The Japanese MK's Guide to Crossing the Street

Hello, anyone who actually reads this blog.  I have been away for awhile because I have been focusing on my fiction writing, which I'm not comfortable posting on this blog as I want to publish it in a book one day.



Anyway, in the past few months, I have been doing a lot more walking.  This is mostly because I now live in a small town where things are closer to home/I don't have to worry as much about crazy people.  This has brought to mind the fact that I kind of use Japanese pedestrian rules over American ones or combine them.  For example, I have no idea which side of the street I am supposed to walk on when there is no sidewalk, so I just kind of use whatever side I want.  But, even more, when you walk a lot more, you cross the street a lot more, which means you have an opportunity to use the mad skills you acquired over years of living in a country with a looser definition of this thing called "jaywalking."



1.  The proper place to cross the street is wherever there is a large enough gap between cars.  I believe the technical rule is at the corner, but sometimes...

I mean, if there is a perfectly opportune moment for me to cross the street right now, why should I go chasing all the way to the corner before crossing.  Now, what constitutes a proper-sized gap?  This is based on the speed limit, whether you are on bicycle or foot, how many/the ages of people are in your group, and how fast you are already riding your bicycle.



2.  Green man walking means cross; red man standing means cross if there are no cars nearby.  Sometimes, the light just takes too long to turn, and there's no cars closing in immediately, so why wait?  Once again, using the parameters above to determine whether or not it is safe to cross when using the second method.

3. If you do decide to wait for the light to turn green, wait for the little birdie to start chirping.  Not available at all crosswalks.  Sound of birdie chirps may vary.

4.  As a child, raise your hand over your head when you cross the street.  This helps the cars see you.  Also, this is something you totally forget in America because your parents never made you do it anyway.  However, when they are making you walk a lot in a big city, that is a perfect time to spontaneously remember and start doing it, much to your mom's embarrassment.

Thank you random person on the Internet who posted this.

5.  When crossing a street with cars coming, cross quickly at first, slowly later.  You will absolutely in no way bother my dad by doing this.  Nor will you hold up traffic.  After all, they have nowhere to go anyway.  And I most definitely do not catch myself doing this nowadays. *shifty eyes



6.  Tired of crossing the street?  Simply walk in the middle.  With the small yard sizes in Japan, you probably spent some time playing in the streets as a child anyway.  So now as an adult, you find it acceptable to walk right down the middle of the road.  Or bicycle.  Or walk while pushing your bicycle.  Do not evacuate the road until you realize a car is driving slowly behind you.  Then step off to the side.  Preferably look dazed like, "Whoa, there are vehicles in the street."



So, there you go:  six simple steps to crossing the street.  Please, by all means, ignore them if you are in America.  Unless you are walking with me.  No, wait, then still follow American rules and save me from potentially doing something terrible one day.

The MK's Struggle for Contentment

"[. . . ] for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content." (Philippians 4:11b)

I start out with this verse because if I don't, I will have it quoted at me multiple times in comments and PMs following the publication of this post.

Anyway, in this Scripture, for full context, the apostle Paul, greatest missionary in the history of ever that every missionary since must emulate, talks about how he's known having a ton and having a little, but we always quote this half a verse to ourselves whenever we're upset about something not being exactly what we want, or we quote it to others when they're venting to us.

I mean, it's not a bad verse, and I've had to remind myself of it.  A lot.  Because sometimes contentment as an MK can be hard.

When I'm in America, I want Japanese stuff.

When I'm in Japan, I want American stuff.

Basically, I want a magical place where I can combine both of my worlds into one ginormous happy place full of Dr. Pepper and yakisoba and all my favorite types of Pizza Hut and McDonald's that has all my friends speaking a blend of English and Japanese.  It would be lovely.

I call it Jamerica.

My journey of MK discontentment began very early at age six.  People believe that at that young of an age, you bounce right into your new life and forget about everything American and start fresh anew with no worries.

However, this "Hakuna Matata" philosophy did not work with me, and within months, I was longing for my American friends.  As I have stated before, my class at my school in America and I were so close, we kept in contact at least once almost every year of my schooling, and so I never fully left them behind.  In addition this, I had occasional cravings for Olive Garden.

As I grew older, my desire to be in America grew ever greater, especially each time I was in America for furlough.  I had already decided that Japan was not the place for me after I was grown up.  My future rested in America.

Except for one problem:  America is not the promised land of everything.

Oh, things have gotten better over time.  Pocky and soy sauce are much easier to get my hands on nowadays.  However, Pizza Hut will never make me a good old-fashioned Japanese seafood pizza, and McDonald's over here can't make teriyaki burgers or shrimp burgers.  Rice doesn't stick together over here (unless you raid the specialty store), and yakisoba and ramen are out of the question if you want something besides the rehydrated goods.  Furthermore, people look at you as if you were crazy each time you lapse into Japanese.

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be an American, and I don't hate living here, but I have no one place where I can have everything I want all at once, and I cannot be the only MK who struggles with this.

MKs are a subgroup of third-culture kids (TCKs).  TCKs belong to no one particular culture, a subject which I discussed in my previous post.  This lack of a single culture brings a potential side effect of discontentment.  Sometimes this discontentment can't be solved.  Other times, the MK is able to substitute in order to stave off the cravings (For example, if I crack a raw egg into my instant ramen, I can survive just that much longer without real Asahikawa ramen).  Hey, sometimes, patience is rewarded and a product becomes available, and the MK nearly dances in the aisle of Walmart, hugging the treasured item like a dear friend (Note:  This did not actually happen, but it's what I felt like doing when I found Pocky there.).  Of course, this is the adult MK's solution.

The child MK is faced with a greater challenge, often having to wait for a package or furlough to satisfy what he wants from America.  An MK who tells you they want Fruit Roll Ups and a Milky Way for Christmas is not lying.  Hey, at age seventeen, I, the girl who spent barely any money, once bought a Snickers at the mall after supper one Tuesday fellowship night and then hid in a bathroom stall so my brothers wouldn't know I'd bought one.  If they saw me, then they might decide to buy one too, and then it wouldn't be as special anymore!  Candy bars can become worth their weight in gold and are a precious commodity among MKs.  Telling someone you had a Butterfinger when you know they haven't had one in a while can be a form of mild torture.  Then there's the splurge vs. save dichotomy:  Do I eat it all right now because I'm excited, or do I save it and make it last as long as possible?

And we will either be terrible or wonderful about sharing our booty.

So, I guess I'll conclude this with ways you can help MKs in their struggle for contentment:

1.  Send MKs still in the field the candy bars and other goodies they ask for.  Yes, maybe that Almond Joy will melt a bit in the mail, but once it gets there...NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM!  Happiest kid in the world.

Yes, I just compared myself to a tiny gerbil.  Clearly you haven't seen me with a bag of M&M's.

2.  Fakey "ethnic" restaurants don't often make good substitutes for when the MK is away from the country they are "from."  Actually, I think that TV dinner I had a couple weeks ago was possibly closer to being the "mushburgers" (family term) I grew up eating at restaurants in Japan than some "Japanese" meals I've eaten.

There is seriously little difference between this meal at Bikkuri Donkey in Japan...

...and this Banquet TV Dinner from Walmart in America.

3.  Next time I start whining, distract me.  Like, seriously, change the topic, because the more I talk, the stronger the cravings get.  As much as you want to hear about Japanese culture, if I'm talking about food, it's best to change the subject.

Or just make me some green tea.  Hot, no sugar, no milk--just the tea.

4.  Understand that I am caught between two cultures and that I appreciate both America and Japan.  Don't think I'm McWhinyPants.  I'm just experiencing homesickness, and homesickness does pass in time.  We never fully leave behind where we've been, and until we absolutely adjust to our new world, support us and love us just the crazy-messed up way we are. :)

Where Are You From?

So, you're at college for the first time, just chilling on campus, getting to know people when someone asks THE QUESTION.  THE DREADED QUESTION.  The question that you can't thoroughly answer in the same two or three words everyone else in hearing distance can.  You want to change the subject, but you have a feeling that won't fly.  Oh, why did they have to ask it?

"Where are you from?"

"Where am I from"

Oh, four simple words that any normal American can answer succinctly.   Oh, maybe they'll have to take a few extra sentences to explain where it is in relation to other major cities, but you...there is no escape.  There is no good way to answer this one in short form.  To answer in short form is to tell a partial truth, so you make your decision.

"Union Grove, Wisconsin."

Your mouth for some reason gives this person the half-truth.  Yet it is completely true.  You are from Union Grove, Wisconsin, and right now, you don't have time to explain all about Japan.  You're not in the mood, so you just claim to be from America and explain you live about an hour from Milwaukee.  Case closed.

A few hours later, you're hanging out with other people, just getting to know them, when someone else turns to you.

"Where are you from?"

This time, though, you feel a bit more relaxed.  Maybe you don't care about this person oodling over you in awe as they discover the full truth.

"Japan."

It's still not the full truth, though, you think as you start answering the inevitable questions (including possibly the one about if you speak Chinese).  You are a proud Wisconsinite, supporter of the Green Bay Packers and the Milwaukee Brewers.  You don't mind being called a Cheesehead and believe dairy farms are normal, everyday sights.  You hate the Illinois and Minnesota teams with an instinctive passion, and Michigan stinks pretty bad too.

Finally, the whole story spills out.  "Well, really in America, I'm from Union Grove, Wisconsin.  It's about an hour away from Milwaukee...No, I live about six hundred miles north of Tokyo...Okinawa is not really Japan...Okay, cool, your uncle was in the navy...Well, actually I was born in Iron Mountain, Michigan.  Hey, who wants to play Foosball?"

Ugh...THE EXPLANATION.  I haven't met a single missionary kid who likes giving THE EXPLANATION over and over.  It is a truth universally acknowledged that a missionary kid meeting someone must be in want of a place to call "home."

"Home" is such a strange term.  The country our parents hail from is deemed our "home country," even if we have spent less than half our childhoods there.  We talk about "going home" for furlough, but when the time is over and we head back to the passport country, we also call this "going home."  Do not be surprised to hear an MK call a hotel room or the house where he is spending the night "home."  We are a group who has lost what that term means, other than a place we spend the night not strapped in by seat belts.  In short, everything but planes, cars, boats, buses, and trains is "home."

Examples of "not home"

A missionary kid is someone destined to feel like a foreigner no matter which country he is in.  Even if he lives in another English speaking country (the United Kingdom, for example), his family constantly speaks of family back in America.  Even if he exterminates all traces of his American accent and assimilates to the British culture, he will still find himself with some obligations to America.

WE ARE SORRY WE MADE THAT DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE!

American relatives will question why he has that accent, and if he can just turn it off while he's in America.  Would you ask your cousin from Texas to lose the accent while visiting you in Minnesota?  The MK will be told he is a 'MERICAN!  Yet he feels British, but because of American relatives, he can never fully be one.

MKs in countries where their native languages and/or skin colors don't match face even greater difficulties.  It is more than adapting an accent.  An MK in Germany will go to public school and speak German all day, but at home that night, she must lay aside her German language to speak English among her family.  She may look perfectly German on the outside, allowing her to physically blend in, but culturally she does not fit in here.  After returning to America for college, she discovers that this "homeland" is foreign to her.  She marries a missionary guy and they go and serve in Germany together, but they are still Americans, speaking English at home to their children.
Or perhaps, jump over to Peru, where an MK of Hispanic descent is home schooled and, for whatever reason speaks little Spanish (Okay, highly unlikely situation, but I'm trying to cover a lot of geographical regions here.).  Perhaps she can once again blend in physically, but as soon as she struggles to communicate, she is discovered to be an American.  Yet returning to America, she sometimes finds little in common with her "countrymen" and doesn't know where to go.  Yet she remains in America after graduation because this place just seems more "home" than Peru ever did, even though neither is ideal.

Now, let's take it to the Philippines.  Yes, let's do this about a red haired, green eyed MK in the Philippines.  He will never look like them, no matter how perfect his accent is, no matter how Filipino he acts--he will always stick out like a sore thumb.  Whether he chooses to settle in America or the Philippines or even a third country as an adult, he will always be a foreigner.

My passport says I am an American, and I am glad to be one.  But I am not an American.  But neither am I Japanese.  Where am I from?  What is the right answer?  Why can't this be simple?  I just want to say where I'm from without feeling like I'm lying or giving the longest answer in the history of mankind.

Perhaps this is the reason why the book "You Know You're an MK When..." starts out with, "You can't answer the question, 'Where are you from?'" and ends at number five hundred with, "Heaven is the only place you can call home."

MKs are a homeless, but not house-less, lot.  And maybe, just maybe, that's why we deem every place and no place as "home."

Six Things I Do Not Understand About Americans

I am finally moved into my new house in Indiana now and should be getting my classroom ready for school starting next week, blah, blah, blah; but I am blogging instead about something completely unrelated to that.  In short, the time has come to discuss the things I will never understand about Americans (speaking generally here).

1.  The need to be #1 at EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD!!!!!!  No, seriously, go pick up any magazine or newspaper, and sooner or later, you'll find something claiming that because America isn't #1 at something, we are failing ourselves and all future generations.  Really, so no other country is ever allowed to have a shining moment?  America must be the leader in education, GDP, conservation, science, safety, industry, etc.?  And the worst part is that despite all these articles, we never seem to start doing whatever the #1 country is doing to make it work.

2.  They have every resource in the world to learn about everything but don't.  Seriously, you don't know where Iraq is on a map?  America has been fighting Iraq for, like, over ten years, right?  You have Google, portal to the entire Internet.  What is your excuse?  I don't blame you for not knowing where specific towns within the country are, but with all your resources, can't you just, maybe...look at a map?  Learning something won't kill you.  The primary reason America isn't #1 at everything isn't the government's fault.  It's the average American's for refusing to learn anything beyond what the Kardashians are doing next.

 

3.  The dichotomy of "You don't know that?" vs. "But you're a missionary kid!"  This one is very MK specific.  If I don't know some aspect of pop culture, I'm criticized for being ignorant.  If I do know some aspect of pop culture, I'm greeted by the shock and horror of, "But you're a missionary kid!"  I've gotten, "You don't know that?" over The Matrix trilogy, yet "But you're a missionary kid!" over Madagascar.  Please, people, some consistency would be very nice. 

Apparently, a true missionary kid would not know the words to, "I like to move it, move it!"

 

4.  Slaughtering pronunciations of borrowed foreign words.  Now, as a kid, you learn to read and you pronounce words wrong, but get corrected by an adult who informs you "It is pronounce e-GREE-jous," and you learn to pronounce it correctly because that's the right thing to do.  But Uncle Sam forbid that we learn to pronounce karate, futon, or kamikaze properly.  Nope, sorry, someone important slaughtered the word, and we just claim we have Americanized the word and plunge on, refusing to fix it when someone who actually speaks the language corrects us.  (Reassurance:  No one complained when I stopped pronouncing emu e-moo and started saying e-myoo.).  Are there multiple pronunciations to some words?  Yes; toe-may-toe vs. toe-mah-toe, zee-bra vs. zeh-bra.  But when you start borrowing the word, could you at least send over businessmen who actually bother trying to pronounce words properly? 

This emu is shocked at American pronunciation.

5.  The English system (pounds, inches, etc.) and soccer.  Just switch, please.  Okay, I know there's the matter of American football (Three days until the Packer preseason game!), so I guess I'll allow soccer to slide.  But, really, while the rest of the world uses grams and meters, why are you still literally stuck in the Dark Ages using measurements based upon the distance between the king's nose and wrist?

6.  Why, when traveling internationally, you apparently believe speaking louder and slower helps.  If the person doesn't speak English, no matter how loudly or slowly you say, "I.  WANT.  TO.  CHANGE.  MY.  FLIGHT," they still won't understand you.  Imagine if a Chinese person started speaking to you, and no matter how many times you said, "I don't speak Chinese," they kept repeating themselves louder and slower.  Would you understand them any better?  You would not.  Although a lot of people do understand English, when you find one who doesn't, maybe try someone else if at all possible.

Another hint:  Next time, try pointing at the items you want if you can.  It helps a lot.

So, there is my little rant of the day before I spend the rest of my evening "watching" Fantasia while cutting out letters for my bulletin board on Early American Explorers.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not upset about being American or living in America.  Y'all are just a bunch of weirdos sometimes.  I could also come up with more, but I won't because I'll probably offend you, and then I'll get sued.

'MERICA!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Very Short Post About Valetine's Day In Japan

In Japan, on Valentine's Day, girls give guys dark or milk chocolate.  In exchange, one month later on March 14, they have White Day, where the guys are supposed to give the girls who gave them something on Valentine's Day white chocolate in return.

After college, I have a significant white chocolate deficit, despite constant explanations of what White Day is. ;)

Here are some pictures of Japanese chocolate to torment you:

Tonari no Totoro

The non-human things are the Totoro.

If you have never watched this movie, your life is incomplete. I am convinced of this.  Perhaps you watched it in English under the 20th Century Fox or Disney translations which have the title "My Neighbor Totoro."  I grew up watching the 20th Century Fox translation but own the Disney translation because it's cheaper and because it has the Japanese language track.  I don't watch it in English.  I watch it in Japanese.  It's a Japanese movie.  THE Japanese movie of my childhood.

Dust bunnies!

Anyway, for those of you whose life has never been awesomed (not a word, but I'm using it) by this movie, I will give a short plot summary.  These sisters named Satsuki and Mei move to a new house while their mom is still in the hospital with some unnamed disease (I believe movie trivia states it to be tuberculosis.).  The house turns out to be infested with dust bunnies, but they all leave when the family laughs in the ofuro.  Anyway, one day while the older sister Satsuki is at school, the younger sister Mei finds a little Totoro, then a medium one, and follows them to the tree in the nearby shrine area where she falls down into the home of the Totoro and lands on the big one.  And when I say big, I mean if I were to pick another childhood character to pit him against, I'd have to choose Clifford.  Everyone else is too small.  Anyway, Satsuki comes home and wakes Mei up sleeping in the middle of the tunnels of bushes behind their house.  Dad believes Mei about the Totoro but Satsuki doesn't.  Of course, Satsuki changes her mind when one day Totoro appears beside her while the girls wait to pick up their dad from the bus stop because he forgot his umbrella.  Cue most iconic scene of the movie:

Just another ordinary day, chillin' while waiting for the bus

Forget the TARDIS; I want a cat bus!

Since leaves don't make substantial umbrellas, Satsuki just gives Totoro her Dad's umbrella, which he takes with them before he is whisked off on a cat bus but not before leaving them a packet of seeds out of gratitude.  These seeds only end up growing after all the Totoro arrive one night and still don't return the umbrella (despite having it with them!) and lead the girls in a series of stretching exercises which makes it grow into a tree as big as the one the Totoro live in and then whisks them off on a spinning top on a cross country trip.  The girls wake up in bed the next morning with only tiny little sprouts in the garden.

One day, the girls find out their mom, who was about to come home, has to stay in the hospital for longer.  Mei runs away to see her mom and give her an ear of corn, and no one can find her until Satsuki enlists the help of the big gray Totoro and the cat bus who not only find Mei but take the girls to see their mother.  Cue credits and warm fuzzy feelings all around.  (And watch the credits.  The song is catchy and there's pictures giving the further story.)

Plot synopsis over.  Now the fun can begin!  Forget Narnia; I'm still waiting for a tunnel in the bushes to lead me to a Totoro tree.  My family had the perfect Totoro tunnel in the front yard of where we used to live in Japan, but no trips in there ever landed me right on top of a Totoro, no matter how much I wished.  I don't want a unicorn for a pet.  I want a Totoro.  I wore gigantic leaves on my head because they are Totoro umbrellas.

An edible plant (in some people's minds) or a Totoro umbrella?  Let your imagination decide.

For the record, that plant is not a rhubarb.  It's edible (theoretically), but it doesn't taste like rhubarb, and I prefer to wear the leaves on my head and pretend I'm a Totoro.  Or rather I did as a kid.  Even I would feel silly doing it as an adult.

I have a Totoro plushie, a Totoro keychain, a Totoro toy that you pull its tail and it wiggles forward, and a Totoro music player hanging on my wall.  And I don't consider myself obsessed.  It's just about the only Japanese movie I like.

Me, age 6

Anyway, Totoro now brings back a bit of nostalgia for me.  The movie takes place in the 1950s but was made in the 1980s.  However, pieces of Mei and Satsuki's world still existed when I moved to Japan.  We lived in an old traditional-style house like theirs.  I still knew places that were dirt roads.  The grandmas in the rice paddies were starting to fade away by 1996, but I did not find the people in the movie doing that as unusual.  Even the plants and the scenery matched that of the town I lived in.  Nowadays, though, my family has moved up north and to a larger city.  Oh, we still see rice paddies and traditional houses, but dirt roads are long gone for us now.  Up north is a different culture from down south in Japan, and time and technology have passed.  That's not a bad thing, though.  The world is making progress, and that is a good thing.  Still, when I watch Tonari no Totoro, I am transported back to a time when I was little, when I could imagine, when dirt roads and forests were all around me.  Inside, I am a child again.

Isn't that why we watch kids' movies as adults, though?  Because the child inside us never died.

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