可笑しい日本語 – Weird Japanese

Words Best Left Unspoken (to Americans)

 

“In America, what do you call this?” The English teacher sitting next to me pointed his chopsticks toward my bento lunch box as we ate together. “This?” I picked up the round deep-fried dessert with my own chopsticks for a closer examination. “Ummm, Cream-Puff?” A smirk formed on my co-worker’s face as he spoke. “In Japanese, it’s shuukuriimu. What do you think when I say shuukuriimu?” I smirked as well as I reached toward my foot and made a scrubbing motion with my knuckles over the surface of my slippers. We burst out laughing, then immediately consulted an electronic dictionary to figure out why the heck the Japanese would give anything you put in your mouth a name sounding so much like “shoe cream”. Clearly it wasn’t borrowed from English. In this case the French word chou de la crem became Japanified into shuukuriimu. Hence began the silly conversation of ridiculous Japanese words that left me nearly choking on my rice, which I now happily present to you (minus the rice). Enjoy.

 

ポカリスエット – Pocari Sweat

First up, beverages. Much more refreshing than it sounds, Pocari-sweat, along with its more aptly named rival, Aquarius, are two of the most popular sports drinks in Japan. Yet the mystery remains. Who is Pocari-san, and what is so special about his perspiration? Just try not to think of that as you hydrate, as it does have a slightly salty taste.

 

カルピス – Calpis

Try saying this one out loud five times fast and you’ll get the joke. Then ask yourself, would you prefer it hot or cold? The choice is yours at most convenience stores, for only about 150 yen.

 

バイキング – Viking

This refers to any all-you-can-eat buffet restaurant. It makes me wonder about my Scandanavian heritage and any possible relation to my oversized appetite. Perhaps the Japanese are on to something here…

 

最高！ – saiko!

This is actually one of my favorite Japanese words. The characters literally translate to “most high”, and it is a popular slang phrase used to compliment someone who is exceptionally cool. Not too unlike our use of the word “awesome”. Next time you want to complement your best friend try telling her she’s saiko. See how that goes.

 

クリームコロン – Cream Collon

No, it has nothing to do with that. Collon is a rough Anglicization of the Japanese onomatopoeia korokoro, meaning “to lightly roll”.

 

大人味 – otona aji

This one caused me a bit of confusion on my first encounter. I had recently learned these three characters, which literally translate to “adult flavor”. My question was why did my miso soup need to be adult flavored? And what does that even mean?! Then I started noticing it everywhere. Adult flavored rice seasoning… adult flavored chocolate… I was getting a little sketched out so I consulted a fellow English teacher, who explained that a better (more indirect) translation would be “mature flavor”. In other words, rich flavor. Phew.

 

キンキキッズ – Kinki Kids

Speaking of “adult flavor”… Meet the hugely popular Japanese pop idol group from the 1990’s, off the major record label “Johnny’s Entertainment”. Oh boy, where do I begin? First of all, Kinki is derived from the characters 近畿, meaning “area around the capitol”. Although not entirely synonymous, Kinki is a more traditional name for the Kansai region – the urban tri-city area of Japan containing Osaka, Kobe, and the ancient capital of Kyoto. These innocent young men were merely showing some pride for their home region of Japan, where I too have enjoyed living. In recent years the word “kinki” has fallen out of use in favor of the more popular term, “kansai”. So much so, that this year Kinki University officially changed its name to Kindai – an abbreviation of Kinki Daigaku (daigaku means university). Imagine asking your mom for permission to study abroad at “Kinki University”, and you can probably guess why.

 

ふうか – Fuka

A largely popular girls name. I would advise adopting a nickname before departing on that study abroad program in New York City, miss Fuka.

 

ゆう – Yu

Another very popular girls name. Who? Me? No, you!

 

Gary – ゲリ

Here’s a little English to Japanese bonus. Any Garys out there planning a vacation to Japan should be advised. When pronounced by any Japanese person, the name Gary will inevitably end up sounding like geri. Now, it’s popular for foreigners living in Japan these days to find cool kanji for their names. Mine for example is 序新 – pronounced jonii and roughly meaning “new beginning”. Geri-san, however, should be warned against such a notion. When a Japanese person hears the word geri, their initial thought will most certainly be 下痢, meaning diarrhea.

Tindog Tacloban – Tacloban Rise Up

JCF Philippines Mission Trip 2015

“Hey guys I just got a message from the school!” Pearl held up her small cellphone as she shouted over the noise of the road, “The kids are really excited to see us!” I eased back in my seat and smiled as I gazed out the window, enjoying the warm beauty of the Filipino countryside. We bounced along the dirt road with growing anticipation over the great joys before us.

Tacloban March 2014

November 2013 holds memories of great tragedy for the Philippines. Typhoon Yolanda, the strongest storm in recorded history, dealt heavy casualties and extensive damage to the archipelago. In March 2014, I had the opportunity to witness the aftermath myself. With a small team from the JET Christian Fellowship we embarked for Tacloban, Yolanda’s ground zero. The destruction and suffering we witnessed were overwhelming – like a National Geographic exposé of a warzone. Barefoot children wandering muddy streets, oil tankers parked amongst seaside slums, trash and rubble indistinguishable from buildings… the task of recovery was daunting. Yet we came with a simple mission – to bring hope and encouragement to just one school – San Vicente Elementary School. Despite the horrific survival stories we heard from this rural community, we saw within them a brilliant resilience, and just as brilliant smiles. For three days we laughed, played, and learned with those children. We taught them a bit of English and Japanese, but their lessons for us were far superior – lessons of gratitude and joy through times of suffering. Now a year later, it was those lessons and those smiles that came vividly to my memory as our van pushed on along the muddy road. But would they remember us as well?

 2014 San Vicente kids

“Ok we’re here!” We were too excited to know what to do, but apparently we weren’t the only ones. We sat in shock as a humorous scene of mild confusion unraveled at the school outside our window. A chaotic game of tag was collapsing on itself as our van rolled into sight. The children now took up new roles of running about franticly, pointing at our vehicle, jumping up and down, screaming with delight, or a messy combination of the above. But we were still frozen in our seats. Is this the right school? The image my memory was holding up didn’t quite match. The San Vicente Elementary School outside my window had a new green roof and bright yellow walls. Doors and windows were propped open to let in a warm breeze, this time by choice. Even the palm trees proudly displayed their new limbs. The manic activity of the children was starting to look more like an un-choreographed victory dance. And as it should be – recovery is a beautiful thing.

San Vicente Elementary School before and after (left 2014 // right 2015)

“What do we do?” I asked in a dazed confusion. Tito Bombell let out a warm Filipino laughed. “What are you waiting for? Go!” As the van doors opened, the swarm of children buzzed to a heightened frenzy. My eyes stung with emotion as my feet dreamily approached the school entrance. I started laughing as my vision blurred. A small group of children emerged from the new building holding something in their little hands. As I cleared my eyes I could make it out. Looking as fresh as did a year ago, was a Japanese flag with handwritten messages of encouragement – messages from us. With each step that drew us nearer, the children bubbled over in greater excitement with smiles that couldn’t be contained by their precious little faces. After recognizing some of those precious little faces, I too was fighting to stay composed. They proudly led us into their new main meeting room and took their seats. We made our way to the stage, stunned by the new ceiling and freshly painted walls. “Hello everybody!” Pearl’s voice signaled the beginning of our reunion ceremony. “HELLO!” The response was nearly deafening. “Do you remember us?” YES!” “Who am I?” “AUNTIE PEARL!” “Who is this?” “MATT!” “Who is she?” “KIMBERLIN!” “Who is he?” “JOHNNY!”

left: Kids holding the flag presented by the 2014 team (right)

main school building before and after

Three days; that was all the time we spent at San Vicente Elementary School last year. What can you really accomplish in three days? The need was far greater than we could meet, but we did what we could – donations of new school supplies, some snacks, mediocre English classes. However, I learned that these things were insignificant relative to the greatest gift we gave them. Love. It was simply our presence and our joy in being with them; that is what meant the most to these kids. During last year’s short trip, God’s biggest blessing to these kids was simple. It was us. Of all the millions of children in the Philippines that suffered through Yolanda’s brutality, God chose to send us to them. He hand-selected a team of English teachers living in Japan to come all the way out to their rural village, just for them.

I was scanning the crowded of smiling children, looking for one smile in particular. Finally, I saw it. It was unmistakable. “Jonedson!” He lit up even more as I walked over to my little buddy from last year. “Jonedson, do you remember last year?” He nodded vigorously. “You asked me to show your pictures in Japan. Do you remember?” His eyes grew bigger. “Well I showed everybody – my students, my coworkers, my friends. Jonedson you’re famous now!” I declared with a big laugh. His reaction was even more humorous. With a look of shock on his face he silently floated back into the crowd of children, with that brilliant smile still shining. Throughout the rest of the day’s activities I kept catching glimpses of Jonedson from the distance, with that stunned look and bright smile still glowing like a lighthouse.

left: 2014. right: 2015.

It was a success. Our time at San Vicente was cut short by unexpected schedule changes, but our day and a half with them were sufficient. As the sun sank lower our van drove off along that muddy road, carefully evading a pursuing group of smiling children. We smiled and waved back as their laughter faded into the distance of the rear window. With a setting sun behind us, we drove along the colorful streets of Tacloban until our van parked beside a familiar sight.

“I have returned. By the grace of Almighty God our forces stand again on Philippine soil…” It was at this very beach in 1944 that General MacArthur and his fleet landed in the Philippines to liberate the embattled nation from their Japanese captors. Wheels started turning as I read over the inscription again. MacArthur was a hero to the Filipinos because he came back for them. He had to leave a people he came to love, but he promised to return. And he kept that promise. Though I had made no such promise to the children of San Vicente Elementary School, apparently God had. I was starting to see how much it meant to these kids not only that we came for them, but that we came back for them. A year ago, none of us could fully comprehend what it meant to those kids that we travelled all the way to their small village just for them, just to spend time with them. And then we came back. We hadn’t forgotten about them. The greatest lesson we came to teach this year was nothing that we had prepared or planned. It was a simple, beautiful lesson about who our God is. Our God is a God of promises. Our God is a God of faithfulness. He loves us, and He never stops loving us. He knows us, and He never forgets us.

“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” -Isaiah 41:10

P.S. for a recap of 2014’s trip, take a look here

ゲキチャリヒーロー – The Gekichari Hero

It was a wintry Wednesday night much like any other. As I opened the sliding front door of my pastor’s house, the bitter February air stung my face. The frosty conditions of my extremities were a shocking contrast to the warmth I felt inside – the warmth of good food and good fellowship. I mounted my bike and pedaled off into the stillness of the night. With piston legs and billowing breath I steadily pressed onward down the dark track of asphalt. Like a passenger on the last train home, I eased back in my seat and let my mind wander back to the house fading behind me, where laughter and encouraging words filled warm hearts. I was on autopilot. The steady march of ghostly streetlights slowed to a halt as a red glow hung ahead of me. My foot touched down onto the curb to keep balance as I watched my steamy breath rise with the colors of the lights. That’s when it happened. Like falling icicles my thoughts shattered about me. Eyes wide, I snapped to attention as a dark figure came barreling past me, recklessly transgressing the red glow of the intersection.

***

Bicycles hold an instrumental role in modern Japanese society. Whether for transportation purposes, dedicated fitness, or lighthearted leisure, nearly every resident of Japan has owned a bicycle at some point in his or her life. These bicycles come in various sizes, shapes, and functions. Let’s review:

First is the road-bike. Many Japanese are fond of the sport of cycling, and it’s easy to see why. Throughout the country a network of rivers and bicycle paths function like highways for two-wheeled travellers. The possibilities for long and lovely leisure rides are nearly limitless.

There’s also the mountain bike. Although much less common, it still makes its occasional appearance. There are indeed many mountains on the Japanese islands, yet the sport of mountain biking holds less popularity here than it does in my sunny homeland.

This is my weapon of choice – the cross-bike. With a road-bike frame, mountain bike handlebars, and tires a little in the between, it’s the ideal vehicle for my endless explorations.

By far the most prominent is the basket bicycle – endearingly known in Japanese as the chari. These things are everywhere – crowding the parking lots of shopping malls and karaoke bars, weaving pedestrians on narrow sidewalks, even rusting along flooded riverbanks. These too come in several styles. Your standard chari is a one-size-fits-all single-gear urban-commuter machine. You can load it up with groceries on your way home, mount it with your business suit and umbrella on your way to the commuter train, or even bring a daring high school buddy along for a bumpy ride over the rear wheel guard. There’s a chari experience available for everybody.

Another common cruiser in the chari family is the mom-bike, known as the mamachari. Rather than a front basket, the mamachari comes equipped with a child seat perfect for adorable Japanese toddlers. Got twins? No problem! A second seat can also be outfitted above the rear wheel. Now you can drop the whole family off at daycare.

More common in the wealthier suburbs, you’ll also find an esteemed cousin of the chari family – what I call the motochari. Got money but not cool enough for a motor scooter? You can buy a chari with an electric motor to power through those hills and get you to work without doing much work.

Recently I learned of a less-spoken-of member of the chari family. Perhaps you could call him the bad boy that the chari clan is a little embarrassed of. To be fair, he’s really not a whole lot different from your typical chari, save for the occasional ironic license plate or faded stickers. In fact, you might not even recognize him parked carelessly amongst his brothers outside the convenience store. He is best distinguishable by his attitude in action. In the Japanese language, there’s a slang word used to describe hyperactive, manic behavior. It’s pronounced geki. When you add that baditude to the innocence of the chari, you get something frighteningly new – the gekichari.

***

I was shocked. My breath hung in the air with surprise. Did he really just do that? I watched in amazement as the dark figure and his sketchy ride barreled past me and through the red intersection. The squeaking of his rusty gears assaulted the peace of the night. He didn’t even have his light on. As the figure shrunk in the distance, I noticed a crooked license plate fixed behind the seat and a bent umbrella carelessly stuffed beside the rear wheel. Though I had only heard stories of such things, as I listened to the frantic squeaking of his pedaling grow faint, I knew exactly what this was. Gekichari.

***

In Japanese culture, there’s hierarchy and order to nearly everything. Bicycles are of no exception. Of course, cars and motorcycles are the rightful kings of the street, but the road-bike is given its fair share of space. With a helmet and decent lighting, a well-pedaled road-bike is granted the same respect as any other vehicle. Due to its comparable speed, the cross-bike enjoys the same respect under the same conditions. Even the motor scooter, who commonly frequents the shoulder and bicycle lane, will politely pass a cross-bike. The chari family knows it’s place on the sidewalk. No mamachari would ever dare risking the dangers of the street, and even your standard teenager would think twice about such a reckless transgression. And never, never, never would any chari challenge a road-bike or cross-bike to an open street race. Yet there is one member of the chari family not too fond of such rules. Yes, the gekichari.

***

My competitive instincts were pricked. Did he really just pass me? On a chari? I looked left and right. No cars in sight. Should I run it? I gripped the handlebars and made ready for an immediate chase, then paused. No. Cooler heads will prevail. Order will be restored. My breathing steadied and my eyes narrowed on the red light hanging above me. Ready. Set. Go! With the flash of green my bike jumped forward, rapidly climbing the gears to my normal cruising speed. Within a minute he was in my sights, only a few meters from my handlebars. The squeaking of his frantic pedaling, sounding ahead of me rather than behind me, was an insult. I made ready for my pass, but the approaching headlights over my shoulder were a warning sign. Wait. The road grew crowded as a line of cars formed behind another red light. Good, a fair start. I downshifted and eased up my pedaling in anticipation of the bicyclist slowing to a stop. But no, this was no ordinary bicycle, this was gekichari. Without hesitation he swerved wide to the right, crossing into the lane of oncoming traffic and rushed past the line of cars toward the steady red light. No way. With legs like justice, I pushed into my pedals and jumped up to the sidewalk, climbing back to full speed. We were nose to nose with a line of stopped cars rapidly filing between us. I tried stealing a glance through the passing windows, but could make out nothing behind the figure’s dark hood and the glow of taillights. Just as the light flashed green, I jumped ahead of the lead car, about a meter ahead of the front tire of gekichari. There, that settles that. I eased back into my normal cruising speed as the road banked slightly uphill. He can’t catch me now.

The peace was momentary – only seconds actually. Above the sound of passing cars, I could faintly hear that awful sound. Why is it still here? The glare of headlights over my shoulder ceased, and to my astonishment, a dark figure emerged in my peripheral vision. The dreadful squeaking had quickened its tempo as the dark figure pushed hard out of the saddle. No way. I was too surprised to fight back as he pulled centimeters ahead of my front tire. The chase was on. I kept my position for a good while, studying my opponent, awaiting the opportune moment to strike. He glanced over his shoulder and heightened the tempo again in an attempt to widen the gap. I didn’t resist. He’ll get tired. How long can he keep that crazy pace? I kept my distance of a few meters as the chase wore on for several minutes. Not yet, not yet. To my amazement, he showed no signs of relenting. All the while, the squeaking gear ground down my patience. The glow of headlights from behind stopped. I glanced over my shoulder – all clear. The road ahead was flat and straight. Now! I shifted up and pulled into the middle of the lane with a comfortable passing speed. Effortlessly, I pulled a length ahead. I waited a few seconds for a respectful gap to form before filing ahead, but it didn’t come. Is he speeding up? The heightened pitch of his pedaling confirmed my fears. I put some muscle into my gears and secured my rightful place in front. Order restored.

My quads tightened as I stepped up the pace. There’s no way he’ll catch me now. The road began to make its final downward descent. Ahead was the last intersection before the river, where I would depart the street for the peaceful riverside bike path – the finish line. The rush of wind in my ears was deafening as I reached top gear. Muscles strained and breathing quickened, my eyes squinted against the icy air. I grew in confidence as the end of the road came in sight. But the race wasn’t over.

It can’t be. Above the roar of the wind I could barely hear it. Squeak-squeak-squeak. The pitch and pace were manic. It’s just in my mind. It wasn’t. I was shocked. A dark figure slowly pulled up beside me – now shoulder to shoulder. No way. I tried to steal a glance despite the risk of pulling my eyes from the rushing pavement. Still, nothing but a dark hood under the rapidly passing streetlights. The break in my focus was enough to lose my advantage. No way! Slowly he began to nose ahead of me. Our speed was now maddening. About a hundred meters ahead a car sat parked on the shoulder of the road. My opponent was blocking me in, leaving me no room for a safe pass. No way!! It was decision time. This game of chicken was reaching new stakes. I clenched my jaw and tightened my grip. But no. Cooler heads did indeed prevail. I ceased my pedaling and eased on the brake. No way. He pulled victoriously ahead. Then in an instant he was gone. The road quickly split and he veered to the right for the bridge overpass. I banked left and down to the riverside. Within seconds the wild squeaking of his gears disappeared, and the stillness of the night resumed. I slowed to a stop at the intersection. My foot touched down on the curb. Billows of breath rose like steam as my heart pounded on with the rhythm of the now-finished race. Despite the frigid air, my shirt was damp with sweat. I opened my jacket to cool off, my chest still rising and falling for air. What just happened?

I paused in silence with the night, then was overcome with laughter. No way! The light changed green and I crossed over to the peaceful riverside trail. My breathing returned to normal and I calmly pushed on along the murmuring water. The moonlight illuminated a smile on my face. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe I was goaded into a late-night street race by a mysterious hooded figure on a rusty chari. And I lost! My cross-bike lost to a chari! I tried coming up with excuses but couldn’t. I lost!

So this one is for you, Mr. Gekichari Hero. You, who challenges the norms of a culturally rigid society. You, who with your one, squeaking gear and strong legs, refuses to be second place. You stood up to me on my superior bicycle, and you got the better of me. You outmuscled me. You outmaneuvered me. You won. And from those of us who ride, we salute you.

一番長い土曜日 – The longest Saturday

It’s not my first experience with time travel. But that makes it no less strange.

6:30AM, Saturday December 20, 2014. Wake up, breakfast, walk to the subway station. 9AM arrival. Walking. Snacks and a bus ticket. A bus to another city. An island airport. More walking . Waiting. 1:40PM. A plane to another airport. Another country. 4PM. More waiting. Lot’s of waiting. Lot’s of walking. 9PM. A bigger plane. Another takeoff. More waiting. Waiting for 5PM. Waiting for Saturday, December 20, 2014.

I’m waiting in limbo. Where I came from it’s currently Sunday, but where I’m going to it’s Saturday. So when is it here – up in the dark sky above the North Pacific? I suppose the time on Earth below me is irrelevant, because I’m not there. I’m up here, somewhere in the between. I’m up here, in the time machine. I’m up here, where there is no time but time to think.

あっと言う間. It’s pronounced “ah to yuma”. The translation is a bit strange – “in the time it takes to say ‘ah’.” The meaning, however, is quite easy. For we too have such an idiom in our country – “time flies”.

It’s been about 17 months since I have set foot on American soil. To account for all that has happened in that time is a nearly impossible feat. In the profoundly fascinating city of Kyoto, I have seen beauty I could previously only imagine. As the seasons pass she changes outfits in a gorgeous display – from the dazzling red of autumn to the charming pink of spring. I’ve experienced mysteries I can’t put in to words – the wonder of her ages-old story still breathing in these modern days. And above all this, I know these 17 months with her have grown me and changed me in ways I don’t yet fully understand.

Perhaps the most bizarre transformation I have undergone is the strange becoming normal. 17 months ago, everything was new and exciting. It’s still exciting, but not so new. I now must consciously remind myself to marvel at the incredible life I am blessed with. It takes effort because it’s no longer fascinatingly strange. The language is no longer foreign, but comprehensible. The foods are no longer exotic, but a daily diet. Believe me, it’s a delicious diet. Yes, the excitement is certainly still there, it has merely changed shapes. The excitement is in deeper exploration. As I have taken this journey to new depths of understanding, I have found a growing love for this wonderful city; for these wonderful people. The excitement is in deeper love.

Now I’m journeying to another land I so deeply love: California. I’m excited, very excited, but in all honesty, a bit nervous too. I’m not too certain about what I will find on the other side of this limbo. It’s been a long time. Now that the strange has become familiar, will the familiar have become strange? Will it be the same as I left it in the summer of 2013? I’m still wearing the same UCLA hoodie. I’m still listening to some of the same music. But will everything else be the same? No, I don’t think it will be. People there drive on the right side of the road. That’s different. People there speak English. That’s different. People there think Kobe is a person, not a city. That’s different. So what’s normal now? Is it where I’m coming from or where I’m going to? I guess I’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, I am nowhere. I am in the time machine, flying back to Saturday. Flying back to where my story began. Time flies.

野球 – Baseball

Maybe they won’t see me. It was a wishful thought. As I approached the dusty sports yard of Toryo High School, the clanking of metal bats and rapid chatter grew louder, as did my doubts. Who am I kidding, I’m in Japan. “Konnichiwa!” The first greeting rang out like cannon fire. My cover was blown. Almost instantly the call had seized the field. For several long seconds, the game stopped and everything fell silent. With military precision, every white cap was removed and every head bowed in my direction. Sweat glistened on buzzed heads as the punishing July sun bore down on us. My feet marched on through the silence. “uh, hey guys!” Sheepishly, my hand waved in the air like a white flag. After a long second I was released from the spotlight. “Hai!” The game was back on. I had made it through the front lines. With a silent smile, a girl student directed me toward a bench overlooking home plate. In a few seconds another girl, clearly one of the team managers, approached my front row seat with an ice-coffee in her hand. I was getting the VIP treatment. I thanked her and she returned with a smile to her post at the scoreboard. I cracked open my beverage and sat back to enjoy the show.

It was the third inning. Two Japanese names were written on the scoreboard. I could only make out half the kanji, but quickly found the matching characters on the backs of two uniforms out on the field. I was happy to see that one of my former freshmen students had now risen to the ranks of team captain. He stood sternly by the chain link barrier of the makeshift dugout, barking out orders to his comrades. His team was down by one run. The opponent? Also Toryo High School. Both sides were donning their daily white practice uniforms for the scrimmage. I scanned the field to gauge the authority structure of the match. Not a single teacher or coach was in sight, and aside from the three team manager girls, I was the lone spectator. It was a student played, student coached, student officiated game.

“Onegaishimasu!” As the next batter approached home-plate, he removed his helmet for a quick bow to a student donning a mask and padded shield – the official umpire. Before hunching over the back of the catcher, he held up his fingers to signal the count. 2 and 1. The chatter on the field rose again as the pitcher cast a gun-slinger glare at the dangerous lead from first base. After breaking the stare-down, the pitch was thrown. Ball. As soon as the spank of leather sounded, the catcher was on his feet firing to second base. A cloud of dust exploded from the scene as the runner sprawled headlong to safety. The second base umpire extended his arms, sparing the runner. The chatter rose again as the ball returned to the mound. 1 out, runner on second. Another head was bowed at home plate and another dangerous lead was taken. With a commanding voice the team captain stepped out from the dugout. Two fingers across the chest, tap the wrist, tip the hat… the encoded order was received with a nod. Bunt was shown as the pitcher began his wind-up. Sharp calls rang from the infield as the third baseman collapsed in. But no! The batter retreated his bunt as he slashed at the pitch. Ping! The third-baseman hit the dirt as the ball narrowly missed his face. The race was on. The third base coach-student furiously wound his arm as the runner rounded third for home, his fists pumping and face grimacing in exertion. The ball reached the left-fielder’s glove, and in one motion was fired to home plate. I had to shield my eyes from the shrapnel of dirt and dust bursting only meters away from me. As the fog of battle settled I could see the call. Safe! With a big smile, the daring runner returned to his cheering bunker, fist-pounding his excited teammates. Tie game.

I was hooked. I lost track of time as the afternoon wore on and the game continued with relentless passion. Bunts, fake bunts, stolen bases, pickles, double plays, daring calls, diving catches… These kids knew how to entertain. But for who? I looked around again. Still no teachers. Still no audience. The ninth inning concluded with a fly-out – my former student’s team emerging victorious with a 7-4 win. I stood up to applaud the performance, but stopped short. There were no cheers nor acknowledgement of a well-played game as the dugout took the field for another inning. Another inning? I leaned over to the scoreboard girl to fish for an answer. With labored English and much gesturing, she explained that they would play two more innings. Two more innings? The boys had been playing like it was the World Series for 9 innings already. I was sweaty and tired just watching them. With as much stealth as I could manage, I rose to head for the air-conditioned teachers’ room. “Arigatou gozaimashita!” Once again the hats were removed as the call rang from the field. I waved as I walked on, amazed at the professionalism of the whole display. As I neared the school building a second faint call rang out from the field, followed by a few playful chuckles. “Thank you very much!” I smiled, feeling honored to call these kids my students.

 Soccer practice at the Toryo sandlot

Baseball. America’s favorite pastime. The sport never held much excitement for me back in the States, but after a year of learning and living Japanese culture, few things have intrigued me as much as baseball. The history of the sport in Japan is almost as long as that in America, and the rules are identical as far as I can tell, but it certainly isn’t the same game. Through every encounter I’ve had with it – from a professional game in Osaka to the daily schoolyard practices – something about Japanese baseball has truly fascinated me. There’s something magical to the game here that can only be understood through time and personal experience. Once again I find myself with the challenge of explaining the unexplainable culture of Japan – this time with something so familiar yet so foreign to us Americans: 野球 – yakyuu – baseball.

 7th inning stretch at a Hanshin Tigers game

Baseball isn’t just sport in Japan. It’s like a higher calling. Much like a soldier is no less a soldier off the battlefield, there’s something about baseball that surpasses a mere pastime. We’ll start with the basics.

Buzzed heads. Even in a class of uniformed Japanese students, there’s no hiding the baseball boys. The hair, or scarcity of it, is like a uniform that can’t be removed.

Respect. I draw a lot of attention in the school hallways, as students call out my name (pronounced “joe-knee”) and give their best hello. But for the baseball students, it’s usually a sharp Japanese greeting with a stiff bow – just as they would for any other teacher.

Pure dedication. I’ll never forget looking out the window of the teacher’s room one afternoon to marvel at a sudden and fierce July downpour. What I saw intrigued me. In military formation, the entire baseball team was trudging through the muddy field, jogging in unison. Even above the roar of the rain, their fierce chanting could still be heard. Rain or shine, snow or sweat, these guys are the first ones in and the last ones out. Before I show up for work in the morning, they’re already on the field. As I take my lunch time-stroll, they’re already out there, soaking up puddles or repairing base lines. As I pack my bag to finish a hard day’s work, they’re still working.

 opening ceremony of the 2014 Summer Koshien tournament

But what for? Why such relentless dedication to a sport? The answer is called the “Koshien Dream”. Every summer, the Hanshin Tigers pack their bags for about a month and surrender their home field advantage for the sake of high school baseball. Every prefecture across Japan sends one high school team to do battle on Japanese baseball’s biggest stage. How big is this tournament? Ever heard of Yankee’s pitcher Tanaka Masahiro? Koshien 2006. Ever heard of Suzuki Ichiro? Koshien 1991. The Koshien Dream is the dream in Japanese baseball. Students will even fill their pockets with dirt from the infield before the long bus ride home. This summer I had the honor of witnessing it myself. On a sunny Monday morning I woke up to take the first train to Nishinomiya (between Kobe and Osaka). With a few friends we claimed a free outfield seat and watched as the stadium surpassed maximum capacity for the opening ceremony of the 96^th annual Koshien Summer tournament. The emotions were through the roof as the teams marched out onto the field in military formation. Every kid who plays baseball in Japan dreams of doing that march and hearing their school announced to a sold-out stadium and a nation watching on TV. I was tearing up just being a spectator.

 student section of Kyoto’s Heian High School showing some love for their boys on the field

Yet there’s something slightly unsatisfactory about the Koshien answer. When I went back to work at Toryo the following week, I wasn’t surprised to find the baseball guys already there, sweating it out at their own sandlot. For them the Koshien Dream is nearly intangible. Getting past the powerhouse Kyoto Heian High School is a long shot to say the least. Yet still, they practice like every day is Koshien. I’ve never met a people group more driven and dedicated to their work than the Japanese. Baseball is one of the most pure examples of this. Perhaps they’re just being Japanese by giving their all for what they’ve been called to do. Yet I think there’s something even more to it than that. Maybe it’s simpler and more pure than we think. Maybe it truly is just a love of the game.

アメリカ人 – The American

 

 

What does it mean to be an American? All my life, I’ve never really known how to answer this question. Where do you even begin? What does an American look like? Talk like? Act like? They say hindsight is 20/20. Although the Pacific Ocean is still an impassible chasm for even perfect vision, my time on the other side has opened my eyes in a new light toward the county I left behind, and perhaps towards the beginning of an answer. It has been over 11 months since I have set foot on American soil. This time of absence has enabled me to look back from a new perspective; or, more accurately, to look within – now that I am the gaijin, the foreigner, the other. Now that I am the American.

 

Oh beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain,

 

“Johnny, what is the weather like in your country?” My eyebrows stooped in confusion. What the heck? With a kind smile and expecting eyes, my Japanese co-worker patiently waited for the answer to his “simple” question as we huddled around the space heater on a bitter January morning. “uh.. well… it depends. America is really big,” I began to stammer. This question came with humorously unfortunate timing. While most of the country was suffering through the polar vortex, my SoCal homeland was basking in its eternal sunshine. What’s the weather like in America? I have no idea.

 

Johnny, do people in your country like this game? This music? Do people in your country do this? Eat this for breakfast? Know how to use chopsticks? My attempts to answer these innocent questions typically start in much the same way. Umm… sometimes? Maybe? Where do I even begin? What is this strange land I came from, that can’t even be described? Part of my job here has not only been to teach my native language, but to share my native culture – the latter no less boundless a task than the former. Yet through the Japanese fog, my mind has begun to fix on a beacon of light like truth shining from a far eastern shore. It’s peculiar how a culture and a people can be simplified into a certain essence that shines like a lighthouse on a cliff. From my island vantage point, that essence, which was previously too bright and pervasive to understand, can now be grasped – now that the familiar has become strange. Yet in that strangeness there’s a pleasant comfort – a comfort like home.

 

Koshien Stadium – home of the Hanshin Tigers

 

“It’s awesome! It’s a movie about kids playing baseball!” The English teacher sitting next to me looked confused during our lunchtime conversation about why The Sandlot is such a classic American film. “Oh ok. Are there many famous actors in it?” “Uh, no I don’t think so. Just a bunch of kids. And this one old guy. Oh and a giant dog!” This clearly wasn’t helping. I put down my chopsticks as my hands joined the struggle to articulate myself. “It’s… it’s… just so… American!” I sat back with a satisfied smile at my triumphant answer. She fished for something to say over another bite of onigiri. “Ah I see.” – a polite Japanese expression meaning “I don’t get it, but thanks for trying.”

 

For purple mountain majesties

Above the fruited plain

 

America is an identity. It’s not something without – something that can be seen or tasted. It’s something within – something that is felt and known. It was that something which I began to sense within me – a something that stood in stark contrast to my new environment. 11 months is a long time to not belong, to not understand and to not be understood. It’s a long time to be so different. But that’s ok, because I am different. In this nation that is worlds away from our own, I’ve begun to realize a simple but deeply profound truth. I am not Japanese. I am American. And oh, there’s a glimmering ocean of meaning there.

 wandering the back-alleys of Kyoto

 

I’m not going to tear up. No way. Not in front of 5 Japanese schoolgirls. It was the last day of English club at Todou High School for the semester, and in honor of a soon approaching July holiday, I wanted to teach my students something special about my country. What I found was more than I was looking for. With a printout of lyrics to the Star-Spangled Banner, I began to explain in simple English the powerful significance of these words and the glorious story of their birth. I could see their smiles as the poem’s truly “American” essence bled through the paper. Then Whitney Houston brought it home. I had found a YouTube clip of the opening to the 1991 Super Bowl. During the height of the Gulf War, a stadium of proud Americans shared one of our national anthem’s all-time greatest deliveries. Now I was sharing it with a small group of uniformed students in a humid classroom. By the opening note there was already a curious feeling in my gut, like kindling in a family hearth. And the home of the brave! At the triumphant finale, that kindling now burned like a flood, pushing up through my throat and to my eyes. Oh America! I played if off with a casual sniffle like there was something spicy in my bento lunch. But that feeling was just so… so… American!

 

 boat cruisin on Lake Biwa – America style

 

So exactly what does it mean to be American? I still don’t know. But maybe that’s not the point. I suppose it means lots of things to different people. Relative to Japan, the history of our nation is juvenile and the identity of our people a blur. We’re a kaleidoscope country – an ever-changing spectrum of dynamic colors moving in rhythm. Sometimes they seem to be dancing, sometimes fighting, yet nevertheless it’s a beautiful display. With each one of those colors comes a story built on memories. They’re simple, ordinary things, but they’re American things. Like drowsily watching football with dad after a Thansgiving feast. Or making smores with laughing friends around a sandy fire pit. Or black, square hats flying in the air from hands no longer belonging to students. Or a stadium full of spectators removing their hats to sing together a song which they can all share as their own. No matter how diverse these memories can be, they belong together. You see, America is more than just a memory or a feeling. It’s all of our memories and feelings. It’s a tapestry. And by divinely blessed chance, we’ve had the privileged birthright of weaving our own stories into that tapestry.

 

America! America! God shed His grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

 

I am the American. I carry with me 22 years of these memories that belong to a different land – these memories which have become part of who I am. That my story is currently being written on foreign shores makes it no less American. Identity does not easily forget it’s home. Though I now bike on the left side of the road, eat with chopsticks rather than a fork, or bow rather than shake hands, I am still an American. In fact, that identity has only become clearer as I share my memories and stories with those who didn’t share in their creation. So this Friday, as Americans around the globe celebrate the birth of their national identity, have a hotdog on me. In exchange, I have one request. Be grateful. Yes, be grateful. There are millions that can only dream of obtaining the national identity you were born with. Though we can’t quite define that identity, there is something very special about it that is envied far beyond our shores. So my fellow Americans, you are truly blessed. Believed that, and be grateful. And have a happy 4^th of July.

 

From sea to shining sea!

 

 

将来に住んでいる – Living in the Future

 Tokyo’s urban jungle

I live in the future. First of all, I’m 16 hours ahead of most people reading this. You guys are way behind. Secondly, have you ever considered what it means to be alive in 2014? That’s a really big number. The third reason, however, is the most interesting to me, and also the most complicated. Rather than trying to explain it to you, I’d like to show you.

So let’s go for my favorite tour in Kyoto. I’d say it’s imaginary, but the imagining is only on your end. This is a real tour, and my favorite place to take all my visitors. But because our tour will take place in your head, I’m going to take some creative liberties with the concept of time. This is my pioneering attempt at weaving tapestries – not with threads of fabric, but threads of vivid memories from this enchanting place. So, are you ready? Ikimashou! (Let’s go!)

 

大昔– ancient times

 

The late afternoon air is thick and muggy as we exit the train station, with ripe clouds swelling the skies. “It’s about 15 minutes east of here”. Taxis and busses rush past us as we cross a beautiful bridge. “Kyoto is pretty rad,” I begin. “It’s where traditional Japan is still alive. I heard this bridge was the sight of an important samurai battle like several hundred years ago…”

As we approach the mountains we enter the southern boundary of the legendary Gion district. Ahead of us is one of Kyoto’s thousand-something temples. “This way.” We take a narrow road running eastward along the temple wall into the rising hills. After a bit of climbing the view opens up to reveal our location. A massive graveyard sprawls ahead of us, swallowing our speech like the granite stones swallow our path. We press on through the heavy silence of the dead, weaving uphill among epitaphs of cremated ancients. “I wonder how old these are…” The whispered thought is swept away by the chilly breeze at our necks.

By the end of the graveyard path, there’s no debate about whose world we now walk in, as the sun’s last light falls on our modern society somewhere out West. “So this is Kiyomizu-dera.” Welcome to ancient Kyoto.

  stone guardian of Kiyomizu-dera

We ascend the stone stairs under the grimacing supervision of a stone lion, passing through the first ornately orange gate. Ahead, several structures come into view. “I call this one the mothership.” On que, a brilliant spotlight bursts forth from the shadowy hills, piercing the dark sky above the stunning orange architecture of the historic building. The light-up has begun.

 the Mothership

“Waaa! Kireinaa!” The excited voices of a kimono-clad group of girls free our eyes from the captivating lights. Still speechless, we follow them as they shuffle on toward a hallway dimly lit by a dangling row of golden lanterns. We slowly pass through to join the gathering crowd on a giant wooden balcony. Leaning over the smoothly polished railing, we watch the ant-trail of visitors scurrying down the mountain some 50 feet below us. We trickle off into the stream of people flowing from the balcony to the steep mountainside path for Kiyomizu’s most celebrated view. In the foreground, the beautifully lit main structure squirms and sparkles with excited tourists and their cameras. In the background, the shimmering city of Kyoto gently laps against its mountain banks like a lake of pale light, rippling about the central lighthouse of Kyoto Tower. We struggle to connect words that could articulate the peculiar yet beautiful juxtaposition of these two legendary buildings of different centuries. Stunning.

 Kiyomizu in it’s autumn robe – photo cred: Google

We join the ant-flow as it weaves an ancient forest to the lower grounds of the temple complex. The sound of trickling water is accompanied by the appearance of an iron dragon. A line of Japanese with long bamboo ladles gather to capture the treasured waters flowing from its lips. We carry on along a still pond, looking back to see the dazzling evening splendor of Kiyomizu reflected in the dark water.

The crowd thickens as we spill into the main street. Flanking the narrow stone pavement are an array of bustling stores, selling all kinds of traditional gems from hand-crafted fans to beautiful tapestries. “Irasshaimase douzo!” The calls of merchants and the aroma of roasting tealeaves fill the air. As the crowd gently pushes us along, we happily grab our fill of free mochi samples from the smiling women in their storefronts. “This way!” We escape the flow of pedestrians for a narrow, easily missed staircase descending to a smaller, quieter path of stone lined with more traditional wooden shops. Into the belly of Gion.

Finally the clouds give way. The gentle pattering of raindrops on our umbrellas nearly disguises another peculiar sound echoing around the bend. The rapid “clop-clop” of wooden sandals on stone precedes two women in stunning silk kimonos. Beneath bamboo umbrellas dripping with rain, a pair deep red lips painted on white faces peek out as they pass us by. “Geisha!” we whisper in fascination. Like phantoms, the shuffling of their feet quickly vanishes down a narrow alleyway, and only the gentle pattering of the rain remains. Slightly swaying lanterns bounce their soft light off puddles in the whispering street. We carry on.

After a few more turns, climbs, and descents through mysterious streets, we find another brilliantly orange tori gate. I have to duck below the giant golden lantern suspended at the entrance. The temple grounds expand before us, centered about an ancient wooden stage donning an impressive display of white and red paper lanterns. “This place was built almost 1300 years ago…”

　maiko-san (geisha-trainees) taking the stage at Yasaka-jinja

We wander on before coming to a surprised halt beneath the orange crossbeams of Yasaka-jinja’s main entrance – the gate between worlds. Behind us is the world of rickshaws, paper lanterns, and wooden sandals. Before us, hustling forward in dazzling light toward the heart of the city is Shijo-dori – one of Kyoto’s busiest urban streets. As we descend the stone stairs toward the pavement, each step takes us 100 years forward – into the world of taxi-cabs, streetlights, and high heels.

 gate between worlds

 Shijo-dori

“I’m hungry, you wanna get some conveyor belt sushi? I’ll see what my friends are up to.” I pull out my phone and send out a dinner invitation before opening Google maps to re-navigate. We’re back in our world.

 

将来 – the future

 

 kaiten (conveyer belt) sushi in Kyoto

To us, it’s the past that seems exotic – the paper lanterns, the geishas on wooden sandals, the dragon-shaped fountains. However, in the biography of this city, this has been much more the norm. It wasn’t until about 150 years ago, a mere fraction of the city’s lifetime, that things really began to change in Kyoto. Now is the future. The taxis and trains. The stilettoes and sunglasses. The iPhone cameras and instant messaging. I am the future. The tall blonde guy biking around on Saturdays. The tall blonde guy speaking a different language at school. The tall blonde guy with headphones in on the subway. Perhaps it’s me that’s exotic. It’s a peculiar life I’m living after all – a native of Southern California, with European ancestry, now living in the ancient capital of the Land of the Rising Sun. But the ancient times are no more. Places like Kyoto’s Gion district are a remnant of a world that once was – the living saga of a temporal diaspora. Now is the future. I live in the future.

 timeless watchmen of Maruyama park in Gion

春 – Spring

I returned from the Philippines to a different world. Exhausted from 17 hours of traveling and the burden of my backpack, I dragged my feet down the sidewalk as a gentle rain wet my face. But I was smiling. Outside my subway station, a dull yellow streetlight illuminated my first glimpse of sakura. A subtle but victorious sensation, like Aslan’s pur, swelled within me. Alas, spring had come.

 Let’s be real, it’s always a different world in Japan.

 

初めに – Beginning

 

Spring in Kyoto unfolds with an elegant gradualness, like the plot-line of a storybook. I was telling myself I was getting used to the bitter cold of winter, but I knew that it was wearing me down. The constant numbness that seeps from the ground to the very bone is not something to get used to. Yet it was during the dreariest days of late February that our first sign of hope came. It was several days after a snow flurry, when the skies opened up and the air seemed to thaw in the sun, that the excited rumors began. The plum blossoms have arrived! Even the breeze seemed to whisper the news, as my nose caught word of a fleeting sweetness in the air. As soon as the weekend came I set out to investigate. Indeed, it was true.

 梅 (ume) = plum blossoms

 kitano-tenmangu, Kyoto

 the lion, the lantern, and the plum blossoms

 

Yet hope is no conclusion. It is our strength to struggle on when the battle is not yet finished. So it was that winter was not done with us. The seeming promise of sunny skies fled with the resurgence of a chilly and gloomy wind. 3 days warm, 4 days cold. That’s what they say. Spring and Winter seemed to be locked in conflict, as we were tossed about in the crossfire of Jadis’ last stand. But after that first taste of warmth, it felt like 3 steps forward, 4 steps back. The days of Heat-Tech and hot-pot were not yet over. However, with everyday the struggle continued, the earth was gaining strength. Flowers were blooming.

 zushin-in plum blossoms, Kyoto

 

さくら – sakura

 

There was no doubt about what would be the climax of this story. It is a time the Japanese anticipate all yearlong: the arrival of the sakura – the famed cherry blossoms. It was a peculiar experience missing the first blossoms and returning from my trip in the midst of full bloom. Yet it was nothing short of spectacular.

 night sakura at Nijo Castle, Kyoto

 ducks in the Uji River

 along the philosopher’s path, Kyoto

 

花見 – hanami

 

It was a time of joyous celebration. Everywhere new life was in bloom, and the ancient capital was magnificently adorned in its springtime splendor. The beauty of the sakura was inescapable; it was everywhere. Crowds from all over Japan and the world gathered in Kyoto to marvel with wide eyes. And, of course, to party. Hanami (flower viewing parties) are a long-held tradition in Japan, especially in Kyoto.

 epic hanami at the legendary Maruyama Park, Kyoto

 

Our local JET community, being no stranger to parties, followed suit in due style. On first Saturday of April, nearly 100 JETs from all over the Kansai region gathered in the gardens of Osaka castle. Beneath a canopy of stunning pink flowers, we lounged and laughed on blue tarps scattered with food and drink. As the afternoon carried on and the frisbee grew weary, we raised our voices together in rowdy choruses of 90’s classics as Dave and I jammed on the guitar. The evening and its rain coincided with the closing of the park and the end of our party, but our season of celebration lived on.

 party in the castle gardens

 the Kyoto kids

 

“8 centimeters per second,” my friend proclaimed. “The speed at which a sakura petal falls.” The season is far too short. After about two weeks the curtains were already drawing on Kyoto’s big show. But my, what a finale it was. Every warm breeze carried with it an elegant flurry of sakura petals, the pale-pink snowflakes of spring. They danced in the streets as cars drove by, and lazily drifted down the many streams navigating the city. One day on my way home from work I stopped by Daigo-ji, for like the fifth time, to slowly walk through the outer courtyards and marvel at the spectacle. Beneath a blue sky, the sakura blossomed above me in clouds of soft color. As I walked, petals gracefully rained about me, some getting caught in my hair as they made their way to the stone pathway my feet carefully passed over. Time itself seemed to hang back with the gentle journey of the falling petals, like I was dreaming with my eyes open, floating along with the flowers through warm air. It was beautiful.

 Daigo-ji pathway

 

終わり – End

 

Mathematically, I knew it would happen. Petals can only fall for so long until there are no more. Now, there are no more. Sure, there were the late bloomers. The weeping sakura, with their dazzling gowns of pink, came fashionably late to the party, stealing the show as the city’s floral hue was fading. Yet even their petals have now come to rest wherever it is that the rivers carry them.

 the Toryo High weeping sakura

 along the Kamo River, Kyoto

 

5 days warm, 2 days cool. Where the flowers once hung from trees, budding leaves have come, reminiscent of the lush green promise of summer. 6 days warm, 1 day cool. When is the last time I’ve turned on the heater? The permanent green of the mountains seem to have taken on a deeper shade. How does this story end anyway? Perhaps it doesn’t. The weather will warm to a humid boil, then it will cool into the blazing colors of autumn, then the long winter will return. And it all happens again. And again. But perhaps we need these endless reminders – that “there is a time for everything, a season for every activity under the heavens… A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”* A reminder that hope is not temporal. “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”** And so we go on.

 strawberry picking in southern Kyoto-fu

 

*Ecclesiastes 3:1,4

**2 Corinthians 4:17-18

島から島まで – Island to Island

JCF Philippines Mission Trip 2014

 

Have you ever experienced something a little beyond words? My time in the Philippines is as such. During the last week of March, I had the honor of serving with the JET Christian Fellowship on the islands of Leyte and Biliran in the Eastern Visayas of the Philippines. In Novermber 2013, this area was ground zero to the worst storm recorded in history – the notorious Typhoon Yolanda.

We adopted a rural elementary school, ran a fun English camp, distributed new school supplies and food, entertained with the JCF mini-show, and fellowshipped with the locals. The destruction we saw was devastating, but the resilience of the Filipinos was remarkable. How do I explain the complexity of our experience? How can such joy exist in a place of such tragedy? I could lay out our itinerary and explain what we did, but that seems insufficient. Here, language seems inadequate. So I’m going for a different approach – a collage of images and memories and the short stories that accompany them. I hope that as you enter these shards of my memory, you can see what I saw and – more importantly – feel what I felt.

 

Welcome to Tacloban

 

 

 

Oh my God. I was speechless as I stepped onto the runway, the whining of the jet engine stole my words. It wasn’t hard, however, to find our luggage from the pile made on the concrete floor of the open terminal. I gazed around as I grabbed my bag. The place looked like it had been bombed. Mangled iron twisted about from the ceiling like broken fingers – remnants of what had been a roof. The walls, with gaping holes like missing teeth, left little distinction between inside and outside. A security guard slouching in a folding chair waved us through the front entrance. There were no doors. Dan started handing out candy to a couple of barefooted begging children as we loaded up the jeepney. Within minutes, a small crowd of children emerged from the surrounding slum. There were no homes. Just ratty shacks donning tarps from just about every charity I had heard of. The begging hands quickly consumed all the candy, and it was time to roll out.

 our faithful Tacloban jeepney

The roar of a departing jet, only about 100 meters away, swallowed up the sound of our jeepney’s little engine. I hung my head out the side of the vehicle to watch as we raced the plane. Tropical air whipped at my face. My eyes squinted as they followed the jet lifting off over the sea, running toward the dark skies. The sunset and heavy clouds cast an ominous light on the dirty streets. Everything was destroyed. Trash was everywhere, collecting in corners and muddy puddles of rainwater. The buildings seemed to lean against each other with staggering limps. Any attempts at reconstruction thus far seemed like mere patchwork, like band-aides on amputations. I watched in amazement from the back of the open jeepney as we bounced along the bumpy road, feeling like a shell-shocked soldier on his first day of deployment. We passed a squadron of Korean troops building a new elementary school from the ground up, with rifles still slung on their backs. We were allies now. The enemy was daunting, but our mission was clear – to fight for hope and healing for these people. Lock and load.

 

Welcome to Tacloban

 

The night’s rain had given way to sunny and hot morning skies. With our matching green t-shirts, we piled in to the jeepney to head off for our first day of work. Stop number 1 – the mayor of nearby Tolosa. With a big smile and handshake he greets us as we present to him a Japanese flag bearing scribbled messages of encouragement. We talk and joke for a bit as our pictures are taken. “You know they say Filipina women are quite strong,” he tells us with his colorful accent. Then, with a gesture toward the broken city outside his window, he delivers the punch-line, “Just look what Yolanda did to my beautiful town!” We all laugh heartily, although a bit nervously on our part. He humbly thanks us and sends us on our way to stop number 2 – San Vicente Elementary School. The jeepney slows down as we leave the paved road for a bumpy dirt path running through brilliantly green fields. The scenery is stunning.

We pass a small team of local villagers pulling weeds along the road. “Hello!” They joyfully wave at us with big smiles on sun-soaked faces. We return the waves and smiles. Finally our jeepney comes to a stop and we hear a chorus of high cheers. I step out of the jeepney and my eyes well with tears. Before the colorful walls of San Vicente Elementary School is the most beautiful welcome party I have ever seen. With pieces of paper the first graders had spelled out “welcome visitors”. It’s backwards, but it doesn’t matter. From the windows and doors of the school, children smile and wave and call out to us in their small voices. There actually are no doors or windows, just openings, but it doesn’t matter. The roof of the school had been torn off by the storm, the structure is in bad shape, and even the palm trees are still having a bad hair day, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the most beautiful school I have ever seen.

 

A peculiar aestheticism

 

I was beginning to get used to seeing destruction, it was everywhere, but I wasn’t quite prepared for this. Our jeepney parks and we quietly step out in awe. That doesn’t belong here. Jutting its nose over the seaside road was a huge freight ship. The surrounding slum seemed to welcome the ship with typical Filipino hospitality, as it was clear that people were now living in the vessel. As we walked through the muddy streets toward the back of the ship, we passed by a group of children delightfully playing a game with their flip-flops and a rusty soup can. Everybody smiles. Everybody waves. And it was all strangely… beautiful. Bright colors were everywhere – from the crippled temporary structures to the clothes on the people peeking out from them. Smiling faces and laughing children greeted us. It didn’t make any sense. How can such devastation have such beauty? How can such poverty have such abundant joy? There was something strangely fascinating about the Philippines in the wake of Yolanda that I couldn’t quite comprehend, like a peculiar aestheticism.

 

Dance with my Father Again

 

It was a success. In a matter of hours we had planned a two-hour variety show to entertain the school children and their families. We sang, we dance, we played bingo and gave prizes, we smiled, we laughed. Then we cried. It was after our show was finished, when we were celebrating our accomplishment and soaking in the rewarding smiles of the children, that a teacher took the mic and told us they had prepared some performances for us as well. It was after we cheered in amazement as a 6^th grade girl stunned us with a traditional Filipino dance. That was when it happened. An 8 year-old girl with a small but beautiful voice took the stage and began to sing. The crowd fell silent as she hit the high notes of the chorus: “and I can’t wait to dance with my father again.” It can’t be can it? Later it was confirmed. Yolanda had taken her Father.

 

Show my pictures in Japan

 

We knew we would have to say goodbye to these kids, but that doesn’t make it any easier. All afternoon we played and danced and laughed with these precious children. As the sun began to set, a small group of my favorite boys began to cling to me even tighter. It was time to go. As I staggered toward the jeepney, trying not to fall on top of the kids hanging from every limb, Jonedson fought for my attention. His departing request was simple but profound. “Johnny! Pictures!” He pointed toward the pocket concealing my phone. “Show in Japan!” I was a little confused. “You want me to show your pictures in Japan?” I asked. “Yes! Yes!” As he jumped with joy his brilliant smile blurred in my vision. “Haha ok, Jonedson. I will.” We gave our last goodbye hugs and last secret handshakes before the jeepney engine sputtered to life. As we rode into the sunset, a parade of running children raced after us with big smiles until their little legs couldn’t keep up and their waving hands faded in the distance. I thought about what Jonedson said the whole way back. I get it now. These kids just wanted to know that they are not forgotten. A bunch of foreign English teachers living in Japan coming all the way out to their rural village in Tolosa just to play with them – that was the best gift we could have given them. So it is my great pleasure to share with you the delightful smile of my friend Jonedson. Let it be known that he is one awesome dude. Let it be known that our God will never forget him.

 

 from left to right: Jonedson, Johnny, and Jonjon

 

Kampai!

 

Royal and I couldn’t help but laughing. Is this real? Here we were in the beautiful island of Biliran, sitting in a seaside shack constructed of bamboo. Outside was the sound of water gently lapping on the rocky beach and the rustle of leaves from the coconut trees. The local village had just welcomed us with a feast of their delicious home cooking. We could still hear the machetes hacking open freshly felled coconuts. “Here, sir. Enjoy!” They smiled as they handed us each our own coconut. Through bouts of joyful giggles we raised our refreshing, all natural beverages and gave a hearty Japanese drinking cheer, “kampai!”

 as fresh as it gets

 

I Finally Found Where I Belong

 

It was a perfect finish to a perfect day. The villagers took us out for a naval tour of the island on their raggedy boat. We swam and marveled at a beautiful sunset over the island before returning to shore. After another delicious Filipino feast, a few of us rinsed off in a stream then drowsily made our way to the church building to hang out. It wasn’t planned, but as I grabbed the guitar and Dave and I traded off singing worship songs, a small group gathered on the concrete floor to worship with us. As I sang I watched our girls peacefully paint the nails of some local village girls. A neighbor came over with his own guitar and took a seat next to us to follow along. Then Dave started singing a new song. Everything seemed to stop for a moment as we sang along.

 

I finally found where I belong,

I finally found where I belong, in Your presence.

I finally found where I belong, Lord,

It’s to be with You, to be with You.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUsZ9LHNM40 

It was one of those moments that could’ve lasted forever. That feeling of being so close to God, of being in His presence – where we belong. Perhaps that was the explanation to the unexplainable joy we encountered on those islands. These people, who had lost everything, were overflowing with hope. After spending 8 months in Japan, it’s hard to explain the joy in seeing a cross raised on a hilltop, or people still gathering in the many damaged church buildings, or the slogan of “Jesus saves” proudly painted on the front of a jeepney, or the “graduation prayer” written on the blackboard of a classroom, or a sign boasting “God is good” erected outside a slum shack. “Blessed are the poor in spirit… blessed are those who mourn…” these words of Jesus never made sense to me, but here I was seeing it everywhere, and it somehow made perfect sense. It’s an upside-down Kingdom we are ambassadors of – “the greatest among you shall be your servant.” “Whoever seeks to preserve his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life will keep it.” But maybe it’s not the Kingdom that’s upside-down, but this world we live in. In the Philippines, we were given a small glimpse into the redemptive power of God’s Kingdom here on earth setting things right. Now I pray that the island nation I currently live in can also somehow experience this upside-down joy. From island to island I went, and from island to island I’ve been blessed. I hope the joy I’ve received I can also share, from island to island.

 

卒業式 – Graduation

It started out like any other day. Well, not really. For one thing, I was able to wake up without the assistance of a heater for the first time in months. Only 7C this morning! I put on my best (and only) suit, and granny biked off to work. It’s Friday February 28. It’s graduation day.

Flowers at Momoyama Castle – evidence of Spring’s approach

 

School schedules in Japan are quite different than in America. The school year begins in April, then after a month-long vacation in August, second semester begins in September. The third and final semester is from January to early March. Hence, a late February graduation.

Toryo sakura tree on a snowy Valentines Day

 

Toryo High seemed a bit quieter than it typically does at 8ish in the morning, due to the absence of the first and second year students. I parked my bike and headed upstairs toward the teachers room, where I was met by the usual chorus of “ohayou gozaimasu” (good morning). I set my stuff down at my desk and did a little investigatory work with my supervisor to figure out what was going on today (I honestly had no idea what the schedule was). Graduation starts at 10, be in the gym by 9:40. Got it. Now on to the next investigation. What is that noise coming from the discipline room? I walked down a few row of desks toward the small room attached to the main teachers’ office. On the floor was a carpet of newspaper beneath two chairs covered in plastic. A third-year girl was just exiting the room in an exaggerated fit of coughing as she swatted the punishing air from her face. The noise? Hair spray. Welcome to the Toryo Barbershop. “Ohayou gozaimasu!” I called as I entered the room to greet my three young teacher buddies. “Nani kore?” (What’s this?) In a comedic blend of English, Japanese, and pantomime, they explained the situation. Toryo students are not allowed to dye their hair, but it’s not uncommon for some to shirk the consequences in the name of fashion. But today, graduation day, that won’t fly. So my comrades, one of whom is partly in charge of student discipline, converted the small room into a barbershop, complete with a dark-haired mannequin head, to fix this problem. “This,” my P.E. teacher friend explained with a smirk as he held up a can of hair spray, “Japanese natural black!”

gearing up for a school party with the teacher buddies

 

Hair color wasn’t the only thing that needed to be in order today. Rather than funny gowns and hats (why do we wear those anyway?), the graduating third-years were all in their typical uniforms. Perhaps typical isn’t the right word. Today, the top buttons were all fastened, the ties were all tightened, the pants were all suspended in place with black belts, and the skirts were all at a modest length. They looked good! And very uniform.

Around 9:40 I made my way into the gym, exchanging my school-building-slippers for a pair of gym-slippers, courtesy of the PTA. I took my place against the wall with some other teachers to greet the guests. Most of the parents were already there, seated on backless benches and quietly chatting with their neighbors.

At 7:45, the school band began to play as we stood to welcome the graduates. Two by two, they followed their homeroom teachers in perfect formation toward the benches in the front, standing at attention before an elegant stage. The entire stage was draped in a gown of crimson and gold curtains – the colors of Toryo High School. I smiled, remembering the identical colors that draped the stage of my high school graduation (but trying not to think of the University with similar colors). In the center of the top curtain, the school emblem proudly shone in gold. On the wall beneath the emblem were two flags – the red and white of the Japanese rising sun, and the royal floral colors of Kyoto Prefecture. Beneath these was an elegant golden screen, like something a geisha would change behind in a Hollywood movie. Before these stood a beautiful vase of flowers on the right and a mounted flag of Toryo High on the left. Between these, looking ever so much like a boss with his powerful posture and wooden podium, was the principal.

flag of Kyoto Prefecture

 

At exactly 8AM (Japanese punctuality) the ceremony began. “Rei!” Everybody bowed before taking a seat in unison. Before a painfully quiet gymnasium, the principal began to read his speech. As the concluding words left his mouth they were swallowed up by the dense silence of the crowd. Do we clap? He quietly put down his speech then stepped back from the podium. “Kiretsu!” The harsh voice of the vice-principal brought everyone to their feet. “Rei!” Without making a sound, we all bowed again. As we stood our eyes followed the principal as he exited stage right, stopping to bow before the Japanese flag prior to descending the stairs. At the command of the vice principal we took our seats again. A few seconds later the principal was making his way back to the stage, bowing once more before the flag. Then came the roll call of the graduates. With a sharp “hai!” each student shot to their feet as their name was called. Once the entire homeroom of about 40 students was on their feet, the “team captain” of the class approached the principal and his podium on the stage, bowing once left, once right, then once before the principal. A single certificate was presented to the homeroom leader, who returned to his classmates after a few more silent bows. The class bowed in unison before sitting once again. One class down, 8 more to go. As the procession carried on, I stealthy looked around as I struggled to keep my posture on the backless bench. Drowsy eyes drooped with sleepiness, followed by heavy heads as chins came to rest on chests with folded arms. I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who found this less than exciting. At least they could understand what was going on. I debated following suit for a moment as I noticed the young teacher sitting next to me was no longer fully conscious.

After about 290 students had all risen to their feet and bowed in perfect unison, and after a few more speeches read from various people, and after my posture had reached a nearly pathetic state, we were all called to our feet once again. The band played the school anthem as we all sang (or pretended to sing) along. Then, like a film in reverse, we all applauded as the graduates exited in the same manner they had entered. Owarimasu (finished) – no tassel flips, no cap tosses. Outside, the new graduates, with uniforms already back in the usual fashion, exchanged flowers for photographs with friends and family. Some of the emotions that had been restrained throughout the ceremony were starting to show, as teary pictures were taken with friends that would soon be parting ways. Toryo had been something special to all of them, that was clear. And though I never taught any of these graduates (I only teach the 1^st years), I knew I would miss them too. As I quietly stood back and observed, a few familiar faces excitedly approached me with yearbooks and pens. Ya, I would miss them too.