Rain in the bamboo. Candles multiplying in twinkling panes of glass. Warm light on wood floors and beams, murmuring of ideas like sky shared water. This gift.
As Luck Would Have It
I went to Japan once, years ago. I had long been fascinated by China. But Japan had a government sponsored project, the Japan Exchange and Teaching program. And there was my friend Tracey, whose sense of when to push was right on target; she was going, she said, and she would not allow me not to apply along with her. And she refrained from voicing the obvious, that i was wallowing needlessly in a small misery, ignoring the possibility of a whole world of fun awaiting.
It was fun, filling out the forms, going to the library to research cities. We were instructed to choose our top 3 locations. Unofficially, we heard, “and don’t even bother picking Kyoto, you’ll never get it, 75% of people put Kyoto, you know…” We picked Kobe, after much consideration of the available information. I don’t recall my two other choices. But Kobe, a port city of mild climate, an international city, not too big, but definitely not dull, close to the centre; we could see it all, history and modern Japan, the rice paper screens and the cosmopolitan scene. Yes, Kobe would be the place for us.
When the acceptance came, it was late winter. My friend got a small town post near Kobe. As for me, i didn’t ask for it, but i got Kyoto. Specifically, i got Ayabe, a small town just out of Kyoto city. Not for the first time, i boggled at the generous nature of life. I hadn’t known enough about Japan to ask for Kyoto, even if i hadn’t heard of the huge likelihood of disappointment. Maybe that’s how they were picking – we’ll give it to some rube who doesn’t know enough to ask for the best….just my luck to bumble into the location those in the know were purportedly scrambling for like hungry cats fishing for the fresh liver amongst the kibble.
Bridge
In Ayabe, luck would have me share the posting with two fellow foreigners whom i’ll treasure forever, though our paths have long diverged. In fact, i have to credit Andrea Dew with showing me an example of leadership that remains unparalleled in my life. A simple thing, really. She had the courage to meet our Japanese hosts halfway, when there was a thin thread of chance to change a long-standing situation of mutual discomfort, misunderstanding and strain, between the Japanese education office and its long string of foreign JET appointees.
Andrea chose to believe things could be made good, and invited me to walk with her in making that choice work. She set up both her new colleagues, made it really clear that we could choose – the kind of cynical, grudging alienation that too often developed between workers in a strongly hierarchical, work oriented culture and the young hot-shots who typically arrived fresh from university, full of a sense of their own entitlement and inflated by being among the elite chosen for JET.
Or, we could choose to recognise the courage of Mr. Kitano, who, when given responsibility for the foreigners, refused to accept that things could never work out … shikata ga nai, nothing you can do about it… and we could accept the tentative hands of friendship from him and a few others in our office. We could commit to finding a way to be friends, bearing in mind the history of blunders that had built a culture of distance.
For example, Ayabe history included the AET (our title) who had gotten drunk and smashed a car, for which the office had to bear a certain responsibility; in fact, there was a litany of examples of bad behaviour by former AETs. Of course, some might say, they’re not us, it’s not fair to judge us by their actions… and some had said so, and stiffened themselves further with righteous indignation at this prejudice directed at them.
Indian Luck
As for me, it’s another one of those things that makes me boggle at the generous nature of life… i’d lived all my life (save one year) in Canada, as an Indian, so i wasn’t at all surprised. You could say Ayabe was lucky that it got an Indian that year, who wouldn’t be at all shocked to be categorised, pre-judged, subject to the kind of approval that says ‘you’re a credit to your race, wish there were more like you.’…
And this Indian was lucky to get Ayabe that year, to have the chance to try building bridges in a relatively non-pressurised context. Not my history at stake here. Not my immediate family’s wounds. Nothing i need take personally on either side, as i was not from the majority type on either side. I could see humans. And i came to love them, humans from both sides of that divide.
Andrea, Tony, wherever you are, know i remember you with love always; and you, too, Kitano-sensei, Nakai-kacho, Kakioka-san, Hosoi-san, Suwa-san, Mrs. Izeki, and the inimitable Mr. Mizutani… and so many more, all became and remain people i care about in this world.
Yes and No
I’m still trying, 15 years on, to make good use of that gift, still feeling just a little sadness that i didn’t stay on. There was much to recommend the option of staying. Mr. Kitano gave me two sets of forms, one for Yes and one for No, when it came time to choose to renew contracts; laughing in the near-deadpan way he had, because he knew i’d waver back and forth several times. “Of course, I hope it’s yes,” he intoned in his grave and sonorous voice, “but…” and waved one hand to encompass all of life, the necessity for us each to make and abide by our own decisions.
And i had been called to come back to Canada. I’d seen a landscape in a dream, if you want the romantic version. I’d also recognised that, for the long-term, if i was going to make the gift count, i had a responsibility to at least try to do so in the land of my ancestors. There was a chance i might apply myself fruitfully to bridging the gap between humans in my land, divided by history, culture, pain, divided by stories that do deeply involve my own particular family.
Singing
So, i closed the door on a world i loved, gathered in the many moments that had touched me and did my best to believe that i had learned what i was sent there to learn. Leave, while the tide runs high. Leave, while we’re laughing. Having sung a true note together, let it resound.
Song
I recall one day, near the end, when little Mrs. Mizutani, a music teacher from another part of our office, brought out a song book. I was the only AET in the office that day. She gathered a few of us – Kakioka-san, me, a couple of the ladies from her end of the office, and they commenced teaching me a few simple songs. “Sakura Sakura,” of course; but then she turned to a song about leaving, “Wakareru koto wa, tsurai -i – kedo…” And as we sang, a few of the guys drifted over, including our Mr. Mizutani, and he, too, began to sing.
Pachinko Parlour Angel
Out of the corner of my eye, i reeled through a year of impressions of him: his mumbled good mornings, scruffy hair, perpetual cigarette and overall surface of shabby cynicism, slightly the worse for wear; first time i saw him, i wondered if he’d come straight out of an all-nighter, pegged him as a connoisseur of the ironic; but then, his face lit like a little boy’s, looking at wayang kulit puppets one day in the office.
Early in the year, at a festival at Oomoto temple, Hosoi-san and i were comparing notes on religion, Suwa-san and Mizutani-san holding down the other end of the table. Suwa-san laughing, pokes a thumb at Mizutani, says, ‘his religion – pachinko.’ Mizutani ducks his head, drops his eyes to his drink.
But when we go on the office trip to Ise Shrine, he’s there with Mr. Suwa, sitting at the front of the bus with Andrea and i and the ladies, mildly playing Uno and drinking juice, while the rest of the guys were well into the beer by 8:30 am – so there could be no doubt, Andrea and i were chaperoned, were safe, were having no part of any holiday wildness. And when we met, i’d never have picked Mizutani for that job, but there he is, in the group photo by the bus, just behind my shoulder, his hair leaping surprised at the early morning sun, eyes half-shut to the camera.
My friend Ron sends me a supply of Weekly World News for Christmas – so i can keep up with culture, he says. I take to taking one along on our weekly office day; at coffee break, Andrea, Tony and i giggle over them, pick out a ludicrous story to show Suwa and Mizutani. Hooked, they want us to translate the most scurrilous tales – “Man’s Penis Implant Accidentally Wired to Garage Door Opener’ has our whole section in stitches. Suddenly, Nakai-kacho, our section boss, looks across from his desk, his normally beaming face thunderous, and barks at our lads to explain what what going on. But it turns out he’s not mad, just feeling left out, and he bounds over to see, and he laughs louder than anyone.
Another day, in the midst of the hum and buzz, clattering grey office, Mizutani asks me to explain an English word. A little while later, i look up, catch his fleet smile, his voice briefly, softly in Japanese; a shy little compliment i look up later to translate. It turns out he comes from Miwa, the tiny collection of villages where i often go to teach; Miwa, the peaceful three, a kind place, very tiny – tt’s one of many things Suwa-san teases him with, beneath the surface years of accquaintance, their interpersonal jibes way over my head. Suwa-san, genki boy, plays tennis. ‘His sport – pachinko’ again with the brown thumb jabbed at his companion, while Mizutani runs a nicotine-stained hand through his already ruffled hair.
And now i am singing with him. We have talked about the northern lights, he says he’d like to see them, Suwa-san would doubtless have a jibe ready if he heard that one… but we are singing. Little Mizutani-sensei, like a kind elder aunt, holds the book; my Mr. Mizutani leans in, holds the other edge of the book for her, singing soft and clear and entirely unironically. And there, standing between Mizutanis, i know i have touched the heart of something, and no other moment could be as pure. A whole possible lifetime has condensed into that time, that place, that circle, sleeve to sleeve, shoulder to shoulder, leaning our heads into one another as we sing, a silly little waltz about the sadness of leaving, but it has to be, and something about a star.
I’m about to set off for a journey into the wilderness, expecting to see a lot of stars. I shall do my best to pay full attention to the beauties revealed, and if the occasion offers, i shall waltz.
all my relations
ams