I can't stop thinking that this host change will be my last. The next time I cram all my stuff into my suitcases, I'll be heading home. No more introductions to new host family members, no more new beds to get used to and new surroundings to explore. This is it. And these past three months have gone by the fastest by far. I just got here at this house! I just introduced myself to these people! All of my stuff isn't even unpacked yet! And yet, I'm leaving on Sunday. And my stay with the next family will be my shortest stay yet. Less than three months. Next month is June! If I was in America, I would be estatic at the ending of the school year. I would be counting down the days. I would be estatic at the signs of my season-long freedom - signs like sunshine and freckles and even end of the year tests. Oh dear. Next month is June. And then July. And I won't tell you what comes after July. It'll be a cliff hanger.
I think I really have changed since I got here. You know, I'm living in Japan. Sweet.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Three Month Families
I haven't spent as much time telling about this host family as I did the others and the reason for that is I haven't as much of a good relationship with them as I did with my previous two families. Of course in all the families we had our ups and downs and had to work to accomadate each other, but we did work. With both previous families, we had really great communication and I was able to really count on them as a support system.
In the beginning, my relationship with this family was rocky at best. I felt, though it was mostly just a feeling, like they didn't really want to deal with me or have time for me. That was fine. I'm fairly self-sufficient and took advantage of the freedom that came with the lack of interest. I felt like they were annoyed by the questions that my other families loved, and I know my host grandmother really didn't care for the responsibilities of having a kid in the house. She harbored bitterness against me for having to do my laundry and make my lunch every morning. Had she told me, I would have gladly done it myself. I did in America and tried to in both my first two houses. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she brushed me off, saying she couldn't understand me, which was probably true, but rather disheartening.
So they took me with them on their vacation to an onsen resort up in the mountains. I played babysitter for the five-year-old, and I think that won me points with everyone on that trip.
I'm changing families on Sunday. We've just started to bond. She's just starting to ask me questions about my day and I have more of an idea of what's expected of me around the house. She's started to ask about my plans for the future and what I'll do with the Japanese I've learned. Recently, I've really busted up my foot in kendo. My club told me that if I tell my host grandma, she'll be able to take me to a doctor or at least give me something to put on it. I was hesitant to tell her because I've been so sick lately and I get the feeling that she's annoyed by it. She hints that I'm just looking for attention. But today, just as I was about to go to bed, I asked her to take a look at it and see what she thinks. She immediately starting fussing over how swollen it is and rubbed aloe vera stuff (I think it was aloe vera) all over it. I'm still in shock.
So once again, I'm leaving a family way before I'm ready. I've just stopped being a house guest and we're finally starting to connect, and I have to start all over again. Again. For the fourth time. And after three months with this next family, I'll have to go home, and head to college, where I'll start over again. I love Rotary very much, but whose idea was it to put me with four host families?! Isn't it easy to see what a pain it is?
At least I'm an adaptor now. And, due to all my family changes, I've got one heck of a support system. That's nice.
In the beginning, my relationship with this family was rocky at best. I felt, though it was mostly just a feeling, like they didn't really want to deal with me or have time for me. That was fine. I'm fairly self-sufficient and took advantage of the freedom that came with the lack of interest. I felt like they were annoyed by the questions that my other families loved, and I know my host grandmother really didn't care for the responsibilities of having a kid in the house. She harbored bitterness against me for having to do my laundry and make my lunch every morning. Had she told me, I would have gladly done it myself. I did in America and tried to in both my first two houses. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she brushed me off, saying she couldn't understand me, which was probably true, but rather disheartening.
So they took me with them on their vacation to an onsen resort up in the mountains. I played babysitter for the five-year-old, and I think that won me points with everyone on that trip.
I'm changing families on Sunday. We've just started to bond. She's just starting to ask me questions about my day and I have more of an idea of what's expected of me around the house. She's started to ask about my plans for the future and what I'll do with the Japanese I've learned. Recently, I've really busted up my foot in kendo. My club told me that if I tell my host grandma, she'll be able to take me to a doctor or at least give me something to put on it. I was hesitant to tell her because I've been so sick lately and I get the feeling that she's annoyed by it. She hints that I'm just looking for attention. But today, just as I was about to go to bed, I asked her to take a look at it and see what she thinks. She immediately starting fussing over how swollen it is and rubbed aloe vera stuff (I think it was aloe vera) all over it. I'm still in shock.
So once again, I'm leaving a family way before I'm ready. I've just stopped being a house guest and we're finally starting to connect, and I have to start all over again. Again. For the fourth time. And after three months with this next family, I'll have to go home, and head to college, where I'll start over again. I love Rotary very much, but whose idea was it to put me with four host families?! Isn't it easy to see what a pain it is?
At least I'm an adaptor now. And, due to all my family changes, I've got one heck of a support system. That's nice.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Today I shared the best of me and it felt good
I love martial arts very much. It's hard to pin exactly what it is that draws me towards martial arts, but there's something that makes me restless and eager to learn it.
One of the beautiful things about martial arts, particularly kendo where you're always working with a partner, is your sharing your best with someone. Sometimes, definitely not always, everything you're doing is right. Even if you don't know the technique so well or you're not scoring, you're working the right way. You're remembering everything you've been told, you're completely focused, the energy is there, and you're absolutely in the moment. Of course even then you may screw up, but you're practicing right, and that makes it euphoriatic. And then, your partner is too. And that's it. Two people sharing the very best of themselves, and suddenly martial arts becomes a very intimate activity. You're sharing the moment, sharing the euphoria, sharing the energy, sharing yourselves. You can never dislike someone you've shared your best with. It's a beautiful thing to be entrusted with the best of someone, even to be able to see the best of someone is incredible. But to also put your own best out there, to share it with someone, that's incredible.
Can you understand this?
One of the beautiful things about martial arts, particularly kendo where you're always working with a partner, is your sharing your best with someone. Sometimes, definitely not always, everything you're doing is right. Even if you don't know the technique so well or you're not scoring, you're working the right way. You're remembering everything you've been told, you're completely focused, the energy is there, and you're absolutely in the moment. Of course even then you may screw up, but you're practicing right, and that makes it euphoriatic. And then, your partner is too. And that's it. Two people sharing the very best of themselves, and suddenly martial arts becomes a very intimate activity. You're sharing the moment, sharing the euphoria, sharing the energy, sharing yourselves. You can never dislike someone you've shared your best with. It's a beautiful thing to be entrusted with the best of someone, even to be able to see the best of someone is incredible. But to also put your own best out there, to share it with someone, that's incredible.
Can you understand this?
On Being an Exchange Student
I got an email from someone looking into exchange in the near future. She asked many questions, one of which was "What's it like being an exchange student?" I thought long and hard about this question, throwing adjectives and Rotary catch phrases like fun, exciting, difficult, challenging, mind-broadening, and, confusing. In the end, the one word I really felt could best describe this exchange is wierd.
There is nothing normal about being an exchange student. Nothing comforting, at least not in the beginning. In fact, my comfort zone was the biggest burden I brought with me to Japan. Even when life feels normal (which of course is a lot of the time, maybe even most of the time), it's a wierd normal.
My exchange has thus far been absolutely loaded with surprises and being so surprised is downright wierd. Wierd wierd wierd. Not knowing the language is weird of course, but what's wierder is knowing the language. I hope you understand the following explanation. Knowing the language is really an insight into the culture. Like the word "yasashii" for example. I learned in my textbook that it means "gentle." In America, we don't describe good people as gentle. It's wierd. And if you were a foreigner in America asking someone to please use easier English, you wouldn't say "Would you mind using more gentle English?" Wierd, huh?
And of course it's wierd knowing the language because what can possibly be normal about using Japanese on a daily basis?
In America, I was probably a wierd kid. Everyone says so, and I think they're only half joking. If that. But I was never The Wierd Kid. You know the one. Picks his nose, pours ketchup all over his tuna salad, smells sort of funny, draws (coincidentally) too much Japanese anime, knows all the answers in math class (or else is in remedial math), wears mismatching socks, carries all his books to class at once instead of using the locker, and of course is the slowest in gymn class.
A Side Story: When my mom was visiting, she reached for the soy sauce to pour all over her rice. We stopped her just in time, but she shot me an annoyed look and asked, "Why not?"
I am The Wierd Kid at Toba High School. I don't pick my nose in public. That's wierd. I don't know what sauce goes with which food. In fact, I was often annoyed in the beginning that they don't let you choose your favorite sauce - they give you the one called "okonomiyaki sauce" if you're eating okonomiyaki and "tacoyaki sauce" if you're eating tacoyaki. It took me a while to get in the habit of carrying around a little pencil bag for my most important belongings (pencils, pens, and flashcards of course) and I still forget to use the little piece of plastic they sell to go in between the pages of your notebook while you're writing (to provide a harder surface than the other pages of the notebook provide). I didn't know how to tie a tie when I got here. I tried to cross the street somewhere other than the sidewalk. They're still talking about that one - how I managed on my first day of school to summon the whole staff of teachers to yell at me and make angry motions that to me, held no meaning. That's wierd. I'm The Wierd Kid because sometimes I go to temples on my weekends. I carry a camera with me wherever I go, even to school and even when we just go out for dinner. I take pictures of street signs and trains and bicycles and vending machines and food. I have two holes punched neatly in each ear. I came to my first day of kendo practice with sparkling blue toenail polish on, applied by my eager little host sister. After that lecture, my host sister never touched my nails again. I can't read. In the beginning, I said wierd wierd things, sometimes rude, sometimes, in this culture, out of context, and sometimes just things that can't translate through our cultural differences.. I probably still do say wierd things, but at least whole conversations don't stop while everyone gapes at me and wonders how I could possibly have said such things.
Being an exchange student is wierd because products come in the wrong sized bottles and shapes. Because you can only buy one hairband at a time in the convenient store next door, and that one hairband costs nearly $1.80. Japanese cows don't say "Moooooo," they say "Mooeeeee." I don't even know how to write it, it's so wierd. (pronounced like the mo in Elmo and held out)
How can I make you understand what it's like to be an exchange student? I've never done anything like it before.
There is nothing normal about being an exchange student. Nothing comforting, at least not in the beginning. In fact, my comfort zone was the biggest burden I brought with me to Japan. Even when life feels normal (which of course is a lot of the time, maybe even most of the time), it's a wierd normal.
My exchange has thus far been absolutely loaded with surprises and being so surprised is downright wierd. Wierd wierd wierd. Not knowing the language is weird of course, but what's wierder is knowing the language. I hope you understand the following explanation. Knowing the language is really an insight into the culture. Like the word "yasashii" for example. I learned in my textbook that it means "gentle." In America, we don't describe good people as gentle. It's wierd. And if you were a foreigner in America asking someone to please use easier English, you wouldn't say "Would you mind using more gentle English?" Wierd, huh?
And of course it's wierd knowing the language because what can possibly be normal about using Japanese on a daily basis?
In America, I was probably a wierd kid. Everyone says so, and I think they're only half joking. If that. But I was never The Wierd Kid. You know the one. Picks his nose, pours ketchup all over his tuna salad, smells sort of funny, draws (coincidentally) too much Japanese anime, knows all the answers in math class (or else is in remedial math), wears mismatching socks, carries all his books to class at once instead of using the locker, and of course is the slowest in gymn class.
A Side Story: When my mom was visiting, she reached for the soy sauce to pour all over her rice. We stopped her just in time, but she shot me an annoyed look and asked, "Why not?"
I am The Wierd Kid at Toba High School. I don't pick my nose in public. That's wierd. I don't know what sauce goes with which food. In fact, I was often annoyed in the beginning that they don't let you choose your favorite sauce - they give you the one called "okonomiyaki sauce" if you're eating okonomiyaki and "tacoyaki sauce" if you're eating tacoyaki. It took me a while to get in the habit of carrying around a little pencil bag for my most important belongings (pencils, pens, and flashcards of course) and I still forget to use the little piece of plastic they sell to go in between the pages of your notebook while you're writing (to provide a harder surface than the other pages of the notebook provide). I didn't know how to tie a tie when I got here. I tried to cross the street somewhere other than the sidewalk. They're still talking about that one - how I managed on my first day of school to summon the whole staff of teachers to yell at me and make angry motions that to me, held no meaning. That's wierd. I'm The Wierd Kid because sometimes I go to temples on my weekends. I carry a camera with me wherever I go, even to school and even when we just go out for dinner. I take pictures of street signs and trains and bicycles and vending machines and food. I have two holes punched neatly in each ear. I came to my first day of kendo practice with sparkling blue toenail polish on, applied by my eager little host sister. After that lecture, my host sister never touched my nails again. I can't read. In the beginning, I said wierd wierd things, sometimes rude, sometimes, in this culture, out of context, and sometimes just things that can't translate through our cultural differences.. I probably still do say wierd things, but at least whole conversations don't stop while everyone gapes at me and wonders how I could possibly have said such things.
Being an exchange student is wierd because products come in the wrong sized bottles and shapes. Because you can only buy one hairband at a time in the convenient store next door, and that one hairband costs nearly $1.80. Japanese cows don't say "Moooooo," they say "Mooeeeee." I don't even know how to write it, it's so wierd. (pronounced like the mo in Elmo and held out)
How can I make you understand what it's like to be an exchange student? I've never done anything like it before.
A Sad Story
Once upon a time, there was a girl. That's me. She went to Japan on a foreign exchange. That's here.
So I was packing up about 8 months ago, trying to decide which of my beloved clothes would win the free (actually, I'd hardly call it free...) ride to Japan in my suitcases, when it occured to me that one whole suitcase was dedicated to jeans. In case you are unfamiliar with jeans, let me tell you about them. They are blue, usually, and denim. Sometimes they hug the hips, sometimes they flare at the bottom. Sometimes they have cheesy pictures on them. Usually they have pockets, though sometimes they don't and sometimes there are so many pockets you can't find the jeans. There are jeans for everyone out there - grandma's and grandpa's, retro high school kids, little tottlers who can't dress themselves, and even Japanese. Most people have a certain style they prefer to other styles, so that while jeans stock up (they're also very addicting and, because they're so essential, sell really well), most of the jeans in a person's collection consists of a mountain of nearly identical jeans. Of course the owner of the jeans can tell the difference - this pair makes me look fat, this pair clings to the leg too much, but fits the hips just right, this pair has three buttons and no zipper, this one has the conveniently big pocket - but to the average onlooker, jeans are nearly identical.
So I was stuck with a problem. I had one suitcase dedicated to 20 pairs of the same item and barely had room for my passport. I didn't think it was a problem until the travel agent sent me multiple emails, letters, and faxes warning me of the consequences of favoring jeans over my passport, which is when I decided to cut down on my beloved jeans. Next thing I knew, I had a rather sad collection of my three favorite pairs of jeans, hoping against hope that they would hold me for a year.
One of them fits me really strangely now, one of them got stuck in the tire of a bike wheel and has black stains running down it, and the last pair is so worn that the inside of the thighs look like they won't hold out one more walk across the street. I think I should have bought another pair. If you're a future exchange student, bring at least four pairs of jeans with you. And they're so expensive here.
In America, I wore jeans to school virtually every day, rain, snow, sun, and tornado threats. I wore jeans on my first date, I wore jeans to the doctors office and to the movies with my friends. When in doubt about the formality of an occasion, I played it safe and wore jeans. They were party clothes and school clothes and probably a gift from God.
Now, I wear my school skirt to school, my sweats around the house, and, surprise of all surprises, a skirt when I go out. I brought exactly one skirt with me because frankly, I didn't feel particularly comfortable in skirts. And now, with only three deteriorating pairs of jeans, I buy skirts. And skirts and skirts. What'll become of me?
And I bet you thought I was going to tell you something meaningful and insightful.
So I was packing up about 8 months ago, trying to decide which of my beloved clothes would win the free (actually, I'd hardly call it free...) ride to Japan in my suitcases, when it occured to me that one whole suitcase was dedicated to jeans. In case you are unfamiliar with jeans, let me tell you about them. They are blue, usually, and denim. Sometimes they hug the hips, sometimes they flare at the bottom. Sometimes they have cheesy pictures on them. Usually they have pockets, though sometimes they don't and sometimes there are so many pockets you can't find the jeans. There are jeans for everyone out there - grandma's and grandpa's, retro high school kids, little tottlers who can't dress themselves, and even Japanese. Most people have a certain style they prefer to other styles, so that while jeans stock up (they're also very addicting and, because they're so essential, sell really well), most of the jeans in a person's collection consists of a mountain of nearly identical jeans. Of course the owner of the jeans can tell the difference - this pair makes me look fat, this pair clings to the leg too much, but fits the hips just right, this pair has three buttons and no zipper, this one has the conveniently big pocket - but to the average onlooker, jeans are nearly identical.
So I was stuck with a problem. I had one suitcase dedicated to 20 pairs of the same item and barely had room for my passport. I didn't think it was a problem until the travel agent sent me multiple emails, letters, and faxes warning me of the consequences of favoring jeans over my passport, which is when I decided to cut down on my beloved jeans. Next thing I knew, I had a rather sad collection of my three favorite pairs of jeans, hoping against hope that they would hold me for a year.
One of them fits me really strangely now, one of them got stuck in the tire of a bike wheel and has black stains running down it, and the last pair is so worn that the inside of the thighs look like they won't hold out one more walk across the street. I think I should have bought another pair. If you're a future exchange student, bring at least four pairs of jeans with you. And they're so expensive here.
In America, I wore jeans to school virtually every day, rain, snow, sun, and tornado threats. I wore jeans on my first date, I wore jeans to the doctors office and to the movies with my friends. When in doubt about the formality of an occasion, I played it safe and wore jeans. They were party clothes and school clothes and probably a gift from God.
Now, I wear my school skirt to school, my sweats around the house, and, surprise of all surprises, a skirt when I go out. I brought exactly one skirt with me because frankly, I didn't feel particularly comfortable in skirts. And now, with only three deteriorating pairs of jeans, I buy skirts. And skirts and skirts. What'll become of me?
And I bet you thought I was going to tell you something meaningful and insightful.
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