The End of the World...er...Year

I am not sure why, but the Japaese school year runs from April to March. It is not in line with any notional or international holidays, it is not the start or end of a new season, and there is't a significant break or activity during this break to really justify it's timing, yet I find myself at the end of an academic year.

I can't say I remember any graduation of mine except high school or university. I know they happened, I can remember what I wore to my junior high graduation, but I can't remember any of the details. They just didn't seem that important. I am sure at the time I would have absolutely died if I were embarrassed in any way on the special occasions, whether by a relative, friend or stranger, but now, as a mid-twenty something, the pre-high school graduations seem insignificant.

High school graduation was a whirlwind of joy and sadness, fear and anticipation. Graduation from university was mostly a relief, with elements of transition.

In Japan, however, graduation is a solemn event, marked with great emotion leaning towards sadness. On five seperate occasions I sat in gymnasiums literally below freezing for hours. I watched as each student's entire diploma was read by the principal. It's true, I don't speak Japanese, and didn't understand, but I imagine he said something like, "On this x day of March, in this strange Japanese year 17 (ish), by the power vested in my as principal of this school verify that so and so has completed enough activities--or the minimum 30%--to deserve passing and graduating from x school." I liked to pretend he was actually saying something like, "On this x day of March, 2005, as the supreme ruler of the world, I declare you Sir Puffalump, protector of the small floating shanti town of Zenotana."

As the principal droned on, a conveyor belt of students stood up and stepped to the center, bowed in general, walked up the steps, bowed to a flag on the stage, stood in front of the podium, bowed to the principal, received their diploma, stepped back, raised the diploma to the sky, bowed again to the principal, turned and walked towards the stairs, turned towards the podium, bowed to the flag again, turned and went down the stairs, bowed to the important people in attendance, turned and bowed towards the teachers, placed their diploma in a box with the rest of the diplomas and returned to their seat.

There was some bowing involved in the ceremony.

As one of the teachers, I stayed awake only by because of the bowing I had to partake in as each student recognized my colleagues and I.

Once the diplomas were distributed, and then placed neatly back into the box so they would not be injured while the students sat perfectly still on their little wooden stools, some of the important people in attendance (mayors, council men, prominent townfolk, etc) would say a couple of what seemed to be generic words.

Then, inevitably a student would speak on behalf of the graduating class. Having taught these students for the last eight months, I would not have selected the ones that spoke as exceptional, like validictorians, but I am not sure how they performed in other classes. They were also not the most popular kids, but all the same their speeches ranged from twenty to forty-five minutes.

Again, I didn't understand what they were saying, but at this point in the ceremony NO ONE could hide their tears. It was as though someone had died. Parents, teachers, students, random local politicians...the tears spread through the gymnasium like a plague. It would start with a sniffle from the parent of the speaker, then spread to the homeroom teacher. Then people would try to hide their tears behind a handkerchief. I would look to get some translation from the JTE to find that they had completely broken down and were now looking like they had just cjopped ten pounds of onions.

On and on the speeches went. Usually the student speaking was crying midway through and by the end it was difficult to tell what they were saying. In many ways I am glad I didn't understand...

After the speeches, the remainig student body would sing selected songs in varrying stages of out of tune. Then everyone would join in to sing words in Japaese to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, a strange choice, I thought, then the graduating class would leave and the remaining students would clean the gym.

I suppose the worst part about the students graduating is that despite all the ceremonies, school was still in session. All students, including the graduates still had to go to school, even though there were no more classes. I haven't taught a class in nearly a month, and yet, here I am...still at school...

Finals

I have never been a big fan of standardized tests like the SAT, ACT, GRE, etc...but the one good thing to be said for them is that once you take them they are over. Your fate is sealed, you are either smart or not. Here in Japan things are a little different.

High school in Japan is not compulsory. Further, junior high students must apply to get into high school (and then pay to go to). There are a couple high schools that will accept anybody--thus called "low academic" schools-- but most kids have at least some ambition to go elsewhere so they must take a test to get in. The trick is that they don't take just one test. There are two standard tests, one for public high schools and one for private high schools. Then there is a test for each high school. Then there are the regular tests you take in class just to pass the class.

What does this all mean you ask? It means that my kids have done almost nothing but take a test a day for the past two months. Weekdays, Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, it never seems to end. As it is the last day of school for the year is in a week and a half and they are, as we I type this, taking a test to get into a high school somewhere. The nineth-graders are graduating on Saturday and some of them still don't know where they will go to school come April 7th.

Sigh...

So, what does this means for me? It means that my jam-packed schedule of 6-9 classes a week has been cut down to 1-4 classes a week. Between test taking, and handing back and reviewing tests there is little for me to do. I have to work 35 hours a week, each class is 50 minutes, so I have, roughly, 31 hours to kill a week.

I have read every news article, downloaded copius amounts of American television, caught up on all of my email, taken numerous naps, read several books, studied some Japanese (hard when my coworkers give me the answers before I can figure them out myself), familiarized myself with nearly every internet game, weblog, and conspiracy site, and just about poked my eyeballs out to pass the time.

At least next week I get to spend my time freezing in a gymnasium, listening to long speeches designed to make people cry in Japanese as I attend at least three graduation ceremonies.

I need a hobby...

Just Another Manic Monday

I have always hated the expression, "Oh, does somebody have a case of the Mondays?" as though a Monday was something you could catch...something floating around in the air, instead of a day of the week that will surely happen next week as well. Then, this Monday happened. Maybe calling it a case of the "Mondays" is a bit extreme, but it definitely goes down in the books as a less-than perfect day.

It started with a midnight Sunday venture to build snowmen at a local high school. This story is not nearly as interesting as it sounds, but it is a necessary component to the Monday story. So, by twilight you could find me with a friend building a snowman in a schoolyard. We had on millions of layers of clothes, but it was still a little cold. Actually, the only place I could tell it was cold was my nose (why haven't noses evolved?) and my toes (another strange extremity). I wasn't worried about the time because I didn't have to go into work until 2:00 pm the next day where I would be recording the prefectural proficiency test for all junior high school students.

Then Monday morning...er...mid-afternoon I work up, hoped out of bed, then collapsed to the floor. The pain in my left foot was one of the worst in recent memory. More painful than when I had a bat thrown into my knee at a softball game, more than when I broke one of the zillion bones in my body over the years. So, I crawled to the bed, sat down and looked at the bottom of my foot. There was no discoloration, no swelling...nada. I massaged it, wiggled my toes, no pain.

Attributing the pain to a momentary toe cramp, I stood again. Again, there was agony! I sensed a problem. After spending another five minutes gingerly examining my foot, gently applying pressure in various places, I realized I should go see a doctor...IN JAPAN!

Sadly, there was no time to go to the doctor's before work. The test I was recording was a major occasion, could not be rescheduled, and I would be in huge trouble if I missed it. So I decided to go to work and then go to the doctor's.

I couldn' t walk. Well...I could, and did, as long as I only walked on the outer (left) side of my foot. I could not place any weight on the center of the pad (not the heel) of my foot. Now, remember if you will that I was building a snowman the night before. This means it is cold. If you also take into account that the way the Japanese clear the streets of snow--by turning on sprinklers in the middle of the street--then you will put one and one together and get ICE. Lots and lots of ice. A slippery black river that winds through neighborhoods and cities like no figure skater could ever dream of.

To say that it was a challenge to get to the bus would be the understatement of the year. Twice I nearly broke every other bone in my body trying not to use the injured foot. It was like putting skates on a cat and tying it's left arm and leg together. Normally I slip a little on my way to the bus stop, never actually falling, but making sure my hands are out of my pockets just in case. This time however, it was amazing I could stand at all. Every other step there was an intake of breath as I braced for pain, then I would slip and a knee would hit pavement before the foot touched the ground.

If there had been a cab, there would have been no amount he couldn't charge.

The recording was yet another fiasco. My supervisor told me to meet her at the "studio." What she should have said was, "Meet me at the old abandoned high school-turned administration building, climb four flights of stairs in borrowed indoor sandals that won't stay on your feet (on your bad foot), walk all the way to the back to the unheated ex-chemistry lab that has a hole in the ceiling that is leaking melted snow where a man with a stereo will ask you to repeat everything eighty times because for some freak reason we cannot make copies even though this has to be distributed to every junior high in Ishikawa." Not that I am bitter or anything :)

So, ya, the recording was swell. Another ALT and I read our scripts in the genki-est voices we could muster and looked at each other like, "How can we possibly be in a first-world country?" It was amazing. We would be recording, make a mistake, then have to continue recording, then listen to the tape to see if it was any good even though we knew we had made a mistake. Then we would start all over.

Why they couldn't make copies of the tape was also beyond me. Don't they have to make copies for all the junior high schools? So, we recorded three copies of the same script in the coldest room you could imagine because the heater made too much noise.

All of the waste was lost on me, however, because I was completely distracted by pain.

After the recording, thankfully my supervisor and the other ALT accompanied me to the hospital. Surprisingly the hospital is literally right behind my apartment building. I had just never seen it before because it looks a little rundown. The inside, however, was immaculate. Very clean, and shiny.

The nurses did not speak any English, and while my supervisor does speak Japanese, her English is limited. Luckily my ALT friend speaks enough Japanese that with his help I could kind of get some translations. The doctor saw me almost immediately, and within ten minutes ex-rays were taken and developed, and by the end of a half hour the doctor was trying in somewhat decent English to tell me that my foot was not broken, but that my night in the snow cause some "inflammation from internal frostbite."

I didn't know you could get internal frostbite, nor did I think you could get it internally before or without getting it externally. But I took it at face value and was sent home with some pills, bandages, and what I call "blue sprinkles." I don't know what they are supposed to do, but I have had a horrendous stomachache since I started taking them. All in all I was highly impressed with this medical experience. It was far better and more efficient that any American medical experience I have had.

Now, Friday, my foot is doing oodles better, and I am supposed to go back in for a check up next Monday. When making the appointment, however, I took out my handy-dandy palm pilot to record the meeting, and it didn't turn on. Panic! Fear! Shock! I wrote the appointment down on paper, then went home.

Upon further inspection, I found that my palm pilot died in the night due to extreme cold temperatures...damn the cold! First my foot then my palm pilot! Is nothing in this world sacred??? Why, oh why???

So I leave you with the immortal words of the Bangles:

It's just another manic Monday
I wish it was Sunday
'Cause that's my fun-day
My I don't have to run-day
It's just another manic Monday