looked much brighter, the sky [was] bluer [more beautifully blue]. It took less than a month to get a cultural visa, and before I could scratch my head and say Where am I?, I was in Hokkaido [I was there so quickly]. The Sapporo Institute of Japanese Language [my school] arranged for me to live in a nearby dormitory; I bought a bicycle; and my transformation [change] into a student was complete.
You might wonder how I was able to adapt [adjust] to living with young people in their twenties [age 20-29], and I can explain it by saying that maybe it’s something I learned from my mother. My mother was young-thinking [youthful mind] all her life. She became a world traveler at age sixty-five, after my father had passed away [died]. She danced and swam and rode a bicycle until nearly the end of her life at age eighty-six. She had a couple boyfriends, and they were always ten years younger than her! How was she able to do all this? She told me that at age thirty-nine, she started counting her birthdays backwards [in the opposite direction]. In other words, after age 39, she didn’t become 40, but 38. Then 37, 36, and so on. She didn’t tell other people, of course, because they might consider it [think that it is] childish [kodomoppoi]. But in her mind, she wasn’t getting older; so, she didn’t think she had to obey society’s expectations [what other people expect] about older women. As she said to me, “You are as young as you think”—if you think you are young, you will be young.
I liked this way of thinking, and I believed it myself [watashi mo sō omotta]. Because of this, I felt very comfortable and happy in the school and in the dormitory. Yes, I was with young people, but I was a young person, too. In spirit [feeling, mood, thinking], we were almost the same.
I quickly became friendly [good relations] with the dormitory’s office staff because I chatted with them every day in Japanese. Also, the cooks, a middle-aged couple, were very kind, and we soon had a very warm and comfortable relationship. They always gave me extra food, especially if it was something delicious. One weekend, the husband invited me and another student to take a drive to Furano to see the fields of flowers, and then to Daisetsuzan National Park for some hiking (half [of the distance] by cable car!), and finally, to Tenninkyo Onsen with its rotenburo. Hokkaido was even more beautiful than I remembered it. I felt like I was in a dream [yume]. Do you believe that life can begin again for a person? I didn’t think it was possible. But it was [it was possible].
There were about forty students living in the dormitory. Four were Japanese boy rōnin, studying to enter university, and the rest were foreign students studying Japanese at my school [the same school I attended]. Most were from Taiwan, with a few others from China and Thailand. I became very close [emotionally close, very warm and friendly] to these students (and too close to one of them, which I’ll tell you about later!). I studied with them, ate my meals with them, rode [on a bicycle] to school with them, and soon it felt like we were a big family.
About every two months, I organized [planned] an “English Night,” where we all sat in a circle on the floor in the lounge and I told them funny stories and some adventures I had, and I encouraged them to speak in English to share [tell to the other students] their stories, or to ask questions. These nights were very successful, and nobody missed them [everyone in the dormitory came]. I tried to give these young people a sense [feeling] that “Anything is possible,” and maybe they gained more hope and confidence after that.
Also, I bought a basketball, because that’s the sport I’ve played all my life, and two or three times a week, several of us [students from the dormitory] went to a nearby park to play. The Taiwanese especially liked basketball, and they would often come to my dorm room after school and ask me in English, “Do you want to play?” My customary [usual] answer: “Sure!”
Life was good, and I was happy. I was finally back in Japan; I was making good friends; my Japanese was improving daily; I was getting a lot of exercise; I had started writing a new book; I was eating delicious food; I loved living in Sapporo. Life seemed almost perfect—it was like “walking on a cloud!” [it was like being in heaven, or some other beautiful place.]
About six months after I had arrived, a new term began at school. Many students left, and a new group of students arrived. Among them was a pretty and innocent-faced [she looks innocent, pure, kodomo-rashii] Chinese girl. She had a beautifully-shaped body and large breasts—and she was so cute!—which attracted me a lot, but to tell you the truth, I was more attracted to her youthful [young] energy and her child-like [kodomo-rashii] innocence. She was twenty years old.
Her English name was Donna, and she noticed my interest in her [she saw that I was paying attention to her]. She began to sit next to me at breakfast and dinner. I was very playful with her [I played, I joked], and I made her laugh [I said and did things that she thought were funny]. Her English was poor, but within a month she was communicating very well in Japanese. (Her mother had studied in Sapporo many years before.) “Do you like Sapporo?” I asked her. “Yes. My mother recommended it; it’s very nice. Except for Susukino and all those hostess clubs. I hate Susukino.” I didn’t like Susukino much, either, except to occasionally go a restaurant there.
As time went on [as time passed], Donna began to come to my room to study with me. There was only one chair at the desk, so we usually sat side-by-side on the bed, with our backs against [touching] the wall. Yes, you know what’s going to happen. Our studying gradually turned into [became] play, our play turned into sex-play [kissing, touching], our sex-play turned into playful sex, our playful sex turned into serious sex [emotionally strong; passionate], and after that, she came to my room every day. She even began to call me “anata.”
Who can predict [see the future] what life will bring? [Meaning: This relationship with Donna was so surprising—it was impossible for me to predict it].
I felt so alive—so full of excitement, so full of hope! It was like a powerful drug: just being in the same room with her was energizing [it gave me energy]. I hadn’t expected this [meeting her and getting this feeling] to happen, but I was so glad it did. When I was with her, I never thought about tomorrow. There was only today.
I have experience with Chinese women—I’ve had some Chinese girlfriends—and I know that they are very strong, they prefer older men, and they seem to know exactly what they want from life. So, I began to think that this might be a serious relationship [not casual; very important; deep] to Donna [in her mind]. She was calling me “anata”! I even started to think that she and I might have a future together [a long-term relationship or marriage]. She made my life so full of excitement, play [asobi], laughter—this was a second chance [maybe a last opportunity] for a traveling philosopher like me. I had always felt young, but being with Donna made me feel like it [my youth] could be permanent. This was just [chōdo] what I needed, because I realized that my writing would probably not be appreciated [liked, understood] until after I’m gone [dead]. Donna helped me to forget that.
Was I being foolish? Of course I was. And as we say in English, “There’s no fool like an old fool,” which means something like, “Ichiban baka na hito wa toshiyori no baka desu.”
Soon the New Year holiday came, and Donna went back to China for two weeks. It seemed like the longest two weeks of my life. She called me two or three times a week, but her voice sounded cooler [less emotional than before; more neutral]. I hoped that it was just because of the difficulty of both of us trying to communicate deeply in Japanese, through a poor [bad quality] Chinese telephone system.
The day she came back, she didn’t come directly to my room. Instead, she went to chat with another Chinese girl in her [the girl’s] room. I didn’t like her friendship with that girl because she [that girl] worked in a hostess club in Susukino and was giddy [dizzy with happiness] with all the money [so much money] she was earning. I thought she was a bad influence [she encouraged Donna in a bad way] because she had introduced Donna to the hostess club, and Donna had even worked there for a week, in order to make some money for her holiday trip. In any case, I was shocked when I saw Donna on the stairway later that day, and she told me she had been back in the dormitory for three or four hours. “Why didn’t you come to see me?” I asked. “I was talking with my girlfriend,” she answered.
To make a long story short, the romance [love affair] was over [finished] for her, although she still came to my room sometimes with “bedroom eyes”—she looked like she wanted to get into bed with me. I assented [I yielded, I agreed, I got into bed with her], although it was painful [kurushii]. I thought that it might hold us together, but it didn’t; she was growing [becoming] more distant [emotionally far away; independent] every day. One day, after a very long talk in my room, I told her how I was surprised because she had changed her feeling so quickly. I said that I had thought, before the holidays, that we might have a future together. “No,” she said. I asked her why she kept coming to my room, and why she had called me “anata.” She said she didn’t know. I asked her if I had ever had a chance for a real relationship [true love, marriage, etc] with her, and she said “No, there was never a chance.” I couldn’t believe what I has hearing—her answer seemed impossible to me, because of her loving [ai mitai] behavior in the past. Now [at this time in my room when we were talking] she seemed so full of treachery [betrayal; cheating; lying], and I did something that I had never done before in my life: I slapped [hit with open hand] her across the face [cheek]. She became angry. She said, “Not even my father slapped me.” I answered, “Well, maybe he should have” [maybe he should have slapped you]. That was the end of a beautiful dream for the future.
Then, life became miserable [very bad]. The weather was cold; the holidays were over; the wonderful and friendly cooks quit their dormitory job because their food budget [the money they received to buy food] had been slashed [violently cut]; most of my good friends in the dormitory had returned to their home countries; I couldn’t play basketball because of the snow; my Japanese class was getting difficult because it began to focus on reading instead of speaking; and in the nine months I had been in Japan, I hadn’t been able to find a job because of the poor economy. And now Donna and I were separated. And to make that worse, although she still lived in the dormitory, she was working every night at the hostess club. She colored [dyed] her hair fashionably, she bought new sexy clothes, and soon she looked just like a “Susukino girl,” even though she had told me a few months before that she hated Susukino! Sometimes I would be in front of the dorm at 8:30am, brushing the snow off my bicycle in order to go to school, and she would arrive in a taxi. What happened to my sweet, innocent girl? I felt like the foolish main character in the British novelist [shōsetsuka] Somerset Maugham’s book, “Of Human Bondage,” who foolishly falls in love with a cheap [low class] waitress who later becomes a prostitute [she sells her body for sex]. If there is someone to pity in that story, it’s not the prostitute, but him!
This period [time] in Japan started so well; I was “looking at life through rose-colored glasses,” which means that everything in life looked good, as if “my glasses were pink.” I had been so optimistic about the future! But, like milk left [to leave or keep] in the sun too long, my sweet life had turned sour. And to make it worse [there is something more that made my life worse], I was forced to see Donna every day because we lived in the same building and studied in the same school. My heaven had become a kind of hell [jigoku mitai], and after another couple of weeks, I left Japan.
The British writer Oscar Wilde said, “To those who think, life is a comedy [kigeki]; to those who feel, life is a tragedy[higeki].” [Meaning: people who look at life intellectually think that life is a comedy; people who look at life emotionally think that it is a tragedy.] I don’t disagree with him. No, I don’t disagree with him at all.
Chapter 29
My disappointment was very big at that time, even though so much of it was caused by my foolishness. You might think that I left Japan because of my situation with Donna, but that was just “the straw that broke the camel’s back” [rakuda no senaka]—the camel already had a heavy weight on his back, so just a little more weight (a little piece of straw) was enough to break his back. Difficulty in finding a publisher for my books, and not being able to find a job in Japan—these were my two main worries. Being with Donna helped me to forget them. Losing her [separating from her] brought them back into my mind. I left Japan in order to change my mood. I needed a little time to get back to my normal self [my usual mood, usual way] again. I did this in Australia. I wrote. I played basketball. I wrote some more.
A year later, I was back in Japan. On a tourist visa. I had exactly ninety days to find a job, and I was determined to succeed [to find a job]. We have a saying, “Wild horses couldn’t stop me,” which means that my mind was so strong on this point [getting a job] that my power was even stronger than wild [yasei na] horses.
I stayed in a comfortable guest house called Sapporo Inn Nada. When I told the owner that I wanted to stay for three months, he was very kind to offer me a nearby apartment for ¥50,000 a month. And no key money!
I updated [refreshed, made up-to-date;] my résumé [rirekisho] and sent it to every university and language school in Sapporo. Then I began to visit them to make an appointment for an interview. But like before, there were no jobs. About a month later, I read on the Internet that Hokkaido University was looking for “an experienced English instructor with a Ph.D., who had an interest in Japanese culture.” That’s me! And the conditions were fantastic: an excellent salary, a five-year contract, long holidays, and so on. And I would have high-quality students! I became very excited, because I was sure that I was perfectly [kanzen ni] suited for the position. So I went to the English Department to ask for details. A Japanese [nihonjin] professor met me, but he seemed embarrassed when I asked him about the job. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but the position is for someone thirty-five years old and under” [under 35]. “But I’m under thirty-five,” I wanted to tell him. By my mother’s counting system—at age 39, she counted in the other direction—I was much younger than thirty-five!
Of course, the world [other people] doesn’t count by my mother’s system, so some “young” person got that job. It’s too bad [zannen], because if I had gotten it, I could live for a long time I Japan, save money, and retire there. That was my dream. But destiny doesn’t always agree to give me what I want. It seldom does.
Mr Naito introduced me to an American man living in Sapporo who had worked at Evergreen in Tokyo many years ago; he was now [when I was in Sapporo] an English professor at Tokai University. His name was Bob. I called him, and we met at Starbuck’s Coffee Shop in central Sapporo. He said that there were no jobs, because of the bad economy and because the number of students was declining [decreasing]. He was even worried about own his job, although he had worked at Tokai University for fifteen years. He said that there was a rumor [story; gossip] that the Sapporo campus [branch of Tokai] might be [become] closed so that the university could focus on [pay more attention to] the main campus in Tokyo.
Anyway, Bob said he would ask around [ask some people] about any positions that might be available. He was very kind. On the way out of Starbuck’s [as we were leaving], we ran into [accidently met] a guy that Bob knew, and Bob asked him if he knew about any teaching jobs. The guy looked at me sympathetically [with sympathy] and said, “There’s nothing. I know an American who has been looking for almost five years, and he has found only a few part-time jobs. He can stay in Japan because he’s married to a Japanese woman. If not, he would be back in America now.” That made me feel a little discouraged, but I was still determined [strong mind to do something] to find a job.
Two weeks later, I found one.
Chapter 30
The life preserver [the circular ring that is thrown to people who are drowning in water] thrown to me in that difficult economic time was from a women’s college [josei tanki daigaku; tandai] located on the outskirts of the city. I was so happy!
The owners of the college, Tomoko Maeda and her family, also own a well-known cooking school. Maeda-san is a very kind but powerful woman. The same age as me, she ran the college with an iron hand [strongly, strictly], although her younger sister was the school head. I liked this at first because she was a good person, and I admired her ability and her charisma. Later, I found it [strict management] to be a bit tight [kitsui; kibishii] for my open-minded thinking, but I’ll talk about that later. For now, let me just say that I seemed to make a good connection [comfortable feeling, warm relationship] with her, right [exactly] from the beginning, and I liked her very much.
The college had two divisions; a nutritionist [eiyō] training program, and a training program for kindergarten teachers. My duties [jobs to do] were to teach English to students from both departments; to teach an occasional class in cross-cultural relations [to compare different cultures] (in Japanese) [nihongo de]; to serve as [to be] an advisor to two groups (upper and lower) of teachers-in-training; and finally, to visit student-teachers in their new schools to consult [sodan] with them and their Principals about their progress.
Unlike at Evergreen, where everyone spoke English, I was now [at that time] working in a completely Japanese [nihongo] environment [situation; place]. I was looking forward to the challenge, but I felt a little bit like a person standing on a high-dive platform [a high diving board], looking down at the water below. And I had a new book to finish: a utopian [perfect society] novel where I had created a fictional [not real; just a story] community, whose people lived by the values [beliefs] of that great American, Thomas Jefferson. I had the same values! And I hoped I could do all these things—teaching, consulting, working with Japanese [nihonjin] professors, and writing a book—and give good quality to all of them.
There were about twenty-five full-time professors working there. Two were foreigners (one French and one Chinese), and the rest were Japanese. They came from many backgrounds [different study or work experience]. One was a retired Hokkaido University professor; one was a psychologist who had worked with troubled children [children with mental problems]; one had been studying to become a doctor and had quit medical school and began to teach nutrition; one was a retired school principal; and so on. As I sit in my apartment today (in 2012), looking at the college faculty [teachers] photo, I realize that out of [among] the twenty-five people, I think I was able to make a good relationship with twenty-two of them, and I became very close to eight [of them].
The Frenchman and two Japanese spoke good English; two other Japanese spoke passable [so-so] English; I spoke Japanese to everyone else, including my students, who were mostly [most of them] still at the “This is a pen” level. My Japanese wasn’t bad, but according to research [kenkyū ni yoru to], 80% of communication is non-verbal [not spoken], and I relied [depended] heavily [a lot] on body language, eye contact, tone of voice, and so on. So, within a month, I was feeling very confident and comfortable at the college.
I felt like I had been given a golden opportunity. By that I mean [to iu no wa] that I hadn’t been able to find a job for nine months when I was in Sapporo the year before. This time, one month before my three-month tourist visa was to expire [finish], I found one [a job]. I felt very grateful [thankful] to the college for giving me this chance. I would work very hard to show my appreciation [thanks].
But I also felt that I had an added [another] responsibility. For the first time, I would be working side-by-side with Japanese professors, most of whom [most of them] had never worked with an American before. I’m sure some of them were nervous about that. I would set my standard [performance level] as high as I could, so that I could contribute [give; add something] to their endeavors [their work, their goals]. And secondly [the second point about this], I wasn’t working with students who came to class for an enjoyable an hour a week to learn English—my students at the college were nervous and uncertain [no confidence] young women who needed my daily instruction [teaching], my guidance [annai], and my moral [emotional] support as they prepared for their future. And I had to do this in Japanese! [nihongo de]. So, my burden [weight; responsibility] seemed a little heavy [chotto omo-sō], but I welcomed it [I wanted it; I invited it]. It was just the kind of challenge I liked. And I felt, about doing this job, the same way I felt before, about finding a job: “wild horses couldn’t stop me.” [couldn’t stop me from facing this challenge and succeeding.]
Yes, standing on top of that high-dive platform, I was reasonably [80%] confident that I could do [perform] a good dive and enter the water below, smoothly [no trouble] and comfortably. But I confess [admit], the first couple of weeks, “I had butterflies in my stomach,” as we say in English—my nervous stomach felt a little uncomfortable, like it was full of butterflies.
Also, those first couple of weeks, I avoided going to Susukino. I didn’t know if Donna was still in Japan, and I didn’t want to accidently run into [guzen ni au] her as she was going into a hostess club, or coming out of one [a hostess club] with a customer.
Sometimes I think that the mind of an artist is strong but the heart [kokoro] is weak. [Meaning: the thinking and mental ability {the mind} is strong, but the emotions {the heart} make the man weak.]
Chapter 31
The first year at the college, I shared an office with the Frenchman, Merseault-sensei [me-ru-so—]. He had been there a long time, and he spoke Japanese and English, so I’m sure it was thought [the school managers thought] that he could give me some assistance if I needed it, especially about school policies [rules] and procedures [ways to do things], of which there were many. He was very helpful. He also invited me four or five times to his house, but frankly [jitsu wa], I couldn’t relate to him [connect with him, feel close to him] like I could with the Japanese professors. So, as time passed, I found myself spending less time with him, and I consulted and chatted more with the Japanese staff [professors]. Like the African-Americans [Blacks] say, “They were my homeboys”—they were like the people from my hometown, my neighborhood.
There’s an interesting little story I might tell you about Merseault-sensei. About a month after school started, he found out that he had a cancerous [gan no] mole [raised brown mark on the skin]. He had it removed by a doctor, then he decided to buy a new car. I think his sudden awareness [knowledge] of his mortality [able to die; can possibly die] made him want to enjoy life more, in case the cancer came back. He bought a new car, a shiny convertible [open car]. He drove it to work every day, but instead of driving it directly to the parking lot behind the school, he would often drive it first around the block [around the school], past the front of the school where professors and students could see it, often with the top down [open] and music playing loudly. Then he would park it behind the school. This caused some critical [complaining or joking] comments [talking] by the Japanese staff [professors and office workers], although, of course, not to his face [they talked about it with each other, but they didn’t say anything directly to him].
The most inspirational [he inspired people; he gave them hope] professor was Ikeda-sensei. He was the psychologist who had worked with difficult [mentally disturbed] children before he came to the college. About fifty years old and [he was] from Kyoto, he had an administrative [management] position, but unlike many administrators (in Japan and America!), he was sweet and gentle. We talked many times together, and I quickly began to like him very much. We both had an interest in psychology, and I often downloaded interesting research articles [kenkyū no kiji] from the Internet and gave them to him. He seldom spoke English, but he could read it, so I think he enjoyed receiving these articles, and later, talking about them. And he seemed to want to look after [take care of] me; whenever there was a school function [meeting, party, ceremony] at a hotel in central Sapporo, for example, he would always look for me at school that day [the day of the party or ceremony] and say that he would give me a ride in his car. And he always made sure I sat in the front seat, regardless of [it didn’t matter] who else was in the car with us. And afterward, he would always ask me to wait for him, so that he could drive me home.
Ikeda-sensei was the most intelligent and learned [well-educated; knowledgeable] Japanese person I had ever met. But he had a simple, child-like [innocent, kodomo-rashii] side [part of his character], too, which I liked very much. I remember an incident that happened in my English class one day, during my first year, which describes this child-like side. In one of my classes, two girls who always sat in the back of the classroom were especially noisy [more noisy than usual]. I asked them twice to stop talking. When one of them began to talk again a few minutes later, I asked her to move to another desk. She refused [she said no], which shocked me, because it was the first time in all my years in Japan that I needed to discipline [to correct, be strict with] a student, and her refusal shocked me even more. So I offered her a choice: she could move to another desk or she could leave the classroom. She refused to do either [refused both]. So I politely excused myself [“sumimasen, chotto ittekimasu”] to the rest of the class, and I went to Ikeda-sensei’s office. I was still a new teacher at the college at the time, so he had told me to do so [to go to his office] if I had a problem with a student. I told him the situation, which I said was minor [small, unimportant] but I thought that it [the problem] nonetheless [even so; still] demanded [needed] attention. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, and I returned to the classroom.
A few minutes later, there was a polite knock on the door and Ikeda-sensei came in. In a very strong [powerful, but not loud] and resolute [decided; won’t change his mind] voice, he talked to the class. He didn’t identify [say the name of] the talking girl (although everyone knew who she was), but he said that everyone must obey the professors because we were trying to help the students prepare for a good future; if anyone made that [that plan, that goal] difficult for the other students, that person should leave the college and study someplace else! [hoka no tandai]. You could see by his face and hear by the power of his voice that he meant this completely [he was serious; he believed strongly in his meaning]. The students were dead silent! (Shinda hito no yō na shizuka datta!) Then, when he finished, his face immediately turned [became] soft [kind] and sweet, and he smiled at me and bowed, and in a child-like voice said, “Gomen nasai, Rain-sensei.” The change was so abrupt [sudden] and unexpected that the students laughed. They weren’t laughing at him, though. He was very popular among the students, and I think the laugh was partly the surprise of the sudden change in his tone [sound of voice, mood] and partly the relief [ease, relaxation] that he did change [partly = hanbun hanbun mitai]. He had returned to [he became again] the person they knew and loved. Even today [2013], I get a chuckle [a small, happy, private laugh] when I think of that day [that story].
I have one more comment about that talkative student [she talks a lot]. Later in the year she got angry at another professor, Inuyama-sensei, and talked back to him [answered him rudely], and for two or three days after that, there was much administrative [college managers] discussion about whether or not she should be expelled from [kicked out of] the college. I’ll tell you more about that later when I talk about the students, because there is another part of that story that’s very interesting.
Another professor that I liked was Suzuki-sensei, an intelligent and attractive [good-looking but not beautiful] woman. She was around thirty years old and a single mother [divorced, with a child]; her youth [young age] and motherly feeling made her very popular with students. Every time I would go to her office to talk to her, there were many students there, chatting happily. She was like a mother duck with her ducklings [baby ducks].
As time went on, I became very close [good relationship] with Suzuki-sensei. She was the best English-speaker at the college, and she preferred to speak English to me instead of Japanese. She helped me a lot at the college. For example, when we had our regular monthly faculty [professors] meetings, she would talk to me afterward to see [to ask] if I caught all the important points. That was good, because I usually could understand only about 25% of what was said! Many times at those meetings I would nod intelligently [nod my head as if I understood], then ask Suzuki-sensei afterward what was said. But even more than that [more than just helping me at faculty meetings], she made a plan to have our student-advice groups [I was an advisor to two groups of students] meet in the same room, so that she could explain any important or complicated information about student-teaching [when the student went to a kindergarten for practice teaching]. I don’t know why she did all this for me. I guess [suppose] she liked me [not romantically, but as a friend]. Anyway, we really enjoyed working with each other.
Suzuki-sensei was a hard worker and very ambitious [she strongly wanted to be successful], and maybe she believed that helping me was her duty because she was a conscientious [majime na] educator [professional teacher]. So I not only liked her, but I admired her for her professional ability and her commitment [dedication, loyalty] to her job. We became even closer the second year, when we were assigned [put in] an office together with three other professors. Her desk was next to mine. And her students came in every day between classes to chat!
Suzuki-sensei had a motherly softness, as I said, and I think that’s why it was so comfortable for people to be around her. But she could be hard [strict, tough] when it was necessary. I didn’t know how tough she could be until one time when Yamaguchi-sensei, the office manager (almost everyone at the college was called “sensei”) came into our office to ask me some details about my request for research money. (Each professor received ¥150,000 a year for research.) He told me that he didn’t understand the nature [the meaning, the type] of my research, hinting [suggesting indirectly] that there was a problem. Suzuki-sensei, sitting at her desk next to me, said to him very strongly, “All professors are given education research money every year. How to use it is their decision [they decide], because they are the best qualified to judge [decide]. I don’t think that’s a problem, do you?” [“Mondai nai, deshō?”] [Her meaning: I don’t think it’s a problem that the professors, not the office manager, decide how to use the money, do you? It’s really not your business {kankei nai} how we use the money.] He’s a strong and confident manager and he runs [manages] the office quite strictly, but he wouldn’t stand against [argue, fight] Suzuki-sensei. His face turned a little red and he told me that there was no problem—“I was just checking,” he said—then he left our office. “Thanks,” I said to her. “No problem,” she replied.
This “Kitten with a whip” [a baby cat with a leather rope that’s used to hit horses to make them run faster when they are pulling a wagon. Meaning: a sweet person who can hurt you; a gentle dog with sharp teeth, etc] character [seikaku] made Suzuki-sensei a complicated and interesting person, although to some people, she may have seemed [maybe she seemed] a little dangerous (or maybe scary [kowa-sō] ). I think she gave people this impression because she set such a high standard [high level of achievement, intelligence, behavior, etc] for herself, and she could be a little imperious [arrogant; acting like she was “above” other people that she thought were below her standard]. I could sometimes hear it in her voice. In English, we say that she can “talk down to people” [talk like she is better than they are]. Fortunately, she never talked that way to me. But she certainly talked that way when talking to Yamaguchi-sensei, that day in our office. And after he left, she said to me, “Why does the college administration [owners, managers] want us to call him ‘Yamaguchi-sensei?’ He’s not a professor. It would be better to call him ‘Yamaguchi-san.’ ” Over time [as time passed], my awareness of [becoming to know] this little bit hard [chotto katai; kibishii] feeling she had, made me hesitate to get too emotionally close to her. I was confident that I could live up to my own high standard; but when another person is strict, you [anyone] are never sure when you will fail theirs [their standard]. Nevertheless [even so], of all the many people working at the college, I think I felt closest [emotionally close; warmest relationship] to her.
Kano-sensei was another person I was close to [very friendly and comfortable relationship] at the college. He was about thirty or thirty-five, and very traditional in many ways. His Japanese seemed a little more formal than many of the other professors, and when he met someone he hadn’t seen for a while [a couple of days, for example], he would straighten his posture [body position], click his heels together [put his shoes together, making a noise, almost like a soldier], and bow. Sometimes I think he exaggerated [intentionally made stronger] this gesture [or greeting], as a way to show his playfulness to people he liked, but I always felt that he was a little bit serious about it as well, because he was trying to be proper [to act correctly]. Kano-sensei’s clothes were always new, top quality, and fashionable (although in a traditional way—he always looked like a young professor). He was immaculately presented [he always had clean and neat clothes, well-combed hair, beautifully-cut fingernails, and always looked “perfect”]. In English, we say that he was “polished,” which means elegant and refined, like a diamond, not a rough stone.
The first day that I met Kano-sensei, he was a little cool to me [enryo; not warm]. I could understand his feeling, because when you [anybody] meet an American, you never know what kind of experience it will be. When I first arrived in Tokyo in 1982, I suppose [I guess] I acted like a typical American, and it caused me some problems. I wanted to make friends and understand Japanese culture better, but it was difficult. Finally, one foreigner told me, “If you want to make friends with Japanese people, watch how they communicate with each other.” I watched, and I found that in comparison [nihonjin ni kurabete], I was loud [I talked loudly], I expressed my opinions strongly, I asked people direct questions, and I made much direct eye contact. Although I was acting normal [futsū] for an American, I’m sure I made some Japanese people uncomfortable—before I learned to change my communication style! If Kano-sensei had met any of those [sō iu] Americans [the noisy type like me], he had a good reason to be hesitant [enryo].
I soon found out that he was interested in philosophy [tetsugaku], and when I mentioned my philosophical writing, he became more relaxed and friendly to me. I told him about my novel about a community that tries to live by traditional American values, and he was very interested. We talked about it in detail [more specific; many points] several times. His English wasn’t bad, and we spoke some of the time in English and some in Japanese. Unlike Suzuki-sensei, he seemed to feel more comfortable speaking in Japanese, so I tried to limit [restrict; lessen] my English as much as possible with him.
Kano-sensei was very popular among the students. He was youthful [young feeling], good-looking, always well-dressed, full of energy, and I could easily see that he liked the students very much. Between classes he was never alone, but always with students—encouraging them, joking with them, making them feel special [important]. It was a joy [it made me happy] to watch [him with students], because I felt that this is just how a professor should be. And like [like I did with] Suzuki-sensei, I admired Kano-sensei very much.
After a few months, Kano, Suzuki and I were spending a lot of time together. We seemed to be a good match [we were suited to each other], and [my] seeing these two [people] every day at the college helped to make some of my work seem more like play. We even went bowling together a few times, and we might have socialized even more later [in the future], but at the end of my first year at the college, Kano-sensei left, in order to take a position at another university. To tell you the truth, the second year, I missed him every day.
Another professor who I became close to [very friendly with] was Inuyama-sensei. A retired school principal almost the same age as me, he was the college’s PE [physical education; gym] teacher. I didn’t know him very well at first, possibly because he was a little shy. And because he didn’t speak English, maybe he was a little worried that we wouldn’t be able to communicate very well. But this situation changed suddenly. Let me explain.
One day, I was sitting in my office when four or five students came in and surrounded [were around] my desk. “Rain-sensei,” they said; “we need a faculty [professor] sponsor [leader, supervisor] for our badminton club. Will you be our sponsor?” “Sure,” I said; “I would love to” [ureshii; sō iu koto ga daisuki]. After they left, I went to Inuyama-sensei’s office and asked him, “Sensei, can you teach me how to play badminton?”
After that, almost every day at around 3:30 when the students went home, we met in the gym. We put up the badminton net and he taught me where to stand, how to serve [the first hit], and how to keep score [count points]. Soon we began to have some good games. Often other professors would come by the gym to chat, but it seemed difficult for them to join us [they hesitated to join us]. I don’t know why, because most of them were younger than us and I was just a beginner, so they didn’t have to worry about playing poorly. Maybe they were concerned [worried] about getting into trouble with the college administration, because the rules were a little strict, and technically [a detail, a technical point], our work didn’t finish until 4:30 every day. I didn’t care, because I was the badminton sponsor, and maybe Inuyama-sensei didn’t care because he was the PE teacher, and he was teaching me badminton. Anyway, the college’s owner, Tomoko-sensei (Maeda-san told everyone to call her that [Tomoko-sensei], even the students), told me at my job interview that the best way to keep my job is to make myself indispensable [necessary; the school needs me]. And that’s what I was trying to do. By learning badminton, I could be a better faculty sponsor—and this was one of the ways I was trying to make myself indispensable.
I’ve played basketball all my life, as I said in another chapter, so I could move quickly, and my reaction time [to react to another person’s movement in a game] was fast. And I worked very hard to become a good badminton player, for my own benefit [because it’s good for me] and in order to be respected by the badminton club members. I think I achieved this, although it took three or four months of hard work. To Japanese people, three or four months is a very short time, I know; but my idea is this: it’s not only the amount of time that’s important; it’s also the amount of thought and energy you [anyone] put into it [put into what you are doing]. (This reminds me of a conversation I had with a Japanese woman in Tokyo many years before. When I asked her what she did in her free time, she said she studied [learned to play] piano. I asked her how long she had been taking lessons, and she said “ten years.” I told that her she should start teaching it [to other people] and she laughed. “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that; I’m just a beginner!” Her attitude [way of thinking] surprised me, because when I started to learn to play the accordion when I was eleven years old, my teacher at the music school couldn’t even play the accordion! But someone had taught him how to teach it, and he put a lot of thought and energy into his teaching. He was an excellent teacher! But I’m certain he would never be allowed to teach like that if he were Japanese.)
Anyway, later in the year there was an all-school [for any student at our school] badminton doubles [two-player teams] tournament [contest], and Inuyama-sensei and I entered it. And we lasted [stayed; survived] two out of the four rounds [parts], which wasn’t bad, because all the competitors [players] were almost forty years younger than us, and some of them had been playing badminton since elementary school! By the way, we were the only faculty members to enter.
Even after the tournament, Inuyama and I still played once or twice a week. I came to like badminton very much. It looks easy, but in fact it’s quite difficult because of how quickly the shuttlecock [the thing you hit] changes speed after you [anyone] hit it, and because its arc [curved movement] as it drops [when it falls] isn’t constant [isn’t steady; isn’t always the same]—it increases in steepness [sharp angle] rapidly, because the shuttlecock’s nose is weighted [heavy]. Much of the game is mental because you [anyone] have to judge [decide] where the shuttlecock is going and how fast, and where it will drop, and while calculating [figuring, analyzing] this, you have to move your body to a good position in order to hit it. But while doing that, you also have to see your opponent’s [the opposite player’s] position [place], so you can hit the bird in a way that is difficult for your opponent to hit. And you have to do this quickly, time after time, without stopping to think or to rest, until someone misses [can’t hit it]. It’s faster than tennis! And it’s so much fun. You’re moving your body around quickly and gracefully, almost like dancing, and the total [100%] concentration [focus only on the game] makes you forget all your troubles. That’s what I mean by “fun.”
The second year at the college was so much harder than the first, not only because Kano-sensei was gone, but because the building that our gym was in was demolished [destroyed by construction workers] in order to build a new building—so there was no more badminton.
I desperately [very very much] needed sport or exercise in order to release tension [stress] from my mind and body, from so many hours of writing my book and sitting at a desk in my office at the college. When the badminton stopped, near the end of the first year, Inuyama-sensei asked me if I skied [to ski]. I said yes. “Let’s go sometime,” he said. That weekend [the next weekend], I bought some good ski equipment—at a second-hand shop, of course!—and the following [next] weekend, we were skiing down the slopes [hills] of Mt Moiwa, only twenty minutes by car from the college, happy and carefree [no worries] as a couple of birds on the wing [a poetic way to say “flying birds”].
Winter was soon over [finished], but the next winter we went skiing at Mt Moiwa many times, sometimes directly from the college after work, because there is night skiing with lights. There’s no feeling in the world [it’s unique, special] like that [like night skiing], standing on the mountain in white snow, next to dark, mysterious [fushigi na] woods [small forest], seeing the city lights below, hearing no sound but the wind blowing through the trees—then you [we; anybody] push off [start to go] and rush [go fast] down the slippery [suberu koto] trail [michi] at incredible [shinjirarenai] speed, ecstatic [with ecstasy; super happy] and a little afraid at the same time. What a feeling!
At other times we went to other ski areas farther from Sapporo—Rusutsu and Niseko, for example—and had a great [wonderful] time. At Rusutsu we skied in fog [kiri; cloud] for a while, and it’s an unforgettable experience to be sliding down a mountain and to be able to see only two or three meters in front of you [us]. Once we brought another professor from the college with us to Niseko, Shimano-sensei, one of the warmest and kindest women I have ever met, and the three of us had an exciting and memorable [easy to remember; it was a good memory] day. I need experiences like this. Not just for the fun [tanoshii koto], but to feed [nourish, give food to] my soul [spirit].
So my friendship with Inuyama-sensei was very enjoyable and satisfying. Since [because] sport is an important part of my life, it was good to have someone to do it with. And Inuyama was always so easy-going [yasashii kanji] and full of humor [laughing, joking], so it was doubly [2x] enjoyable. He had one quirk [strange habit] that puzzled me, though. Sometimes at the lunch table at the college, when someone asked him about our skiing, he would say, “We had a date,” or “Next weekend, Rain-sensei and I have a date. You know, girlfriend.” Although [even though] it was just a mild sexual innuendo [hint] and happened only two or three times, it seemed odd [chotto hen] to me. He was married, and I had a girlfriend—I’ll tell you about her later!—and there was never the slightest [smallest] improper speech [speaking] or behavior [from him] at any other time [except at the lunch table], so I couldn’t understand why he made [said] these unusual remarks [sayings]. I think it puzzled the other professors at the table, too. But I tried to ignore [not pay attention to] these remarks, because I didn’t want to lose a good ski partner and friend.
Well, these were my “Big Four” [the four most important people to me] at the college: Ikeda-sensei, Suzuki-sensei, Kano-sensei, and Inuyama-sensei. At the end of the first year, it became the “Big Three” because Kano-sensei left. Later in the second year, I found out that Suzuki-sensei was going to leave at the end of the year to work at another university, and Ikeda-sensei was going to retire because of his health. What an unfortunate situation! And I think those three were the most popular professors at the college [popular with the students]. I couldn’t imagine the college without them.
As I look at the photos of the college faculty, I believe [think] that I had good relations with all of the professors but [except] three, as I said before. There wasn’t a bad feeling with those three; they simply [just] ignored me [didn’t pay any attention to me], as if [it was like] I didn’t exist. Everyone else was warm, interested in talking, and often full of questions [they asked many questions] about my past, my writing, my life in America, my interest in Japan. Many of these conversations started easily when I spoke Japanese—most professors hesitated to speak English—and if I couldn’t get a good conversation started, I would resort to [use for help or support] that sure-fire [always effective] conversation starter: Japanese food! [When it was difficult to start a conversation, I could depend on talk about Japanese food to start the conversation]. So, I always had a good relationship with the professors at the college, and I enjoyed working with them very much. But I depended on my “Big Four” for my spiritual nourishment [eiyō; tabemono]. [Meaning: to feed my soul].
Chapter 32
I’d like to talk about Tomoko-sensei a little bit, because she was fascinating, [very very interesting; makes you want to watch her], powerful—because her family owns the school, of course, but also because of her strong character—and charismatic [she has charisma]. But I also want to talk about her because I liked her very much.
My first impression of her as I went into her office for an interview [job interview] was that I was in the presence of [near to; in front of] a queen. The way she sat, the way she spoke, the way she dressed, the complete ease [relaxation] and confidence of her behavior, seemed more regal [royal; like a king or queen] than ordinary [futsū]. She was friendly without [but not] being intimate [without being too friendly, personal], humorous without joking [without trying to be funny], aware of [knowing] her power without being pushy [too aggressive or urusai]; in other words, it was behavior perfectly [chōdo; kanzen ni] suited for [matching] a queen.
Let me describe a short history of her relationship to the school, though my knowledge [what I know about it] is limited [small]. Her parents founded [made] the college many years ago, and I assume [I guess; I reach a conclusion] that because of “family money” [her parents had a lot of money], she was able to go to Paris as a young woman, in order to study. She must have been fiercely [very strongly] independent, because she didn’t come back like a dutiful daughter [who does her duty] and marry a nice Japanese man from a good [respected; rich] family. Instead, she fell in love with and married Jean [pronounced “zhon”], an Iranian [from Iran], who she met in Paris. They returned to Japan together. Don’t forget, this was more than thirty years ago, so she must have been strong-willed [very strong mind; ganko] to do that in those days. And, according to an old photograph I saw of her, around that time [sono toki ni] she was very beautiful.
Well, to make a long story short [I’ll finish the story quickly], after her parents died, their children took over [began to control or manage] the college, as well as [and also] a well-known cooking school. At that time, apparently [it seems like] the schools weren’t well-managed—teachers were undisciplined [hard to control], and the financial situation wasn’t strong. So the family decided that Tomoko and her younger sister would take control. Tomoko would supervise [manage] the cooking school, now in a beautiful new building; her sister would be the head of the college; and Tomoko would oversee [control] both. So, although she usually spent her days at the cooking school, she came to the college often, and I saw her about three or four times a month.
I had a good relationship with her, and she seemed to favor [prefer; pay extra attention to] me and a few other professors, over [more than] the rest [the others]. However [but], I’m not really sure this is true; maybe I thought she favored me because of her charisma and her skillful [kiyō na] and queenly human relations ability [her ability to have good relations with everyone, like a queen {or a politician}]. She seemed to take special care to talk with me when she came to the college. For example, when I was asked to go to the college’s kindergarten for the making of rice cakes for New Year—the college owned a kindergarten in the next building—I noticed that there were only two or three other professors there, and Tomoko made sure that I had a chance to pound [hit] the rice.
I also received several invitations from her. For example, she invited me and two other professors to a restaurant for dinner; she invited me and another professor to visit her at her second house [besō] at Lake Toya (I stayed overnight in a cabin next door) and we went to an onsen together the next day; and when she made arrangements [a plan] for the cooking school to stay open late one night so a Chinese [chūgokujin] professor could teach her how to make dumplings [Chinese gyōza], she asked me to come. Things [invitations] like this gave me a chance to know her better. But I have to say again that I don’t know for sure [hakkiri wakaranai] if she was socializing with me [meeting me, talking with me] because she especially [toku ni] liked me, or whether [if] she did this socializing with all the professors on a rotating basis [one after another], as part of “good public relations” [a way to keep everyone happy and working hard].
She also told me some personal things that I’m not sure she would tell to many other people. I don’t think she would mind me telling them [these personal stories] to you here [in this book] because she was very proud of them, and I think that they add to her stature [status, reputation] as a unique and powerful woman. For example, she said that her priorities [most important things] in life were: number one, her husband Jean; number two, her dog; and number three, the schools. That’s quite a statement! [That’s a very strong thing to say]. And she also told me that she loved her husband so much that she was writing a love story about it [about this love], called [its name was] something like “The Greatest Love Story.” Her husband, at that time a frail [weak] old man in a wheelchair, didn’t have long to live [he was going to die soon], I could clearly see, so I sympathized with her [I had sympathy for her; pity] deeply. And when he finally died two years later, after I left Japan, I expressed my heart-felt [I felt it truly, in my heart] condolences [expression of sympathy, sadness, concern] to her in a letter—and even then [even by speaking frankly to her], I don’t think she knew how much I cared for [I liked; I had feelings for] her or [I don’t think she knew how much I] worried about her suffering.
I said that she had charisma. She could walk into any room, and that room would “belong” to her [she would be the center of attention, like a movie star]. You might think that this was because she was the boss, but that wasn’t the only reason. Her sister, who was the head of the college, would walk into a room, and although people would snap to attention [suddenly pay attention to her] and bow to her like samurai suddenly surprised by the presence [being there; appearance] of the daimyo, the effect disappeared as fast as it had appeared, and people returned to what they were doing before she came in. With Tomoko, it was different. When she left the room, then they returned to what they were doing before she came in.
This charisma affected [influenced] nearly everyone, of every age. I saw Tomoko with kindergarten children; I saw her with college students; I saw her with professors; I saw her with office staff. I saw her in classrooms, restaurants, parties, ceremonies. In every situation, she was the star. This comes from power, of course, but power alone [chikara dake] is not enough. Not all powerful people have charisma, as the example of Tomoko’s sister clearly shows. You [anyone] can also see this with powerful politicians—some have charisma, but most do not.
I must confess [admit] to sometimes having thoughts about [I thought about] what it would be like to live with Tomoko, or someone like her. I had been single for about ten years when I started working at the college, and I often wondered if I would get married again, and if so, to what kind of woman? When I met Tomoko, the thought entered my mind [I began to think about] that she would be an interesting woman to live with. I don’t know why I thought this, because although we were the same age, we seemed to be opposites in every way [completely]. I loved sports, but she wasn’t athletic [sports-minded]—her usual exercise was walking her dog. For a mature [older] woman, she was attractive, but she acted and dressed like a mature woman, while [but; the opposite] I was used to [accustomed to] young and open-minded women in [who wore] blue jeans. I was free and independent, while she was tied [connected] socially and economically to a hundred people or more. I was relatively [compared with other educated people] poor, but she lived well [a rich life], she had a vacation house [besō], and she traveled around town [Sapporo] by car and driver [chauffeur]. So the idea that she and I could find something to hold us together seemed completely ridiculous [silly; stupid] to me. Yet I can’t deny that her charisma attracted me. Maybe it’s like [maybe this situation is like] I said many chapters ago [in this book], about being a writer and beginning to feel more and more outside the stream of life as I got older and was unsuccessful with my books. I seem to be attracted to any type of energy that represents [that is like] the life force [the biological power; the energy of life], maybe because my spiritual nature [the spiritual part of me; my spiritual self] is searching for its opposite, in order to balance itself.
In any case [whatever the reason is, that I was attracted to her], I never said these things to anyone before, because it wasn’t such an important thing, but just a passing [short time] thought [in my mind]. I even feel a little embarrassed talking about it now, but I suppose I’ve reached the age in life when I shouldn’t worry about such [sō iu] things [things like telling this story about Tomoko]. And I don’t think Tomoko should feel embarrassed about it if she reads this, because it’s really [actually] a compliment about her [saying something nice], although that wasn’t my purpose. My purpose was to tell you about my experiences in Japan, and the effect [influence] they had on me. It isn’t my intention [tsumori ja nai] to compliment or embarrass anyone.
Chapter 33
My students were mostly [most of them] playful, innocent [no experience; no sex] young girls who were not intellectually stimulating to me [their intelligence wasn’t high enough to interest me or excite me], but I found much pleasure in taking care of [sewa suru] and guiding [annai suru; give advice to] them. When I wanted intellectual stimulation, I talked to Ikeda-sensei or Kano-sensei.
After a couple months at the college, I had the impression [I began to feel] that I was popular with the students. I think this [being popular] began during a bus trip we took to the amusement park [yuenchi] at Rusutsu Resort early in the school term. At the amusement park, nearly all [hotondo] the professors watched [supervised the students] or sat together on benches talking, but I went on all the rides [norimono], sometimes with students and sometimes even dragging [pulling] Inuyama-sensei on them [the rides] with me. I especially liked the roller coasters [jet coasters]. By the end of the day, I think it was evident [clear] to the students that I was someone they could relate to [make a connection to; understand]. After that, they were a lot more relaxed around me [when they were with me]; and for me, coming to school was like visiting all my young cousins. [In other words, the students became like family members.]
There were two types of students who were drawn to me [they were attracted to me; interested in me. Note—them attracted to me, not me attracted to them]. One was the serious type [majime na], eager to learn, to develop [improve] themselves, to understand the world. These students often came to my office or stopped to talk with me in the hall [corridor]. They asked me questions like “Rain-sensei, do you think that I’m the type of person who can be successful?” or “Which is more important, marriage or career?” Of course, they didn’t always ask these questions so directly, so I had to intuit their meaning [I had to understand by intuition or “feel”]. These girls shared [gave; talked about] a little of their personal lives with me [their hopes, their dreams for the future, etc], and I felt very honored [it was an honor; I felt thankful to receive their respect]. I wanted more of these students, and I was frustrated when I couldn’t find so many.
The second type of student who was attracted to me was the cute or fashionable type who would say, when she saw me in the hall, “Rain-sensei wa suteki desu, nē.” Another expression I heard many times was “Kaku ii!” Some of these girls were innocent and some were quite seductive [sexually inviting], and I would always smile but never respond [never answer with words or actions]. I didn’t want to encourage this behavior, even though I knew it was just playful, because I don’t believe a teacher-student relationship should contain [have] a sexual element [part; feeling], even in play [asobi demo]. It’s too easy for the emotions to get involved, on one side or the other [the teacher’s emotions or the student’s emotions].
One girl in particular [I will tell you about one of them now] who sat near me on the bus to the amusement park and flirted with me a lot [looked at me with a sexy face; said sexy things] was the most daring [bold; strong] example of this. Because she was a first-year student, I thought she was just “testing her wings,”—like a baby bird just learning to fly. I thought that if I ignored her advances [didn’t pay attention to her sexy invitations], she would get tired of it [akiru] and stop. I was doubly [2x; strongly] determined [resolute; my mind was strong about it] because she was extremely good-looking [cute; beautiful] and desirable [sexually attractive; sexy body]. Yet [but] even in her second year, she was still flirting with me, and I thought to myself, “Katry, you must have [I believe you have] the will-power [self-control] of a Zen master for not [because you didn’t] chasing her!” [In that sentence, I am complimenting myself about my self-control.]
Then one day [then a day came], as I climbed the station steps after work, I saw her standing on the platform, exactly in the place I always stand to wait for the train. Because students leave school an hour or more before the professors, and because I had never seen her alone before—she and her best friend at school were always together, like twins—I became a little suspicious [I thought this wasn’t accidental {guzen ja nai}, but part of her plan]. I thought, “She’s waiting for me.” I walked the other way, to stand and wait for the train at another place, but she saw me and came over [to me]. “Hi,” I said; “where are you going?” “Nakajima Koen station,” she answered. That was my station and all the students were aware of [knew] it! I knew she didn’t live near there, so I asked her, “Why are you going there?” She answered, “I’m going to a karaoke bar. Won’t you come with me?” I knew that some of my students went to private karaoke rooms with their boyfriends, to have sex, so now [at that time] there was little doubt in my mind [I was 90% sure] that she had a crush on me [a romantic feeling; an infatuation]. Maybe she wanted to see [to find out] if I felt the same way [if I had a romantic feeling for her].
I was in a difficult position! In America, when someone is in a situation like this, we have an image of them [a person in this situation] having a little angel [tenshi] on one shoulder and a little devil [oni] on the other. The angel is saying to the person, “Don’t do it. It’s not right” [it’s not the correct {good} thing to do], and on the other shoulder, the devil is saying, “Go ahead [dozo], do it. It will be fun.” To tell you the truth [jitsu wa], that’s exactly the feeling I had. The devil was saying, “Look at her! Wouldn’t you like to kiss that beautiful face, stroke [rub gently] that silky [soft like silk] hair, caress [gently touch; touch with a loving feeling] that sexy body? And maybe she loves you! Maybe she would go with you, and try to make you happy for the rest of your life!” And the angel was saying, “Look at her! Just a child! She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Don’t hurt her [don’t give her emotional pain]. And she’s probably just playing with you, so you might get hurt yourself” [you, too]. These were the two feelings I had, standing there on the platform, waiting for the train to Nakajima Koen station. I felt childish! [silly; kodomoppoi] . Laugh at me, if you must.
In the words of Shakespeare [as Shakespeare said]: “Conscience doth make [makes] cowards of us all.” (Our conscience {that part of our mind that tells us to do good, not bad} takes away our courage [yuki] to do something we want to do. So, instead of being strong and doing what we want, we act like a coward [no courage] and we don’t do it. So, that “little voice” inside us that tells us to do the right thing, actually makes us a coward.) Anyway, I said to her: “I’d like to go with you; I really would [honto ni]. But I’m busy today. Sorry.” I could see disappointment in her face, but I think I was the one [the person of the two of us] most disappointed. If you are a woman reading this, you might say, “He made the right [correct] decision.” If you are a man, I suppose you are thinking, “What a fool!” [Baka ya rō!]
After that, she was still friendly to me at school, but her flirting cooled down [decreased; became less] considerably [a lot]. And as a man [because I was a man], when I saw her I always wondered—with some sadness—what might have been [maybe something good would have happened if I took a chance]. This is an unfortunate truth: when men don’t take a chance with a woman—because they believe it wouldn’t be right—later they often feel regret, and they imagine what might have been possible with her. This has happened to me many times in my life. I try to do the right thing with women—so I often don’t take a chance, and later I feel regret. If, sometimes, I made the wrong decision and took a chance, I also regretted it. So which is worse: to do something and feel regret or not do something and feel regret? This is the predicament [difficult situation] of a man. [To be a man is difficult, and this is one reason why]. And because there is often regret either way—to take a chance or not take a chance—maybe this is why men go after women so much, even though it might be wrong. If they’re going to feel regret, at least they can get some enjoyment from it. In other words, maybe it’s better to suffer [feel mental pain] from doing something than not doing it. I don’t like this situation, but because I am a man, I carry it around [everywhere] on my shoulders every day. This is life for a man.
Chapter 34
Earlier in this book I mentioned the girl in my class who wouldn’t stop talking, and who [she] later spoke rudely to Inuyama-sensei. She was lucky not to have been [not to be] expelled from school [kicked out; made to leave by office staff]. And she never talked to Inuyama or me again. That didn’t bother me [I didn’t care; I didn’t worry about it], because she wasn’t in any of my classes anymore, and she wasn’t in my advisory group [the group of students I advised], either, so I didn’t run into [accidently {guzen ni} meet] her much. But I did see her a lot at the badminton tournament [contest] that I told you about earlier. And I saw that she had an incredible [shinjirarenai] gift [God-given skill, talent] for badminton. It [her playing] was beautiful to watch. As we say in English, she was “Poetry in motion”—her movement was as beautiful as a poem [shi ].
In fact, it was during this tournament that she had the argument with Inuyama-sensei, because he was the referee [umpire; judge] and she disagreed rudely [shitsurei ni hantai shita] with one of his calls [his decisions during the match]. He kicked her out of [he made her quit] the tournament. I wasn’t there at that particular [sō iu] match, so I don’t know what she said to him. But when I asked him about it later, he stuttered a little [domoru; his words came out of his mouth broken] and his face got [became] a little red.
Anyway, in her second year, she was blank-faced [no emotion on her face] and uncommunicative [she didn’t talk much] around the teachers. That year, there was no badminton—we didn’t have a gym!—but I never forgot her skill and her graceful [smooth, beautiful] movement. And because she never spoke to me, I didn’t have a chance to talk to her about it. Finally, on graduation [sotsugyō] day, I decided to mention it to her. We were at Sapporo Kyōiku Bunka Kaikan and the mood seemed right [suitable]—all the students were happy and they looked so sweet and innocent in their beautiful clothes. So, I went up to her [walked to her]. Her face was blank [no emotion] to me, as usual, but I felt like I had a duty to say what was on my mind [in my thinking]. “Congratulations [omedetō] on your graduation,” I began [these were my first words]. “Thank you,” she replied. I continued [continued my speaking]. “I wanted to tell you that you have a wonderful talent for badminton. I think it’s like a gift from God. I hope that you will share it with other people [allow other people to enjoy it]. In the future, please teach badminton to other young people.” I saw surprise on her face, and I didn’t stay [I didn’t stay there and continue talking to her], because I didn’t want to make her feel like she had to [she must] answer me. “Ganbatte,” I said, leaving [while I was leaving]. “Dōmo,” she replied.
Not all my relationships with students were one-to-one. As I mentioned before, [in an earlier chapter], I had two groups of students who I advised. I enjoyed meeting with them and supporting [helping] them, although I’m sure I could have done better [I could have helped them more] if my Japanese language was better. But my most pleasant memories working with a group involve [are related to] the pep rallies [fun meetings where we tried to make the students stronger and full of energy, like a sports team before an important game] we held in the auditorium [large school theater] for the students, just before they were sent out to schools for their practice teaching. The auditorium was packed [full of students], and they were all nervous and had little confidence, so the purpose of these rallies was to make them feel more relaxed and strong. To do this, we planned a one-hour program of singing, stories, and jokes. It was a crazy [wild, uncontrolled] time, with professors wearing funny hats, baseball uniforms, t-shirts, etc., doing magic tricks, telling funny stories, and so on. The first time I attended such a meeting, I was so surprised at the wild behavior of some of the quiet or conservative [hoshuteki na; correct behavior] professors! Even Ikeda-sensei, from Kyoto! And the students loved it.
I was responsible for [I had to] planning my own performance for these meetings, to last for [kakaru] five or ten minutes. In Japanese [nihongo de], of course. The first time, I wondered, “What should I say to the students?” I thought about this for several days.
Finally, I had an idea. I would talk about a difficult and challenging moment [time] in my life, explain how worried I felt, then talk about how I overcame [I defeated; I won] my worry by repeating to myself that “I can do it” [dekiru]. And I would tell the story humorously [funny; okashii]. Would that plan work? [be successful]. I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to try it.
So, on the day of the meeting, I waited for my turn, watching the other professors who performed before me. When it was my time, I stood in front of the students, [I was] looking at a sea of smiling faces [so many faces, moving a little, like the ocean]. Then I began. “When I was your age,” I said, “I wanted to do sky-diving [jump from airplane with a parachute], because I thought it would be a challenging experience. Unfortunately, there was a problem. In order to do sky-diving successfully, you [anyone] must jump out of an airplane.” They laughed. I described all my preparation, but even with that [that preparation], I said that I was still nervous, just like they were before doing their first teaching. I told them that while I was in the airplane and the door was opened, I became really nervous. And when the jumpmaster (he tells you when to jump) said to go, I was full of fear. But I said to myself, “Dekiru! Dekiru! Dekiru!” and those words gave me courage—I jumped! And because I challenged myself and I was successful, my confidence grew [increased]. So I told them that whenever I feel nervous about something because I think it might be too difficult, I say to myself, “Dekiru!” and this gives me confidence. Then I asked my students to say it with me. They said it in unison [all the students together] in a normal tone of voice [futsū no koe]. “No, no!” I said; “I can’t hear you. Louder! One, two, three: Dekiru!” They said it loudly: “Dekiru!” “Good,” I said; “now, everybody stand up. Shout it. “Dekiru! Dekiru!” they shouted. “Louder,” I said; “Dekiru! Dekiru! Dekiru!” So they shouted out [loudly], many of them with their hands in the air, “Dekiru! Dekiru! Dekiru!”
After that, every time we had a pep rally, I would tell the group a different story from my life—traveling across the desert [sabaku] by truck in Africa, deep scuba diving in Mexico, climbing Mt Whitney in California—then I got them [asked them] to shout with me, “Dekiru! Dekiru! Dekiru!” And many times in class or in the hall, when I asked a student if she was having trouble with her studies, she would smile and answer, “Don’t worry, Rain-sensei. Dekiru! Dekiru! Dekiru!”
I think this became my signature [my image; my identifying mark] at the college.
Chapter 35
I said in an earlier chapter that I thought that the college was a little too strict [sukoshi kibishisugiru]. It was for this reason [this was the reason], plus [and] the fact [the situation] that three of the “Big Four” professors would be gone [they would leave], that made me think that I might leave, too. If either of these conditions [strict college, or professors leaving] were different, I think I would have stayed there until retirement five years later.
Let me give you a few examples of what I mean by the college being strict. The first one is that we had to be at the college from 9:00-4:30 every day. For people working in a company, I’m sure this seems like an easy schedule. Maybe too easy! But in higher education [college, university], it’s very unusual. My American friend Bob, who worked ASS-ee] University in New Zealand, goes to the campus [the university] only three days a week!
Another rule was that we couldn’t leave the school during lunch, unless we had an important reason. Like children! [They treated us like children.] This was a little easier to tolerate because the lunches were planned and supervised by our nutritionist [eiyō] program staff, so I ate healthy and delicious food every day. Even so, I don’t like to be told where I must eat lunch. I’m a big boy! [A humorous way to say I’m not a child anymore—the little boy has become a big boy (a man) ].
Another of the college’s tight [strict] rules concerns [is related to] weekend work. As an example of this, we would sometimes have an “Open Day,” where future students and their parents could see the school and meet the faculty members [professors], and we also had an occasional “Interview Day,” to meet and evaluate the students who sent the college an application [a request to enter]. These various [different kinds of] days were intense [we had to focus or concentrate strongly] because we were face-to-face with students or parents for many hours. Finally, around three o’clock, the visitors would be gone, and all the professors and office staff had to go from classroom to classroom, moving the tables and chairs back to their normal position, and sometimes we had to carry large tables from one room to another. We had already done this in the morning to prepare the rooms for our visitors, and sometimes we had to clean the desks as well. For the older professors especially, all this was hard work. (Not me; I’m young, remember?) Finally, it was 3:30 or 3:40, we were dog-tired—very tired, like a dog in the hot summer—but we couldn’t go home, even though we were exhausted [no energy left] and there wasn’t anything else [hoka ni nai] to do. We couldn’t go home because it wasn’t 4:30 yet! “Fushigi desu, nē,” one of the Japanese [nihonjin] professors said to me. And if we were lucky, we would hear the voice of Yamaguchi-sensei, the office manager, on the P.A. system [speakers] around 4:00 or 4:15, saying “Thank you very much. You can go now.” Hey, Yamaguchi-sensei, I’m a big boy! [Humor.]
Another instance [example of strict rules] was when I wanted to start an English club for the students. I thought that it might be a good idea to have an English club for professors as well, because many of them had told me that they wanted to practice their English but didn’t have a chance. And I thought that such a club would help to raise morale [their mood; their spirits] by getting together [to meet] once a week for thirty or forty minutes to chat, relax, and share [exchange] ideas. And it would help me to become more of a resource [a person of help, information, etc] for them, to give them new ideas, to stimulate [excite] their creativity [ability to create something new], and so on. “I’m an American; I’ve traveled to 56 countries on five continents; I’m a Doctor of Philosophy (Ph.D.); I have a lot to give! Use me!” That was my feeling.
I took my proposal [plan] for the two clubs to the professor in charge of [the boss of] scheduling the college’s clubs, and he told me that it was a good idea. He said he would like to join the faculty English club. Of course, he said, he had to ask permission [is it okay?] from Tomoko’s sister, who was the head of the college. I thought that was odd [strange, unusual], because I only saw her two or three times a month, and she didn’t seem to be involved with [connected to] the daily life of the school. I can’t even remember her first name! In any case, the professor asked her about the English clubs, and when I saw him the next day, I asked him what her answer was—although I was sure that there was no problem [to have the clubs]. He looked embarrassed, and said that I had permission to organize [make] the English club for the students, but not one [English club] for professors.
My purpose here [in this chapter] is not to complain, but to describe my reaction to my situation [my feeling about my job]. And the fact is [jitsu wa], the college felt tight [kibishii; kitsui] to me. Like I said, people who work for a company [not a school] might think I had an easy job, with undemanding [easy; not severe; not strict] conditions. But the way you [anyone] look at your job depends on your expectations [what you expect]. If you’re a sararīman, and other sararīman are working until six o’clock or later, just like you do, you accept your conditions [the conditions of your job]. In my case, I expect a tandai to have conditions a little closer to a university than a company [more like a university than a company] because in most countries, they do—because the work is similar [tandai work and university work are similar]. My god [an expression of surprise or wonder], even when I was a 22-year-old junior high school teacher in Los Angeles, I was finished every day at 3:00! I could create a club for teachers without asking permission! And I could eat lunch wherever I wanted!
I was told by the staff than the college used to be a little too loose [not so strict], like I said. So Tomoko and her sister took over [became the bosses] and tightened the organization [made more strict the way the college was managed]. I understand that, and although I don’t support [don’t believe in; don’t want to help] this tighter style, I agree that the owners have a right [it’s okay to do it] to set [make] the conditions. If the employees don’t like it, they can leave. But this is the problem: such a tight structure [organization; management style] doesn’t suit some of the best professors—especially the young, energetic, creative ones [professors]. In fact, it encourages them to leave. So, the school doesn’t become great [first-class, top-quality]; it stays average [middle level] because the top-class professors leave. This is why Kano-sensei and Suzuki-sensei left! And this is why I left!
Tomoko is the force [the strong power] behind the school’s policies because everyone follows her leadership. So I think she must be held accountable [we must agree that she is responsible for the strict rules]. I told you of her tremendous [a lot; so much] charisma and abilities, but there is one thing she doesn’t seem to understand: the way to achieve excellence isn’t by driving [pushing hard] the staff [professors and office workers] to work long [many] hours in a strict environment [workplace]—because quantity [amount] in education doesn’t automatically produce quality. I know this because I’ve been the field [job; profession] of education all my life. I’ve seen good schools and not so good schools and I know why they are different. In a good school, the management inspires [motivates; gives hope to; encourages] the staff, and the staff inspires the students.
Although the college staff worked hard, every day I saw examples of professors quietly fighting against the system [fighting the college management way] by complaining to each other, surfing [playing with] the Internet, taking walks around the college to kill time [to make time pass more quickly], smoking and talking on the balcony [veranda] , listening to music, reading the newspaper, even sleeping. When you [anyone] squeeze people [make the rules strict] too hard (especially educated, intelligent people), you don’t get more quality—you get rebellion! [they rebel; they fight against you].
I don’t think this is Tomoko’s problem alone [it’s not only her problem], but a problem shared by most company owners [most company owners have this problem]. They seem to think that if they don’t drive [push] their workers, the workers will become lazy. Yes, it’s true that people can become lazy. But we know from research that the use of, or threat of, force [using force, or making people think you will use force] isn’t the best motivator [the best way to create motivation; to make people do something]. The best management style is the one that is positive, and it gets people to work harder because they want to [want to work harder]. Professionals [educated workers] want to work harder when they feel important, and when they can make decisions and feel more in control of their work. But at the college, the management often made them feel like children, and controlled everyone’s time, location, and activities. This doesn’t create motivation; it takes it away.
Let’s look again at just one example I mentioned. When faculty members give up a Saturday with their family in order to go to the college for an Open Day, [and they] work hard, [and they] have to clean and move furniture at the beginning and at the end, then [they] are forced to sit in their offices and wait for a voice on the PA system to tell them that it’s okay for them to leave, this creates a bad feeling. And it creates rebellion! No one complained about the work. It was having to wait [they had to wait] in their offices after the work was finished until they were told that it was okay to go home that gave them a bad feeling. It gave me a bad feeling, too. I’m not saying this only because I’m an American who hasn’t accepted the Japanese style of work. I heard many professors complaining. And it wasn’t me who made the comment [who said] “Fushigi desu, nē” about this way of doing things [this management style]; it was a Japanese person! He was a full professor [top level, not lecturer or assistant professor] of fifty-four years old, who had been at the college for many years! And if I’m correct in my understanding about how the other professors felt, this was “just the tip of the iceberg” [an iceberg is a large piece of ice, floating in the sea; we only see the tip, because most of it is under the water—so, this professor’s feeling was only a small part of the faculty’s feeling.]
This is a blind spot [something that can’t be seen] by most owners and managers, and if I had stayed at the college longer, I would have talked to Tomoko about it. I almost did [almost talked to her about it] at an Italian restaurant when she and I and two others [professors] talked about life and work. She said that work wasn’t so important to her, and that she worked for the enjoyment [her reason for working was to enjoy it]. I almost asked her why she wouldn’t give her faculty members the chance [opportunity] to do the same [to work for enjoyment]. Of course, I didn’t want to be rude [shitsurei], or to embarrass her in front of other people, so I didn’t say anything about it to her. A typical American—like the American teacher, Barbara, who disagreed with Mrs Naito—would have said something! But I vowed [I promised myself] that if I stayed at the college, I would talk to her about it, privately [alone] of course. But like I said, the paternalistic [like a strict father] system she helped to create, [it] drove [pushed] away my best friends [they left because they couldn’t tolerate the strictness], and it was too severe for me, too. And because I left the school, I never had a chance to tell her.
She was a wonderful person, a great [super; wonderful] leader, so kind, and she was the most charismatic [she had the most charisma] Japanese I ever met, but even such people can have blind spots [things they can’t see; things they don’t understand].
Maybe I’m being unfair. I don’t want to convey [to show, to communicate] that my experience at the college was bad. It wasn’t. The other side of this story is that I liked Tomoko so much and I truly enjoyed being with her. I had such a good time working with the Japanese professors—all of them, not just the “Big Four”—and I cared [liked] very deeply for my students. I learned so much at the college, and I hope I gave as much in return [I hope I gave as much as I received]. But if the purpose of this letter to you is to describe my experiences in Japan, surely you want to know not only what was comfortable for me, but what was less so [what wasn’t quite comfortable. This isn’t so strong as using the word “uncomfortable”].
If I wanted to choose a different title for this letter, I wouldn’t call it “Japan Is So Wonderful.” A better title would be “Japan Through My Eyes” [“Japan As I See It” or “What Japan Looks Like When Seen Through My Eyes”]. I think that’s fair, don’t you?
Chapter 36
I did have [I had. I did have expresses it more strongly, like “honto ni atta, yō”] a life outside of the college. I had a nice apartment with a good view of the city and the mountains—it was on the 8th floor of a small, new building with a friendly doorman, only eight minutes walk from Nakajima Koen station. I had a bicycle. I had a fast motorcycle. A delicious tako yaki shop was nearby. It took five minutes by bicycle to the supermarket, and ten minutes to the restaurants of Susukino. My work was on the south side of the city, so while everyone was packed [crowded] into crowded trains coming into Sapporo to go to work in the morning, I rode an almost empty train going the other way. Coming home after work was the same. Life was good.
I enjoyed going to art galleries and parks, and taking long walks at night. I also had a pair of roller blades [straight-line skates], and when the weather was nice, I would skate on the concrete path beside the Toyohira River that goes through town. I felt so free. Living in Sapporo doesn’t have the feeling of compression [feeling mentally {emotionally} squeezed {pressure} because of all the people, and no open space and no privacy] that Tokyo has. Foreigners living in Tokyo are always talking about getting out of the city as often as possible, to decompress [to stop the squeezed feeling; to relax]. The problem is, when you [anyone] have a free [hima na] weekend and get on a train in Tokyo to get out of town, so many other people are doing the same. When I lived in Tokyo, I remember my students telling me that Mt Takao, one hour away by train, was a beautiful and natural place to visit, so I decided to go there. When I arrived and climbed to the top of the mountain, it was crowded with food kiosks, shouting children, and loudspeakers! [audio speakers.] I felt like I was in Tokyo again. Sapporo has none [doesn’t have] of this feeling.
Everywhere I went in Sapporo, I stopped to talk with people—in bookstores, shops, wherever [dokodemo]. I enjoyed that so much. And people always said, “Waa, nihongo ga jozu desu, nē,” and that made me laugh, because my Japanese isn’t so good. But do you remember what I said about words being [they are] only a small part of communication? I also try to use my face, my eyes, my body language [body position and movement], my tone of voice, to help me express myself [to communicate]. After a long and friendly conversation with the owner of a tourist shop [selling omiyage to tourists], he said to me, “I feel like I’m talking to a Japanese” [person]. This is just what [the same as] Jin, my Japanese sararīman roommate at Tokyo English House, said to me! So don’t forget this when you’re trying to speak English to someone! You must use more than words to communicate.
I’m always glad to meet new people. One night, I went to a party at an English language school in Sapporo, hoping to meet some people there. The school’s owner gave me a beer and introduced me to a few students. While we were sitting and chatting, three attractive Japanese women came in. One was short, one was medium, and one was tall. The short one had very intense eyes [strong feeling; bright; vivid], like [as if] she had a tiger inside her. I’ve already told you why that attracts me so much. The energy! I’m like a small boy who wants to play with fire. Unfortunately, I often get burned! Anyway, the three women looked like they were unsure what to do, so I asked them to sit with us. Their names were Mitsuko, about thirty years old, Reiko, a little older, and Yukiko, about forty-five or so [or a little more]. Mitsuko was the intense one and I talked to her a lot, but there was something deep and mysterious about Yukiko, that also interested me. Anyway, before they left, we all exchanged e-mail addresses.
When I went to work at the college on Monday morning, I sent them short e-mails, saying that I enjoyed meeting them at the party. For the next couple weeks, we sent e-mails back and forth [to each other]. Although I was sending longer and more detailed [more information] mails to Mitsuko, I soon began to realize that “She wasn’t my type”—she wasn’t the kind of woman I was interested in. And I was getting more interested in Yukiko, although I wasn’t sure, because she was so quiet.
They invited me to have dinner with them, and we met in front of the big Robinson’s Department Store near Susukino station. All three women seemed happy, and looked very attractive. I really enjoyed the conversation—mostly in English—with them that night. As usual, Mitsuko talked the most, and Yukiko didn’t say much. Maybe she wasn’t confident of her English. I tried to speak more Japanese, but as you can imagine [it’s easy to understand], they all wanted to practice their English. I also found out that Yukiko was married.
The e-mails from Mitsuko and Reiko gradually tapered off [decreased little by little], but I continued to e-mail Yukiko. Then I got a surprise when she wrote, “I can’t be your girlfriend.” I didn’t know what she meant by that, because I didn’t think I had said anything like that to her. Maybe I did but I didn’t realize it; I don’t know. But I’ll admit [tell the truth to you], I was a little disappointed, and that was a strange feeling. It’s like feeling bad because you can’t have something, even though you never thought you wanted it.
Anyway, a few weeks later, another dinner was planned, and the four of us met again. We had Italian food and wine, and I enjoyed myself, though I was sure that there was no romance for me with one of these women. Mitsuko wasn’t my type, Reiko was very nice but I wasn’t interested in her, and Yukiko was married. So I decided to have a good time [fun] and to forget about getting anything more.
We finished dinner at around nine o’clock. Everyone said goodbye and went their separate directions, but Yukiko asked me if I would walk with her to her favorite bar for a drink. Of course, I said. When we arrived, I saw that it was a very small and cozy [warm and comfortable] place. She knew the owner [master] well, and she even had her own bottle of whisky there. We sat at the bar and drank, and she talked a little bit to the master and a little bit to me. Mostly in Japanese. Around ten, she looked at her watch and said, “Well, it’s getting late. Shall we go?”
The weather was warm and it was a beautiful night for walking. We both lived in the same direction, so she said she would walk with me as far as my place [my apartment building], then continue to her house. About twenty minutes later, when we reached my apartment building, she said, “Shall I come inside for a moment?” [for a short time]. “Sure,” I said, totally blind [unknowing; can’t see] to what was happening. But you know what was happening, don’t you? Of course you do [you know]. Me, I’m a little naive [innocent, child-like] sometimes, even though I have a lot of experience with women. Sometimes I don’t know what they are going to do until they do it. And then I get a big surprise. [I get very surprised.]
Chapter 37
I telephoned Yukiko early the next week [Monday or Tuesday]. But I didn’t call her [say her name] “Yukiko.” I wanted to give her a pet name [a lover’s nickname], so I began to call her “Marci,” because it’s a girl’s name in English, and it resembled [nitte iru] part of her e-mail address. I didn’t know why I was doing this—becoming romantically involved with a married woman—and you must think I was very foolish. But I had been single for so many years, and I felt a strong need for female companionship [a friendship or close relationship with a woman]. When I think about this, it makes me think of the title [name] of a movie I saw long ago: “The Heart [kokoro] is a Lonely Hunter” [human beings are lonely and looking for {hunting for} love].
Anyway, I asked her if she wanted to meet on Friday night. She said she worked in a bank only ten minutes walk from my apartment, so she could come over to my place directly after work. She said she would bring some sushi, and also her laptop computer and a DVD.
Before I continue this story, I should explain something first. I’ve talked a little bit about my writing [my other books], and I probably told you that I spend so much of my time writing or thinking about what I am going to write. I hope I am not being immodest [I hope I’m not bragging] when I say that I think the subject of my writing [the topic I write about] is very important, and I really believe that someday (probably after I am dead), people will read my books. I hope that they [my books] will be useful and maybe even help people to make better lives [a better life] for themselves. I don’t write for my own pleasure; I write to help people imagine a better future. Therefore, I feel a big responsibility [duty; weight] on my shoulders [on me]. This weight is heavy to carry every day, and this is one reason that I indulge in [participate in] risky activities like motorcycling, sky-diving, high-speed skiing, and so on. I do these activities in order to feel more alive, more in the flow of life, as I told you, but the other reason I do them is to lighten my burden [make my duty seem lighter] a little. When I’m leaning [tilting] my motorcycle around a curve in a mountain road at 80 or 90kph [kilometers per hour], I’m free. I’m free because all my attention is focused on that moment [that time of driving], and for a short time, the responsibility of writing [the duty I feel to write something good] is put aside [it is not the center of my attention]. And I know very well that becoming involved [connected—romantically and sexually] with Marci would be just as risky as getting on a fast motorcycle. But I needed it [I needed to get involved with her]. And just as important, I needed relief [relaxation; stopping of pain] from solitude [alone-ness; being single]. As I said, the heart is a lonely hunter, and maybe there was no heart lonelier than mine [my heart was the loneliest].
So, Marci came over to my cozy [small, comfortable] apartment on the 8th floor, and we ate and drank together, we held hands while watching a DVD on the laptop, and we spent the next couple of hours in the bedroom on the futon, lost in a world [place; situation] of deep [emotionally powerful] kisses and embraces [hugs], and of course, more [more than just kisses and hugs]. It was a beautiful [a wonderful] experience. It was like the Christian Bible describes marriage: “two people become one flesh” [one person].
Around eleven, she got up to leave, and as I held her and kissed her goodbye at my door, I felt again like I felt when I first started working at the college: I was standing at the top of a high-dive platform, looking down at the water far below.
Chapter 38
Marci liked my motorcycle. She loved the acceleration [increasing speed] as we sped [went fast] away from the traffic lights [shingō], and she leaned with me as we went around curves. I was a very careful driver when she was with me, of course, but within the bounds of safety [while driving safely], I always gave her a wild [exciting, scary {kowai} in a pleasant way] ride. As we rode, she held me tightly, and her legs were pressed strongly against mine. I sometimes slapped one of them [hit her leg with an open hand] or pinched it lightly with my fingers. There, too [also on the motorcycle], it felt like we were “one flesh” [one person].
Our favorite destination was Lake Shikotsu, a beautiful one-hour ride through the mountains. In summer, we went two or three times a month. I knew every curve in the road, every sight [thing to see], every hiding place of the shirobai that was always there on the weekends.
Arriving at the lake was always a great pleasure. We parked next to five or ten other motorcycles, bought tako yaki or ice cream from the kiosk attached to the restaurant there, and sat at a picnic table on the wooden deck. From there we would see the lovely lake and wooded [many trees] mountains beyond [around the lake].
Marci didn’t talk much as we sat there, even when we spoke Japanese—which we did [speak Japanese] most of the time. But to tell you the truth, we didn’t need to talk; we communicated so smoothly [easily; no problem] and warmly [warm feeling] in silence. A look, a touch, a smile, a pinch, a nod [small head movement], was enough.
I asked her once or twice about her marriage because, of course, I was concerned [thinking about it; worrying about it]. She said her husband was very nice and she liked him, but it was just a friendly [tomodachi mitai] relationship; they had slept in separate bedrooms for the last twenty years. She seemed to think it was okay to have a relationship with me because she and her husband had separate lives. I know that Japanese married men often have a girlfriend or a favorite girl at a hostess club, and that if that relationship was conducted [done] discreetly [quietly, secretly], no one objected [complained]. But I didn’t think Japanese society allowed women to do the same—although in Tokyo, I’d heard about “host clubs” where women with a lot of money can be entertained [talked to, joked with, drinking with] (and more!) by handsome young men. In any case [anyway], I decided to trust Marci’s judgment [her understanding; her ability to make the correct decision about our relationship] because I figured [supposed] she knew more about the situation in Japan than I did.
After eating our snack [small food] at the lake, we would sit peacefully or take a walk near the water and enjoy the beauty of Nature. Sometimes we would get back on the motorcycle and continue driving along the road around the lake; on the other side, there is a fantastic park with many large trees, and from there, we would walk down a narrow path to a sidewalk next to the lake. We almost always held hands when we walked.
Time stood still [time seemed to stop; I didn’t feel like time was passing] when we were together like this. My mind was truly at ease [my thinking and my emotions were relaxed]. Then we would return to my place in Sapporo, usually going directly to the futon. It seemed like we couldn’t get enough of each other [we wanted a lot of “feeling close to each other”—we needed it]. But eventually we would get hungry, so we reluctantly got up [slowly, because we didn’t want to get up] and went to a restaurant to have dinner; or, if she had to go home, we would say goodbye at my door with sweet kisses and promises to meet again soon.
I hope you don’t find this embarrassing. I’m not embarrassed at all [zenzen], telling you about it. To me, it was such a beautiful, almost perfect experience—one of the most beautiful [experiences] in my life, and because it happened in Japan, I want to share it with you [tell you about it].
We didn’t always ride on the motorcycle. Many times we would walk or take a train to a movie theater or restaurant in Sapporo (most places were less than a twenty-minute walk), and we enjoyed city life. Or we would ride our bicycles to the river; there, I would put on my roller blades and she would ride her bicycle as we followed the path along the river. It was always a lot of fun, and I felt like a kid [child] again. And in the winter, we didn’t ride the motorcycle at all, of course. We ate in restaurants, or she would prepare a dish [a meal] at home and bring it to my apartment. Sometimes we went cross-country-skiing on the course at Nakajima Park, which is so lovely in winter. And afterward, as usual, we would go to the futon.
It was puzzling to me that she felt so free to be with me in public. The main part of Sapporo [the popular central part] isn’t so big, yet [but] she never worried about being seen by her husband or someone she knew. And when we walked along the street, she usually took my hand [she held my hand]. She also held my hand in the movie theater, or while sitting at some festival like the popular Yosakoi dance festival. More than that, she introduced me to her best friend, and the three of us went together to the well-known “Beer Garden” held in Ō-dori Park. And I got an even bigger surprise when she introduced me to her daughter.
Quite early in our relationship, there was a food festival at the local international school. In fact, Marci and I weren’t lovers at that time, although there was definitely [for sure] a strong feeling between us. Anyway, she asked me if I was going to the festival, and when I said yes, she said she would meet me in front of the station near the school. When she arrived, her 21-year-old daughter was with her. The three of us spent the afternoon together at the festival. And [I] seeing her talking so intimately [emotionally near, close to] with her daughter, seeing her overwhelming [so strong, so powerful] womanliness [100% woman] touched me [went into my heart] so deeply. Her femininity [female-ness] was so incredibly [shinjirarenai] powerful. And although it [what I will say now] may sound strange to you, right [chōdo] at that moment, I began to feel that I was falling in love with her.
Like I said before, I think an artist’s mind is strong but his heart [kokoro] makes him weak. Yes, [weak] and foolish, too.
Chapter 39
I didn’t spend all my free time with Marci. I went to the training room at the municipal [ shimin; Sapporo-shi no] gym in Nakajima Park a couple times a week. I occasionally played basketball at a large gym downtown [central city], although “one hundred players shooting at four baskets while waiting one hour in order to get into a five-minute full-court game [a regular game with two baskets], then waiting and shooting at a crowded basket again for another hour” isn’t really basketball. And once I went back to the neighborhood court where I had played basketball with the Taiwanese students when I was studying at the Sapporo Institute of Japanese Language, but the city [city workers] had removed [took away] the basket.
I already told you about cross-country skiing at Nakajima Park. I went there with other friends; not only Marci. And I loved the Hokkaido winters! I think this is because I grew up [I had my childhood] in Michigan [state], and we had lots of snow there, too. In fact, I love snow so much that I regularly shoveled it [used a shovel to push it away] around my apartment building in Sapporo. I’m serious! [Honto ni!] I didn’t have much time in the morning, so I just shoveled a path from the front door to the sidewalk; I knew that the doorman, who came at nine o’clock, would finish the job [finish shoveling the snow]. But many times I came home at eight or nine [o’clock] at night and the snow was quite deep again, so I shoveled out the small parking lot and made a path along the sidewalk to the recycling bins [hako]. It usually took 30-40 minutes, depending on how deep the snow was. But I didn’t care, because I enjoyed doing it. I loved the street lights sparkling like diamonds on the snow; I loved the deep silence of the winter’s night and the sharp [loud, clear] sound of the shovel scraping [moving along] the icy parking lot; I loved the slow, rhythmic clouds of steam coming from my breathing [I could see my breath because the air was cold]; and I was so happy to get such good exercise while doing something so enjoyable! You might not believe me when I tell you, but to me, it was heavenly [tengoku mitai]. Most of the residents of my building (they were all Japanese except for one Korean lady) said “thank you” if they passed by [walked by me], and I could tell [see] that they were puzzled. “Why is this foreigner shoveling the snow? Isn’t that the doorman’s job?”
I mentioned before that I had a bicycle. I bought it for ¥4,000 at the second-hand [recycle] shop, and it was in perfect condition. I rode it every day to Nakajima Koen station. But when I reached the station near the college by train, I had to walk 20-25 minutes to the college, so I bought another bicycle—a new one! I rode my old bicycle to that station and parked it there. Thus [in this way] I could go to work by riding one bicycle to Nakajima Koen station, take the train to the station near the college, and ride the other bicycle to the college. It was so enjoyable that I even did it in winter. A bicycle isn’t so stable [steady] on snow, so riding it was a bit [a little] like skiing—I had to focus my attention completely [concentrate], and adjust [change] my balance often. In two winters of riding daily, I only fell twice! I really enjoyed riding in the snow. To me, it was sport. And I got to [was able to] do it twice a day!
I liked the cold weather. Because I’m a skier, I knew very well how to dress to keep warm. But I also had a special technique [method; way] that I used, to help me keep warm. As you know, the body [karada] can adjust to extremes [very hot or very cold] of temperature, but it takes time. Here [at this place in the book] I’m going to tell you another “hen na gaijin” story, but it’s not so strange if you consider it [think about it] awhile. In November in Sapporo, the temperature gets quite cold, but I didn’t use my apartment’s heater at all. I wore sweaters and sometimes even a jacket [light coat] in the apartment. I often wore light gloves, too, especially when I was writing. So, for one month, I was a little uncomfortable—and sometimes very uncomfortable—but I knew that my body was adjusting to the cold. Then, from the beginning of December, I used my heater normally (although my body was so well-adjusted that I didn’t need to use much gas). And all winter I was warm—inside my apartment, outside while shoveling snow, riding my bicycle to school, or even night-time skiing. In my classroom at the college, many of my students complained about the cold weather. They hated winter. “No problem,” I said; “let me tell you about a little technique you can use. It will help you to keep warm all winter.” But when they listened to me describe the technique, their response was always the same: “Iya da!”
Winter was also a good time to go to onsen. I’m sure you remember Bob, the Tokai university professor who Mr Naito introduced me to. Well, he and I became friends, and we got into [we made] a habit [kuse, shukan] of driving in his car up into the mountains to a small riverside onsen called Koganeyu. It was a family-owned place, very friendly, and it had a wonderful and uncrowded rotenburo. In fact, Bob and I were usually the only ones in it [the only people in the rotenburo], although sometimes one or two others [other people] might be there. After a good, long scrub [a complete body cleaning], we would go out into the freezing, snowy air and settle into [enter slowly] the hot water. Then we would spend an hour or more talking about life, about philosophy, and often about women. Bob wasn’t the “professor type” [he didn’t look or act like a typical professor], but he was intelligent and also very perceptive [he had understanding; he could see clearly] about people and their ideas, their dreams [kibō], and their motives [why they acted the way they did]. So, our conversations were always interesting. And as we talked, we could see the river, only ten or twelve meters away, and hear the music of the water flowing [moving] over the rocks.
Bob had been married to a Japanese woman for a long time and he had several grown [adult] daughters and a teenage son named Kenny. Bob didn’t seem to get along with [didn’t have a good relationship with] his wife—I don’t know why, because she was very kind and gentle—and he talked a lot about whether or not he should buy some land in the countryside and live there alone after he retired. That [talking about buying land], along with Marci [and talking about Marci], were frequent topics of conversations while sitting in the rotenburo.
Then, after we were well-cooked [cooked by the hot water—I mean this humorously], we would dry off, get dressed, and relax for a while in the lounge. Then we would drive back down the mountain, stopping at a cheap but delicious kaiten sushi shop on the outskirts [the edge] of Sapporo. We were always hungry and thirsty at those times after the onsen, and we each ate at least six or seven small plates [2 pieces on each plate] of sushi and drank many cups of green tea. My, oh my [waa; honto ni], what a wonderful end to a perfect experience [eating sushi was a wonderful end to the experience of the onsen].
We did this exact same trip [chōdo onaji keiken] many times, sometimes bringing his son Kenny with us. Bob said to me once, “It’s interesting how [that] we always do the same thing when we get together, isn’t it” [nē]. I answered, “Yes, but it’s such an enjoyable thing to do.” “Maybe you’re right,” he said; then he used a popular American saying, “If it ain’t (isn’t) broken, don’t fix it.” That means, if an experience seems good, there is no need to change it.
Although it seemed like that’s all we did [onsen e iku bakkari mitai], we occasionally did other things as well. We had met for coffee, as I said earlier; we went grocery [food] shopping a couple of times; I had dinner at his house; he came to a party I had at my apartment; we attended a picnic for some of his students; I went to Tokai university for one of their festivals; and we drove out to the countryside to see the house he had finally bought for his future retirement. But our favorite activity was going to Koganeyu onsen.
I liked Bob. He was tall, heavy-set [a bit heavy], around fifty years old, and he loved to talk. His Japanese was quite fluent, and it was amazing [very surprising, in a good way] to watch him charm [to attract, to interest, to please] store clerks or waitresses with his jovial [playful, happy] conversation. He was a little eccentric [unusual; different from other people], and I liked this quality [way; characteristic] about him. He was always interesting. And like I said, he loved to talk. Wow[waa], that guy could talk! [he was able to talk a lot].
Besides [in addition to] his daytime job at Tokai, he taught English classes two nights a week at NHK Bunka Senta [cultural center]. He became busy, so he asked me if I would like to teach one of those classes. I agreed, so one night he took me to NHK, to introduce me. The staff there seemed to like me, so I submitted [gave them] my documents and I began teaching there once a week. It was a very enjoyable experience for me; my students were extremely high-quality, well-educated, and interesting to talk to. And like all my English teaching, that class wasn’t like work for me [shigoto ja nai mitai], but a party. And like I told you at the beginning of this rather poor [bad quality] and probably uninteresting love letter [this book]—about Mr Ninomiya’s conversation lounge in Takadanobaba—it’s nice [good, pleasant] to go to a party and get paid for it.
Anyway, I enjoyed socializing with [spending time with] Bob, and I think I even envied him [urayamashii] a little. He had a good wife, a wonderful son, a nice house, a retirement house, a university position with good conditions [good salary, few hours, good holidays, etc], he spoke Japanese well, and he had made a good life for himself in Hokkaido. These were all things that I would like to have. But I could tell [see] that he wasn’t so happy [amari shiawase ja nai]. I could sense [feel] a sadness behind the smile. I remember his wife telling me that she sometimes woke up in the middle of the night [around 2am-4am] to find [see] him going to the kitchen to get something to eat. That lonely [sabishii] image sticks in my mind [memory]. It seems like nowadays [konogoro], in this modern world we live in, men—American men more than Japanese men, I think—are always looking for something, but they don’t know what it is. And that’s why it’s so hard to find. What was Bob looking for? What was I looking for? For sure, the heart is a lonely hunter.
I made many Japanese friends in my eight years in Japan, but in all that time [during those 8 years], I only had one American friend. It was Bob.
Chapter 40
As the months went by, I was seeing [meeting] Marci regularly. We even took a long train trip together to Shiretoko Hanto on the east side of Hokkaido, and it was such a relaxing and satisfying experience. It [or I] felt like we were a young married couple. But this troubled me [it made me feel uneasy, worried], because she wasn’t my wife. And it [this situation] troubled me even more because she seemed happy with our arrangement [our situation as it is]. If she was happy, that meant that she wasn’t thinking about divorcing her husband. If she didn’t divorce her husband, she and I had no future together [“had no future” has a stronger feeling than “didn’t have a future,” but the meaning is the same]. If so, I didn’t want to continue like this [konomama].
We didn’t talk about this. I think we both felt that our relationship was so good and so smooth [easy to do; no problems] that we didn’t want to disturb [bother; make trouble] it. So we just continued as if everything was fine. I should have been happy. After all [look at it like this:], I was getting [receiving from this relationship] a lot, without any responsibilities [for example, no duty to take care of her, etc]. As we say, “Why buy the cow, when you can get the milk for free?” [Meaning: why should you get married, if you can get all the advantages of a wife, but none of the responsibilities?] I was getting companionship [a friend to be with], love, affection [kisses, hugs], and an incredible physical [sexual] relationship, and at no cost! [not money cost, but no duty, no responsibility]. I think most men would be happy with such an arrangement. But you probably know by now [at this page in the book] that I’m not like most men. So I was frustrated [a feeling that I can’t get what I want or need]. And sometimes, in my frustration, I said to Marci, “I think you’re just playing with me” [you’re not serious about this relationship; you just want to have fun]. “I’m not playing,” she always replied, but I was never satisfied with her answer.
Back in Sapporo, she sometimes wanted to sleep overnight [all night] at my apartment, but I wouldn’t let her. She asked me for a key [to the apartment], so she could come over anytime, but I didn’t give her one. I felt like I had to keep some emotional distance from her. If we began to live like a married couple, I wouldn’t be able to stand [couldn’t tolerate] not being married to her.
In spite of this [in spite of what I just said], we remained [stayed] very close [strong relationship]. We couldn’t be near each other without holding hands, in public or in private [with other people near, or alone]. If we ate o-bento, it was like a banquet [feast; special dinner], because we were doing it together. If we watched a DVD, it was like the actors were performing just for us, [we were] the prince and princess. And on the futon, it was a true joining of two bodies and two souls. It was indescribably [I can’t describe it] powerful, but not at all [zenzen nai] animalistic [it wasn’t like two animals]. She was all woman [100% female, feminine] and she brought out [pulled out of me; elicited] every bit [all] of man in me. Many times during our lovemaking [sex], I said to her, “What a woman you are!” [You are completely a woman!] I think she was pleased [made happy; enjoyed] by the delight [joy, mental pleasure] I got [received] from her, and she gave even more of herself [she opened her heart and her body more to me], without fear or embarrassment. I never experienced such a thing [sō iu koto/keiken] before, so I never knew it existed until I met her. And yet [but; even so], to most people, I’m sure she seemed like an ordinary [futsū no] housewife. But there was nothing ordinary about Marci. When I took her to the futon, I could see who she really was. She was Cleopatra.
If she was Cleopatra, I felt like the Roman [roma no] general, Mark Antony, who was destined [fate {unmei} already decided] to have her for a short time and then lose her [not have her anymore].
So this was another burden [weight; heavy thought in my mind] I carried during that second year in Sapporo, along with the college’s tight system [strict management], without a gym for badminton, without Kano-sensei, and soon the departure of Suzuki-sensei and Ikeda-sensei. And I couldn’t find a good place in Sapporo to play basketball. I was beginning to feel like I was caught in a trap. But paradoxically [it seems to be the opposite], I was happy in Japan. I was home! I had a job, and I had a woman with a beautiful soul [pure heart; wonderful spirit; “inner” beauty]. But the conditions of the job were difficult and the conditions of the relationship were difficult. And I couldn’t improve those conditions! This is why I could be happy and sad at the same time.
The turning point [an important time when things changed] came when I decided to take a trip alone. I had discovered [found] a website on the Internet that was a forum [meeting place; discussion place] for foreigners living in Cambodia, and after reading it for a few months, I thought that Cambodia would be so interesting to visit. And, like many people, I had always wanted to see Angkor Wat. So I decided that I would go there on my next holiday.
I spent a week in Cambodia, and I loved it. The people were friendly and pure [honest, innocent, child-like], the cost of living [bukka] was cheap, and the weather was good. Besides that [And], there were many jobs for professors and consultants [sodan suru hito]. I decided that it would be a satisfactory [good] place to go if I couldn’t resolve [solve; make better] my “college” and “Marci” problems. And I could use my knowledge and skills to help the Cambodian people build their country, which had been destroyed after so many years of war.
I can guess what you’re thinking. The word “gaman” is probably in your mind now. “Why doesn’t Katry just bear it?” [gaman]. But this isn’t the American way. To Americans, change is more valuable that toleration [gaman]. I have spent years trying to learn the Japanese way, but I find this point—gaman—very difficult. I had been taught since childhood that I should always try to be the master of my fate, instead of just accepting it. In Sapporo, while my situation [my life] unfolded [began to happen; became], I tried to accept it and be happy with it. I knew I was lucky, but I couldn’t feel lucky. I tried [to feel lucky]. Believe me, I tried. I wanted to be more Buddha-like [motto butsu no yō] and have inner [in my heart] peace, no matter [regardless] what was happening in my life. But I had the added burden [extra weight, problem] of a difficult writing career—good books but no readers! So it wasn’t just one area [part] of my life that had problems, but three: my writing career, my job, and my love life [relationship; family life]. And I couldn’t improve any of them! If this situation took away too much of my energy, I might lose my ability to write [have no energy to write]. If I stopped writing, my soul [spirit] would die. So I had to do something to protect my soul. That’s why I decided to leave Japan and live in Cambodia. I was leaving home—Japan—to find food [I mean spiritual food, nourishment], because there was no food at that time at home.
Like I said in my story about Bob—who seemed to be looking for something—I, too, was looking for something. What was I looking for? In an ideal world [perfect world], Marci would be single, I would have gotten that Hokkaido University position I told you about earlier (instead of some younger person!), and my books would get published. And then, for the first time in my life [if these things happened], my pillow would be soft [I could sleep peacefully at night; my heart could relax].
Americans are a restless people [always moving; can’t relax]. From the earliest history [rekishi] of America—when people found themselves [when they became] in an unsolvable [can’t fix; can’t improve] situation—they moved [ugoku] west. The whole [zenbu no] history of America is a history of people moving west. Even today, when people are dissatisfied [not satisfied; unhappy], they move [hikoshi suru] to California, America’s west, to find a better life. This is why California is the most populous [most people; highest population] state. And some people think that Asia is the new American west: many thousands of Americans have moved to Japan, Thailand, Cambodia, and other Asian countries, and thousands more move every year! So, even though a Japanese person told me that I have a “Japanese soul,” I’m still carrying on [continuing; following] that strange American tradition [custom]. Always moving! [I mean ugoku, not hikoshi suru].
When I got back to Sapporo after my vacation, I contacted [renraku] a British professor working in Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. (I had read about him on the Cambodian website.) He had a position at Pannasastra University [pronounced pan-a-SASS-tra], which is the Tōdai [Tokyo University] of Cambodia (although it was nearer in quality to a tandai ). [Meaning: Pannasastra is the best university in Cambodia, just like Tōdai is the best university in Japan; so, Pannasastra is the Todai of Cambodia]. He said that if I returned to Phnom Penh, he would introduce me to people in that university’s administration [managers]. So I had a “safety net” [protection, just in case, like performers at a circus] if I needed it.
By the end of my second year in Sapporo, nothing had changed [in my situation], and with a very sad heart, I decided to move [hikoshi suru] to Cambodia. Even now [ima made], I regret it every day, but on the other hand, I couldn’t stay [in Sapporo]. My situation was killing me [damaging me spiritually; destroying my soul]. Now I am living in exile [living away from my country]. As I write this letter to you, I am living even farther away, in New Zealand, but Japan is my home.
Chapter 41
Does this story have a happy ending? I hope so, because my life isn’t finished just yet [“just yet” gives the feeling of “there may be just a little more time left”]. Let me tell you what happened since I left Sapporo.
I was hired as a full professor [kyōju] at Pannasastra University in Phnom Penh. They asked me to work full-time in the business management department, but I was writing a lot so I decided to work part-time. I also worked once or twice a week for a business consulting [sodan] company, teaching Cambodian managers “communication skills,” like how to organize staff meetings, how to motivate employees [how to make them work better], and so on. I rented a two-bedroom house, bought a small motorcycle, and tried to enjoy life.
Most of the foreign professors were men 40-60 years old, and nearly all of them had a young Cambodian wife or girlfriend, usually around 22 years old and very beautiful. There were many girls chasing me [they were interested in me to be a boyfriend; they wanted a date with me]. One reason was because I was a foreigner—many women don’t like Cambodian men because the men have many girlfriends after getting married. Also, the women like older men, just like Chinese women do. And finally [the last reason], I was rich! The average [futsū no] monthly salary in Cambodia is about ¥4,000, but with my two part-time jobs, I was making over ¥100,000! Not much for Japan, but in Cambodia, it’s a fortune [a lot of money]. But even though I felt lonely sometimes, I never became interested in these women. I could only think of Marci.
Marci came to visit me in Cambodia, and finally I told her my true feelings about marriage. (Maybe I realized my true feelings only after being away from her!) Anyway, I told her I wanted to marry her, and we could live like a prince and princess in this tropical paradise [tengoku], working only part-time, living by the sea, and enjoying life completely. I could write a lot, we could build a school for poor children, and maybe teach them English and Japanese so they could get a good job in the future. And I told Marci that if she wanted to return to Japan, of course I would be so happy to do that, too. If we were married, I wouldn’t need to find a job and get a work visa. I could teach private students and make a good income [salary], with no pressure from the Japanese Department of Immigration. It all [everything I said] seemed like a wonderful dream.
Anyway, she said she would think about it, and when she returned to Japan, I encouraged her to come back to Cambodia to live. She hesitated, and again I told her, “I think you’re just playing with me.” She said that she wasn’t, and for the first time, she told me, “You are the one man in my life.” [The only man I ever loved.]
She came once again to visit me, and when she returned to Japan, I did something very foolish. I gave her an ultimatum [a final demand]: I said, “Tell me you will marry me, or we are finished” [or the relationship will end]. She said she couldn’t, so I stopped communicating with her. Love makes people act foolishly, doesn’t it [nē].
After that, the paradise of Cambodia didn’t seem like paradise anymore, without my dream of having Marci there with me, and after two years, the Chinese philosopher rolled up his bamboo mat [bamboo sleeping roll or bed] and left.
I felt like I had accomplished [did; achieved] a lot while I was in Cambodia. I finished the second novel [shōsetsu] of a set [two novels that are connected], about a community in America that tries to live by true American values. These books show how I’d like Americans to be able to live today—not chasing money, but having strong values, and taking care of each other. But, of course, the books aren’t about the values, but [they are about] the people. So, these two novels, one written in Sapporo and one written in Phnom Penh, are very important to me. I’m trying to find a publisher for them.
Also, I hope I had a positive influence on the people in Cambodia. My university students were either the sons and daughters of high [important] government officials and businessmen, or they were very intelligent but poor [binbo] students who attended the university on a scholarship [they didn’t pay]. My students would be the leaders of tomorrow’s [mirai no] Cambodia, and I talked and talked and talked [so much talking] about honesty, hard work, and service [do something good] to their country. And, just as I did with my students in Sapporo, I tried to teach my Cambodian students the idea of “Dekiru dekiru dekiru!” As I told them many times: if you believe you can do something, you can do it.
Finally, (and this may seem like a small point): I played the best basketball of my life [my most skillful performances]. A few foreign professors and I had made friends with an American guy about twenty-eight years old, who was a member of the Mormon Church, and we played basketball at the church, two or three times a week. A few young Cambodian guys also came, and we had many fast [fast speed, not fast time] and competitive [ii kyōsō ga atta] games. Each day, there were different players, so the games were always changing, always interesting. When I told the other players that I was leaving Cambodia, the Mormon guy, who loved basketball, came to me. “Thank you so much, Katry,” he said. “For what?” I asked. “You really inspired me [gave me motivation and hope]. I thought I would have to give up [stop playing] basketball at age 30 or 35, but after seeing you, able to play at your age, has made me realize that I can play basketball all my life. So, thank you.” “You’re welcome,” I replied.
Chapter 42
I’m living in New Zealand now. Life [seikatsu] is good here, as you probably know. The people are friendly, the streets are wide, and Nature is quite fresh [clean, new] and beautiful. New Zealand is almost the same size as Japan, but there are only 4.5 million people! I enjoy living here, although [but] already I am forgetting my Japanese [language]. If I could close my eyes and make a wish [ask for my kibō], I would wish that when I opened my eyes, I would be in Japan. Right now, there is an empty place [gap; hole] in my heart. I feel like the great poet Bashō, when he wrote:
tabi ni yande
yume wa kareno wo
kake-meguru

I didn’t contact Marci for about a year, but I finally sent her a letter with some photos of Wellington, the city I live in. I guess I felt relaxed enough to be able to keep in touch with her. Since then, we have been exchanging [sending] a few e-mails, but when she sent me a picture of her first grandson, her “angel” [tenshi], as she called him, I knew beyond all doubt [I knew completely; 100%] that she felt that it [the relationship with me] was finished between us. I thought I was her angel!
I’ve always kept in touch with Keiko. She has been living all these years in the San Francisco area [near San Francisco], teaching Japanese to university students. I remember meeting her for the first time when she was teaching at Tokyo Academy in Harajuku—she looked so gentle and pure! Keiko is the person I like and admire most in this world, and I feel lucky to have known her. I told her that I’m going to try to get this love letter published in Japan, and she can keep the proceeds [any money that comes from selling it]. I said this because I didn’t stay with her and take care of her like I should have. And when I think back on my life [when I remember my life in the past], the best years were with her. She gave herself completely to me; that’s something Marci never did. [Keiko gave me everything; Marci didn’t.]
I still keep in touch with the Naitos. Recently I received a nice box of osembe from them! They know I like osembe a lot. If someone asked me who my three best friends in the world are, I would say Keiko, and Tsuneji and Sachiko Naito. Though we are apart [not together], to me they are like my family.
Occasionally I get an e-mail from Bob. He seems to be fine, and looking forward to retirement. He’s a good person, and I miss him. I really do. [Honto ni].
I wasn’t contacted by Ikeda-sensei or Inuyama-sensei, but I exchanged a few e-mails with Kano-sensei and Suzuki-sensei when I was in Cambodia, and Kano even said he might visit me there. But gradually the e-mails grew less [decreased] and finally stopped, although I don’t know why. Sometimes I wonder if Japanese people consider [think] that institutional connections [work, family, school connections, etc] are more important than personal ones [personal connections]. In other words [to iu no wa], maybe it’s easy for Japanese people to keep friendly relations with relatives and colleagues, but when those relationships change—through divorce or people finding new jobs—the friendship changes, too. I noticed something like this before, when I taught the businessmen at the big joint-venture company in Tokyo for one year. Do you remember me telling you about that job? We seemed to be developing [making] a good friendship; we communicated well, we ate and drank in izakaya sometimes, and I even invited them to a party that Keiko and I had in our apartment in Miyamaedaira. But when the class was finished, I never heard from them again [all communication from them stopped], even though I tried to keep in touch. Did the same thing happen with Ikeda, Inuyama, Kano and Suzuki? When we were no longer [not anymore] working at the same place, did they feel that it was difficult to continue the friendship? Or maybe I wasn’t a very good friend to them. I don’t know. This is one thing about Japan that puzzles me. Which is more important, the institutional connection or the personal connection? [Meaning: are work and family relationships more important than personal {person-to-person} relationships?] I suppose I will never know the answer to this question.
I also wrote a letter to Tomoko from Cambodia—I wrote it in French because my Japanese writing is terrible and her French is much better than her English—and she answered my letter warmly [there was a warm feeling to the letter]. The following year, when I heard that her husband Jacques had passed away [died], I sent her a long and supportive [to help her; to make her feel better] letter. She didn’t answer my letter.
Time flies. It stops for no one. It won’t stop for you, and it won’t stop for me.
I have cancer. I just found out recently, but surprisingly, I don’t feel bad about it. [Meaning: No bad emotions; I’m not angry, disappointed, afraid, etc.] I feel that I lived a good life, even though it was so difficult. Fate never gave me what I wanted, but it gave me what I needed: health, and an interesting life. I needed these things in order to write. And when I read what I have written, I know that my books say exactly what I needed to say. I expressed myself purely [I said {I wrote} exactly what I wanted to say], I think, and I expressed myself from my heart [I put my deepest feelings into my writing]. Because of that, I feel lucky. And I hope, sometime in the future, other people will read those books, and maybe they will understand life, or understand themselves, better. [Meaning: I hope that people in the future will understand life better, or understand themselves better, by reading my books]. Unfortunately, I won’t be around [I won’t be alive] to see it. I can only imagine the future.
I’m going to die. I’m not afraid. I have worked hard all my life, so maybe it will be good to rest. In any case, I told my cousin twenty-five years ago that when I thought my writing work was finished, that would be a good time to die. I think that time has come. [I discussed this topic with my cousin 25 years ago. I said, “When I think my work is finished, that will be a good time to die.” And now, today, I think my work is finished, so it is time to die. This is the right time.] I have one last wish, though. I would like to die in Japan. Then, my last moments will be with Japanese people. I have a Japanese soul, someone told me. So, maybe that soul should stay in Japan forever, where it can be happy.
Well, there isn’t much more to say, so we’re nearing the end of the line [densha-sen no shuten ga chikai desu—Meaning: you and I are coming to the end of the story]. Eight years—a long time, but not long enough [nagai aida da ke do, tarinai]. There are many stories I haven’t told, and I could continue talking, but I don’t want to be like a train on the Yamanote Line in Tokyo, going round and round [not stopping; making many circles]. If I wrote more, I would tell you about more of the people who touched my heart [made a strong emotional connection], even if they don’t realize it.
This [this idea that many people touched my heart but they don’t realize it] makes me think of my high school French teacher, Mrs Gardiner [pronounced GAR-din-er], who inspired me, and gave me courage and confidence, but I never had a chance to tell her how much she gave me. In the same way, many more people than I wrote about here [in this letter] left a deep [strong] impression on me. They might think I have forgotten them, but I haven’t forgotten. I remember them very well. I remember their eyes; I remember the sound of their voice; I remember their smile. I remember the warm feeling I had when I was with them. And I cherish [hold in my heart; love] the memory.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, one last time: I love my own country [America] very much. All my books, except this one, have been about America, and about my deepest hopes for its improvement and happy future. It is a very special place and I will always be its child. I am, and I will always be, American. I am proud of this. But I feel that there is also something special about Japan. It was kinder to me than America was. I felt that in Japan, more people could see me more clearly as I am. [Meaning: They know “the real me” better; they understand me better.] Of course, no one knows another person completely [100%]. I’m trying to say that Japanese people knew me better, or tried to know me better. I am very grateful [thankful] for that. I am more grateful than I can express [say] in words.
Thus [therefore] I write this love letter to you, the people of Japan. I hope you didn’t find it [think it was] boring. I didn’t write it as a book, with beautiful words and ideas. It’s just a plain [simple, ordinary] conversation. I feel like you and I are sitting in a quiet room and I am talking to you. Only that [sore dake].
I am Cat Tree Rain, who was sitting under the cherry tree, looking at all the beautiful blossoms [flowers] that make up [comprise; represent] Japan. But too soon they began to flutter like butterflies to the ground [fall down gently; move like a butterfly]. When the last one had fallen, I closed my eyes and tried to remember their rare [uncommon; unusual] beauty. Will I be able to be there for another season, to see them again? I don’t know. Time seems to be against me. [Meaning: I don’t have enough time; I’m getting old; life is short, etc]. But to see them again is my greatest [biggest, most important, strongest] wish. Lacking that [if I don’t get that wish {to return to Japan} ], I will sleep with sweet memory as my pillow. [Meaning: If I can’t return to Japan, I will have many good memories, and these might help me to relax, or sleep better.]

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