In Which I Interact With Monkeys

            Asking me what my favorite animal is kind of like asking me where I’m from.  It’s not a one second answer.  For the record, I am from Union Grove, Wisconsin, but I was born in Iron Mountain, Michigan, and I lived most of my childhood in Japan, first in Karuizawa (for three years) followed by Asahikawa (where my family has lived since I was nine), but I’ve also lived in Racine, Wisconsin when I was little; on top of that, my driver’s license while I attended college in Dunbar, Wisconsin, said I lived in Kenosha, Wisconsin (because that’s where my grandma lived and where my mailing address) was, and right now I live in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  However, the purpose of this post is not to discuss about how, “Where are you from?” is my second least favorite question after, “What’s it like in Japan?”  This is to talk about monkeys.  See, my favorite animals are lions, tigers, bears, snakes, monkeys, and hyenas.  Don’t ask me to choose one from that list.  In addition, I squeal over about anything that qualifies as “animal.”  I even think the world’s ugliest dog is cute.  However, this post isn’t about the world’s ugliest dog.  This post is about monkeys.

            Monkeys are pretty awesome.  Whoever is about to contradict me on this point probably has a valid argument, but I am refusing to listen because I also acknowledge monkeys can be disgusting.  So can humans.  In fact, every single critter on this planet is disgusting in some way.  In fact, you know one thing the United States severely lacks?  Wild monkeys.  I kid you not.  I mean, yeah, you’ve got possums and coons and skunks and squirrels and chipmunks and all sorts of wonderful critters just dying to be seen, but you don’t have monkeys!  Japan does have monkeys.  Specifically, they have Japanese macaques.  My family now lives too far north to see them in the wild (although our zoo, which I will probably discuss thoroughly in a future post, has a fair collection of them), but we used to live further south.

            And, dear friends, I may have never touched a monkey in my life, but I have seen them in their wild, natural habitats.

            Okay, I’ll admit, I’ve never seen them sitting in a hot spring, except on TV, but that doesn’t matter.  I have had a monkey in my own front yard.  (Be quiet, ye missionary kids of Africa, mainland Asia, and South America.  I am having my moment of glory now.  I fully acknowledge you’ve had more monkeys than me.)

            So, there’s not much to tell about having a Japanese macaque in your own front yard.  It came.  It ate some berries.  I think it even went on our roof.  It almost peed on me (Oh, yes, I just wrote that.).  Fortunately, I got away in time.  Eventually, it left; back to go find his own monkey kind.  I never saw him again.

            Good news—that is not the only wild Japanese macaque I ever saw in real life.  No, every year, back when we lived down south, our church went on a picnic under the plum blossoms (because cherry blossoms are too common), and every year, we ended up taking this one very windy road.  That’s what happens when you live in the mountains.  You end up taking these roads guaranteed to induce carsickness to those inclined in such a way.

            Guess who gets carsick?  And guess who always wanted us to take that road?  Yep, me.  Because that road was fondly nicknamed “The Monkey Road” for a reason—it had plenty of monkeys living around it.  Everyone loved to stop and look at the monkeys and take pictures, and some people even fed them (Mom wouldn’t let me.).  Trust me, the nausea you may feel traveling down that road is worth it because there are MONKEYS!  Even if you have to pull over three times because you feel like you’re about to puke up your peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you get to see monkeys.

            Also, on a completely unrelated note, don’t feed the monkeys at the zoo.  The zookeepers tend not to like you doing that.  Not that I have EVER tried feeding a monkey, much less been successful at it.

I know absolutely NOTHING about this picture.  *shifty eyes

"Normal People"

Let's face it.  When you're a missionary kid, you have no chance of being normal.  Most people treat you as part of the display table--a human country-specific Google.  "What's the population of Japan?"  "Oh, that's a lot of snow you get there, eh?"  "What's it like in Japan?"  "Where do you live?"  (Even worse, most of these questions were answered in the presentation.)  However, there are a few people--a wonderful few--who go the extra mile.  During our second furlough, we kids dubbed them "normal people."  The thing is, they weren't normal.  They were different.  What made them special, though, was the fact that they treated us like normal people.

See, here's the problem.  I'm going to post this right here:  I hate wearing skirts outside of a church/work environment and pretending I don't know a thing about American pop culture.  Granted, I knew precious little growing up, but some people hate Disney.

The most magical place on earth...or the most evil?  You decide.

In other words, I grew up every furlough, pretending I didn't know anything.  Movies and music, of any sort, aside from maybe anything from Majesty Music, were off the table until we were sure.

I think the term "normal" was to distinguish from the term "boring."  Boring people seemed to forget you existed until you did one of the Three Taboos:  Sigh, Fidget, or Interrupt.  All of a sudden, the couple hosting would notice you.  "Oh, if they're bored, they can play with our grandchildren's toys!"  I loved that...when I was five or ten.  By the time I was fifteen though (actually, even when I was ten), I would've preferred if they let me read from their private library or read my own book that I'd brought (which was usually hidden in my bag so as not to offend anybody).  Eventually, we figured out that you could ask if they had any games when they offered toys, and they usually would end up having one with no essential pieces missing.

Don't get me wrong, though.  Some older people are normal.  One couple even had their  grandkids over the same evening my family arrived, and the three of us had a BLAST with the three of them.  That was also the only time I've ever played Pit.  The next time I had a chance to play, I somehow slept through it--which is odd, because it's a pretty loud game.  Honestly, though, if you're an older person who's reading my blog and you happen to have grandkids in the area, let your grandkids come play with the missionary kids!  Oh yes, once when I was ten, this resulted in us getting sick, but my youngest brother still had fun (Their  granddaughter was around his age.).

Another time I met a bunch of normal people was at our board's Missions Conference thingy-ma-jig, I don't remember what it's called.  I was fifteen, and on the second day, we missionary kids all started talking and stuff and got along awesomely.  Some of us even emailed each other for a while after that, and I think I'm still Facebook friends with nearly all the girls from that momentous occasion.

Trust me, none of these people were normal in the slightest.  That's what made them awesome.

"Of course other MKs seem normal to you.  You're an MK!"

Trust me, some MKs are VERY un-normal and boring.  Some kids who've lived their whole lives in America are too.

However, sometimes, some blessed, wonderful times, we would come across a family that made our weekend:

• The family who took us out for Chinese when I was ten, and we kids colored all over the place mats--which weren't kids placemats.
• The family with whom I spent the entire evening with their daughters, discussing "Barbie Outfits That Will Never Exist," learning about how to properly check an electric fence, jumping on the trampoline, swinging in the hammock, looking at one girl's artwork, and in general having a blast.  We had elk for Sunday dinner the next day.
• The family whose mom made the first taco salad I ever actually liked, who taught us how to play Apples to Apples, and whose home we nearly had to be dragged away from because we were staying at someone else's house, and we didn't want to leave this place! (aka, the Ensmingers)  (This was the incident that coined the term "normal.")
• The missionary family we ran into, like, three times on our 2000-2001 furlough who had three boys that we got along splendidly with.  I was sad when we no longer kept running into each other.
• The pastor's son who told hilarious jokes the entire meal
• The family whose daughter I spent the afternoon with talking Veggie Tales, American Girl, and a variety of other stuff (I was ten at the time)
• The few Sunday school classes that either didn't know I was an MK so treated me like a normal visitor or who knew but still treated me like a regular visitor (instead of letting a bunch of kids ask me questions)
• The family who had us over and fed us sandwiches for supper (such a relief sometimes!) before the boys went to the basement to play video games and we girls went down there to talk (Also the first time my Herbst appliance correcting my overbite broke)
• The one kid named Seth (none of the ones from Northland) whose house we stayed at on deputation and then we met up again with on first furlough, who was just a bunch of fun (I was sad I didn't get to meet him again on second furlough.)
• Every single person who ever let us watch their movies/recorded TV shows while the parents talked
• The teens of Community Baptist in Silver Lake who invited us to play Ping Pong because in the words of the guy who invited us, "I hate when I go to other churches and don't know anyone and no one talks to me."
• The teens of one church where one guy said, "I like how you're normal and use like and stuff."

I consider the last one to be one of the greatest compliments I ever received because I felt I had accomplished a mission:  to prove to at least one person that a missionary kid is just a regular kid who was been placed in a foreign country.  At the core, I'm no different than you.  I still long to be loved and accepted and to have friends.  If I'd had my way, I wouldn't have gone to any of these churches.  I was shy growing up.  I didn't WANT to go meet new people.  However, when someone around my age chose to reach out and be my friend for just one day, I was so happy.  They'd pull me straight from my comfort zone of not leaving the display table after services or my parents' side at houses except to use the bathroom.  They treated me like a HUMAN BEING!  Honestly, what more does a five-year-old or a ten-year-old or a fifteen-year-old want than to just be seen for what they are.  I didn't want to have to hide who I was.  I hated it.  Once I could tell you were normal, I would strip away that exterior of what a missionary kid should be like, and you were my friend for a day or two.  You went from ordinary and forgettable to extraordinary and special.

Grocery Shopping

So, I just got back from the grocery store.  And, by that, I don't mean I just got back from Walmart or Pick n' Save or Woodman's.  I just got back from Pacific Produce--the only Asian food supply I know of close to me.  As I write this blog post, I'm attempting to satisfy my craving for a Japanese drink called Milky Tea with something apparently from China called Pearl Milk Tea.  It's kind of like drinking Pibb when you're a Dr. Pepper fan or when someone else cooks something your mom usually makes.  Something's just not the same.  In this case, I think someone forgot about a spoonful of sugar.  Other than that, they nailed it.

Anyway, back to the subject of grocery shopping at Pacific Produce.  My intended purpose was to go in there and buy Milky Tea, curry, and Fuji apples.

"Excuse me, Katrina.  Curry is Indian.  You're from Japan."

Yes, and burritos are Mexican.  That doesn't mean Americans didn't modify them.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I could tell today was going to be a bit more interesting than usual.  Normally, it's me and one or two other people in the store, not counting the workers.  Today, though, it looked like every Asian in Milwaukee was descending upon the place.

In other words, I felt completely at home--except no one else was speaking Japanese.

Also, there were some non-Asians there too.  Every time I run into Caucasians at Pacific Produce, I wonder why they're here, defiling my illusion that I'm back in Japan.  Then I remember I'm also white and get over it.  Usually, they end up being with an Asian spouse or child and everything makes sense.

I'm the anomaly in the deal, but I'm kind of Japanese inside.  They just don't know it.  Actually, I'm a double anomaly, as I've never had a confirmed sighting of another Japanese person there, but I figure there must be some who come by, considering they have a semi-decent stock of everything Japanese except for rice (Thank you, Woodman's for stocking the proper rice or else I might starve to death!).

Anyway, I was successful at finding the right brand of curry.  Growing up, Mom always made mild, but they didn't have mild, so I bought medium hot.  I've yet to die from curry spiciness, so this shouldn't be an issue.

Me, happy with my curry

Also, I have no idea why in the world it's called "Vermont Curry."  If you're from Vermont and you can explain the connection, please do so because when I think of Vermont, I think of a little triangle shaped state up in New England.

Fuji apples were a complete success, and cheaper than the apples I found at Walmart earlier this month.  Score!

Okay, I'm officially not drinking my tea anymore.  I just found something jelly-ish at the bottom, and I have a policy against eating gelatin substances I don't recognize.

Whew...this post is taking a while to make.

Anyway, when I was at the store, I remembered I only had one nikuman (nee-koo-mahn) left in my freezer.  "What's a nikuman?" you may ask.  Well, it's not really found in Japan once you leave my island of Hokkaido.  Here's a picture:

One of the best foods on planet earth right there (pic copied from someone else's site)

Anyway, it's also found outside of Japan.  I couldn't find the microwaveable ones at Pacific Produce, meaning I'll have to make a trek over to Woodman's sometime and hope that they have the type that is both pork, non-barbecue pork, and microwaveable.  Anyway, so when I go shopping for it, it's not under the Japanese name.  According to the bag in my freezer at the moment, well...never mind...it just has "Pork Steamed Buns" written on it. Anyway, I usually end up having to buy it under the Chinese and Korean names, whatever they are.  I just look at the pictures on the bag and read the cooking instructions.

Also, on my way to check the freezer, I dumped out my can of Pearl Milk Tea.  Turns out it was clear gelatin, which is usually safe, but I was not in the mood for clear gelatin today.

"When are you in the mood for clear gelatin?"

Usually in the middle of canned fruit cocktail, actually.  That's the only time I can think of.

No seriously:  Peaches, pineapples, pears, mysterious red-orange fruit, and white cubes of gelatin; I love this stuff!  This isn't a joke at all.

Hm...so anyway, while I was on my unsuccessful hunt for nikuman, I happened to walk past the ice cream.  First of all, since this is an Asian food store, I ran into some flavors I've never seen before, including durian.  I've heard that durian tastes like dirty socks, but I've never tried it, so I'm not going to judge someone's decision to put it in an ice cream.  Incidentally, I didn't know until today how HUGE a durian fruit can be.

What a durian looks like

Anyway, durian and mango ice cream can only hold a semi-Japanese person's interest for so long.  I noticed sweet bean paste, green tea, and sesame seed ice cream, which made me feel immediately at home again--meaning, it's stuff I don't eat, but seeing it filled me with a sense of Japanese and American cultures slowly blending to form one super culture where every need of mine is filled except for the ability to be beamed from one place to another instantaneously.

I also went candy shopping but was unable to find the candy I was looking for, so I consoled my self with Pocky and Koala No Maachi.

Best chocolate substance on planet earth

And these are just fun

So, that's how shopping went today.  I am now also insanely craving real (non-dehydrated, non-instant, preferably Asahikawa) ramen, which I don't think I can find in Milwaukee, and I'm not driving all the way down to Illinois simply for a meal.

Until next time...Sayonara!

Stability

          “But I don’t want you to move.”  I can still remember the context in which I thought these words.  I was in computer class in tenth grade—one of my years in America.  In Japan, I was home schooled and had a grand total of about five friends my age, two of them Australian, two of them American, and one of them Japanese.  Here in America, though, I was in a Christian school.  There were forty-nine kids in the high school, and I considered myself friends with about forty of them.  I was the one who drifted in and out of their lives, four years in Japan, one year in America.  This was my family’s second furlough.

            My class in America was one of the most important parts of my life.  They were the first people I wanted to see again.  Within months of arriving in Japan, I wanted to see my class again—to bring them to Japan.  I had daydreams of my grandpa coming to visit and bringing my class with him.  My grandpa did visit once, but it was just him.

            The reason my class was so important was they were the one constant thing I could hold onto in America.  Yes, individuals came and left, but my class was always there, sending me letters and/or videos about once a year.  I didn’t know a single year where a person in my class didn’t write or email me.  I knew only two years where the class didn’t send me a stack of letters or a video from them.

            The girl who I didn’t want to move had been my friend since preschool.  Her family was indeed thinking of moving, but she had said something about moving to Colorado or Montana or something far away—not Wisconsin  (Her family only ended up moving to a new house in the area.).  I couldn’t imagine that happening.  She was one of the people who’d always been part of my class.

            I was the one always moving.  Things were always changing.  What did it matter to me if this one girl moved?  This was my last year of school in America.  Simply put:  something would change.  A part of me would be ripped from the comfortable halls of Union Grove Christian School and sent off to Colorado or Montana or somewhere.  I hated when that happened.  Even if you switched to public school, a part of me got torn off.  You were part of my class.  My class was my identity in America.  Oh, I would learn to adjust once I got back and met the new people, but until I got used to it, you were conspicuously missing from my life.  When I’d said “good-bye,” I’d thought it would mean “good-bye for now,” not “good-bye forever.”  I hate “good-bye forever.”

            Those paragraphs expand all the emotion I felt in a moment’s time in computer class.  It was only the time it took to send a shock through my body, and enough time for me to say something intelligent along the lines of, “No!” or “Why?”

            A sense of stability—that’s what my class was to me.  I could always go back to America and see those faces who I already knew and have a feeling, “Nothing has changed.”  My class was so good to me that even people who I’d never met before would come to me and say, “I’ve heard so much about you!”  I can tell you for a fact that my class did talk about previous members on occasion, and I sometimes wonder what stories they told about me when I was gone.  “Katrina Zemke.  Her parents are missionaries.  She lives in Japan.  She brings things called Pocky and dried squid to school.”  Who knows what else they said?  I always knew, though, that I would return to a place where I was loved.

            Nowadays, when I walk through the halls of UGCS, I rarely see the people I attended school with.  Still, though, the building echoes with haunts of happy memories—the memories that kept me going when I was six thousand miles from my friends.  Maybe I wouldn’t live in the same house as I had the last time, but I would always be going back to the same class.  A class where I always had a friend; a class where I was known; a class where I belonged.