Mollee's first real-life Japanese Test

Mollee’s First Real Life Japanese Test

Last week I took my first “real life” Japanese test. In college, I minored in Japanese, so I am no stranger to language tests; however, this was very different. I had a goal and my life would be significantly impacted by my success or failure. I needed to get my hair cut. 

Written tests are fantastic because there is a finite amount of material that can be covered. Professors usually provide vocabulary and grammar lists and even examples of what to expect. Studying involves note cards, note cards, and more note cards. Also, note cards – can’t forget those. Even speech topics have a “theme” so you can figure out what questions and responses are probable (Why would you like to go to Japan? I want to climb Mt. Fuji again. I also want to eat sushi) and which are not (Should the alien overlords locate planet Earth and find our natural resources desirable, do you think Obama or Romney would be better prepared to negotiate a treaty and avoid an intergalactic war? We’re screwed either way if they want oil.)

Most people also develop a study routine. For me, the first step involved creating color-categorized note cards. White note cards were used for English to Japanese vocabulary, yellow for English to Kanji and hiragana, and pink for grammar rules. Green was used for sample sentences. Note cards rule. I would also make humorous practice speeches that I would memorize. These contained new grammar and/or vocabulary. For example, the following emphasizes counting, only, and too:

I only have one friend. It’s a cat. His name is Felix. Felix has three bowls. He also has two beds. When I go to the post office, I send Felix letters. I send presents too. Sometimes I send pictures. Felix has six friends (and that’s a lot).

I tried to use a similar technique to practice explaining how I wanted my hair. I was nervous, because unlike a bad test grade which you can hide, a failure on my part would be obvious. Imagine if failing grades were handed back in Howlers (the screaming letters in Harry Potter. I’m a cool kid – I know) rather than in their discreetly folded fashion. Also instead of embarrassing you once they’d follow you around for a couple months until you were forced to try again. That’s what failing this would be like. Knowing that, I still found a local, seemingly English-free place to get my hair cut. 

Fortunately, I was able to mostly explain what I wanted in Japanese. I also found out that Mr. Stylist (I give creative nicknames, I know!) also spoke English. With our combined efforts, I was able to leave with the best haircut that I’ve had in years. BOOYA. 

In conclusion, note cards are awesome and my haircut is too. If you ever find yourself in Hitoyoshi, check out the Saso Salon. Also stay tuned, because I am sure I will have to brave the Japanese doctor’s office soon – it’s flu season! Since the gap between my current doctor’s office vocabulary (my head hurts.) and my desired abilities (I feel like I was beaten over the back of my head with a hammer and run over by a truck. I’m pretty sure there is lava in my lungs and a little green man kicking the back of my eyeballs.) I have some note cards to make and color code. Until next time!

PEACE OUT!

Mollee

PS: Something to keep in mind during flu season: if your nose is running and your feet smell, you might be put together backwards.

American Guilt: The first time Mollee wanted to be Canadian

As a whole, my experience in Japan has been incredibly pleasant. The people are great, the culture is great, the bugs are less great, and the food is fantastic. I haven’t encountered any outwardly racist people and I’ve only scared one small child (oops). As a whole, I would describe this experience as a success. That being said, I had one of the most awkward moments of my life last week.

 It’s October which means it’s time for students to start preparing for their speech competitions. As was expected, my JTE (Japanese teacher of English) asked me to help them prepare and I said yes.  I was told that during lunch break I would meet with the students from each grade level and help them practice their speeches.

The first year students went first. They recited a two person conversation from the book. Basically, one student tells the other that it’s “quiz time” and asks them to identify a bunch of random items. It is short and is about as interesting as a real-time video of a snail in mud. The second year’s speech was similar in the sense that it wasn’t particularly entertaining. Again, I helped them with their words and even suggested some gestures that they could use.

Then the third years came in. They had an actual story rather than a simple conversation. It was called “A Mother’s Lullaby.” I was excited – this could be interesting.  I got excited. Then, they started the speech. In order to help you, dear reader, relate more precisely to the panic and “HELP ME” that I experienced during this speech, I am including the exact story (via italics) with my thoughts (bolded)

“A Mother's Lullaby”

This sounds nice…

A big, old tree stands by a road near the city of Hiroshima.

Hiroshima? Uh oh…

Through the years, it has seen many things.One summer night the tree heard a lullaby. A mother was singing to her little girl under the tree. They looked happy, and the song sounded sweet. 

So it’s not about the bomb – thank Cthulu, Xenu, the Flying Spaghetti monster and whoever else is up there!

But the tree remembered something sad."Yes, it was some sixty years ago. I heard a lullaby that night, too."

                                                                                                         This can’t be good…

On the morning of that day, a big bomb fell on the city of Hiroshima. Many people lost their lives, and many others were injured. They had burns all over their bodies. I was very sad when I saw those people.
It was a very hot day. Some of the people fell down near me. I said to them, "Come and rest in my shade. You'll be all right soon."

Oh fuck me. Hey God, we haven’t talked in a while. If I jump back on the wagon could you make me Canadian – like right now? Thanks.

Night came. Some people were already dead. I heard a weak voice. It was a lullaby. A young girl was singing to a little boy.

                                                                                                   There’s a little boy? Aw, crap.

 
"Mommy! Mommy!" the boy cried.
"Don't cry," the girl said. "Mommy is here." Then she began to sing again.
She was very weak, but she tried to be a good mother to the poor little boy. She held him in her arms like a real mother.

On behalf of America I would like to apologize… 

"Mommy," the boy was still crying.
"Be a good boy," said the girl. "You'll be all right." She held the boy more tightly and began to sing again.
After a while the boy stopped crying and quietly died. 

He dies? What is this shit?! I take back everything I thought about the “quiz time” speech. I want Becky to find out what those items are!!! 

But the little mother did not stop singing. It was a sad lullaby. The girl's voice became weaker and weaker.
Morning came and the sun rose, but the girl never moved again.

Oh God… it’s over…. I have to say something now…. Words… I need words…

After the story ended, there were thirty seconds of pure awkward silence. What happened next, though, is what makes this story truly awkward. One of the girls said “Mollee Sensei, I have a question.” I told her to go ahead. 

She looked nervous which made me nervous. She took a deep breath and said: 

“JTE Sensei didn’t tell us what this story was about. A lot of the words are big so we don’t get it. Can you explain it?” 

Now, there are many things that I would much rather have done. I would have eaten a gallon of natto or taken my chances jumping out of the second story window, for example. Unfortunately, neither of those was offered as barter options. I spent ten seconds wishing that I didn’t know any Japanese (which would have got me out of translating) and another ten wishing I was from Canada. Neither of these wishes came true (screw you too Cthulu) and I proceeded to answer. 

I think the girls realized that this was going to be awkward once I explained that the tree watched many people die. I then explained that the girl sang to the boy until he died and she died too. My version was a lot less poetic or something. After I explained, we all sat in silence which I broke with “pronunciation. Let’s work on that.” Before we did, one of the girls piped in that “um… all countries do difficult things.” 

Yes, yes they do. I wanted to give the kid a hug, but hugs seem weird here. So I told her she was right and got on with the lesson.

Definitely. Not. Rice.

I have some serious (bug) problems. So much so that I sometimes feel like my life story would be more interesting to an entomologist than someone that wanted to live or teach in Japan. I am proud to present yet another Japanese bug story. 

               Yesterday I came home and walked into my kitchen to grab a glass of water. There was rice all over my floor.  I stopped and stared. I was confused. Since my house seems to suffer from an incurable bug problem, my cleaning habits have more or less consistently bordered on obsessive. I lie awake at night if I know that I left a dish unclean. Obviously, this was insanely out of character. 

               I stopped and asked myself questions: 

Did I drink last night?

I didn’t remember drinking. I opened the fridge and confirmed that my six pack was full, my wine bottle was unopened (yes, I do refrigerate my wine! Don’t judge me! Stop!), and my Gin was still sealed. Check, check, and check. 

Did I hit my head last night?

 I hadn’t seen any bruises that morning and no one had pointed anything strange out that day. If I use light brown eye shadow instead of skin tone my students know and excitedly tell me how cool they think that is. They would have told me. I felt my head. Nothing hurt. Check and check. 

Did I even eat rice last night?

The answer was no. I had made the equivalent of a breakfast burrito with potatoes, onions, eggs, and tomatoes. No rice. 

Did my rice spill? I checked to make sure that all my doors and windows were closed and locked. If my rice had spilled, something or someone had spilled it. I grabbed my spider slaying broom and began to search my house. I looked, timidly, under and behind each piece of furniture. Check, check, check, check, CHECK, check, check, check, and check. Then, as I shuffled my way back to my kitchen in defeat I remembered something: I didn’t even have rice in my house to begin with. I had finished my first and only bag nearly a month before and never got around to buying more. 

WHY THE FUCK IS THERE RICE ON MY FLOOR?

That particular question I yelled aloud. Now, Japanese walls are thin. If my neighbors are having an argument I can hear the entire thing. However, I take great comfort in the fact that my neighbors speak almost no English. Any phrase beyond “hello!” or “see you!” is rewarded with a blank stare. Their children speak a little more English, but as one of their teachers I can confirm that “why the fuck” isn’t in their lesson plans or their vocabulary lists. I can get away with yelling a lot. 

Miffed, I grabbed a broom to sweep. Then, I noticed something. The rice. It was MOVING.I looked closer and discovered that there was no rice on my floor. There were HUNDREDS of (fly larvae)/(other larvae)/(secret option C) making a mass exodus to the holy land: my trash can.

I dropped my broom, grabbed the vacuum and fought the urge to vomit or gag by calling “BEAM ME UP SCOTTY” and making various spaceship sounds. As I did this, I noticed a couple flies buzzing around the kitchen. I caught myself wondering whether these were their parents and what it would be like to watch one’s children get sucked into a giant vortex of doom. This made the whole process a lot less fun. I’m not that weird; right?

 Ted Bundy once explained that he chose not to enter graduate school for Psychology (I was a Psychology major) because Psychologists were some of the most messed up/weirdest/strange people he knew.* I’m going to choose to ignore that (I mean, the guy killed and tortured people, I don’t think he’s a good judge of character) and continue to tell myself that I’m normal. 

Until next time!

 *I tried to find this exact quote and could not. I had a professor that had interviewed him back in the day, and this story came up in class. If I can find proof I’ll post a link.

The Gaijin Trap

               Along the poorly marked streets of rural Japan there lies in wait an insatiable beast that yearns to swallow foreigners alive. We call it the Gaijin Trap. Now, here are a few things that one must understand about a Gaijin trap to truly appreciate its horror: It is always well hidden. It is always deep. It is often shaped just so a tire or runner could slide in perfectly. And, as we found out one weekend, it is often well hidden by overgrown grass. The Japanese people in this area seem to have developed a sixth “Gaijin Trap Avoiding” sense, which steers them to safety time and time again. Foreigners, such as my friends and I, seem to lack this sense. This is the tale of our encounter with the aforementioned Gaijin Trap. 

               The day was young and we all met in Hitoyoshi by the train station. We were excited and ready for adventure. We were going to a famous waterfall to go swimming. We squeezed together in a car and chatted as we drove to a friend’s house. We reorganized into different cars. Two of my friends and I opted to ride with a fellow new JET, who for the purpose of this story we will call Hawaii. 

               The drive began peacefully enough. We drove through her town which turned to rice fields which turned to more rice fields. We slowly approached hills and mountains. As we ascended the hills towards the sky, the roads began to narrow.  The road eventually became such that the average-obese American would have difficulty navigating it on foot. Yet all the signs pointed to the fact that this still was a two lane road. I’m still looking for the shrink button in my own car. Then, the roads began to wind like that obnoxious game at Chuck-E-Cheese called SideWinder where the goal is to get a marble from point A to B. 

               We were following more experience JETs and this created a false sense of safety – which was still relative because we all felt that at any moment we might drive off a cliff. This had nothing to do with Hawaii’s driving and everything to do with the size and shape of the road. When we reached a straight way we finally felt save. 

               As if on cue a large truck flew around the corner. It was hogging the middle of the road. It swerved to the right. We swerved – too far – to the left. We saw the mythical Gaijin Trap only moment before we flew in. The front and back left tired rolled into the Gaijin Trap with a resounding thud. The car was trapped. We sat there in shock. Someone laughed nervously and it spread through us like herpes through a frat house. Our friends ahead of us stopped and reversed. They hopped out of the car and laughed. We laughed more. I contemplated asking Hawaii whether or not I could take a photo and then decided not to be an ass. I consider myself to be a good decision maker. 

               After a few moments of awkward laughter the guys banded together to lift the left side of the car out of the Gaijin Trap. Hawaii sat inside and steered it to safety. We drove about 10 under the rest of the way. 

               So should you ever find yourself in rural Japan, remember: Gaijin Traps are there and they are waiting for you. Watch out!

There's a Huntsman in my Bathoom

I would like to interrupt my dis-chronological (it could totally be a word) storytelling to bring to you: The Huntsman in My Bathroom – a Mollee the Adventurer Special. 

            This weekend, I went to the JET Ashikita beach party. For those who don’t know what that is, Ashikita is a city in the Kumamoto Prefecture of Japan. It has a beach. A party is a social gathering that is often accompanied by copious amounts of alcohol. Check and check. 

            Before I left, I decided that I wanted to try out my super savvy, Japanese bathtub. I had woken up three hours ahead of schedule and couldn’t fall back asleep. A hot bath seemed like a great time killer (but little did I know of the killer* that laid in wait!).

            I went through my morning routine: breakfast, reddit, and a hint of stretching. I walked into the kitchen and turned on the water heater. I found a change of clothes and grabbed a towel. I excitedly frolicked into my bathroom. I looked into my bathtub and screamed (sorry neighbors!). Inside, sat a huntsman spider that was a little bit larger than my hand. He was no Sparky but terrifying nonetheless. I dropped my towel and ran out of the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me. I took comfort in the fact that my shower door just so happens to be the only door in my house that seals completely (Mollee:1 Nature:0). I decided I didn’t really need a bath and got dressed again. 

            A few hours later, my friends arrived and we left for the beach party – which I promise to describe at an undetermined later date. We returned Sunday afternoon. I postponed showering as long as possible. I cleaned my house. Twice. I rearranged my tables. I decided I did not like their new positions. I re-rearranged the tables. I decided I liked them best in their original positions. I moved them again. I went on facebook. I did laundry. I ate a snack. I brushed my teeth. I flossed. I ran out of ideas and had a staring contest with the shower door. 

            Eventually, I had to shower. You can only go so long without bathing in such a humid place. I was already pushing it. I opened the door and jumped back; nothing. I tiptoed into the shower room – running first just in case he was waiting over the door. Nothing. I checked the walls. Nothing. I looked into the tub. He was there and dead. 100% dead. This was somewhat of a relief, although rigor mortis accomplishes nothing in the way of making a giant spider seem less scary. I still felt the need to double check. 

            I tapped the side of the tub with my foot. Nothing. I kicked the side of the tub. I banged on the inside of the tub with my shower cleaning brush. I sprayed him with the shower hose. Nothing. He was definitely, 100% dead. 

            Why?

            I immediately found myself asking just that. There are only a few things that can kill a huntsman spider that I was aware of: birds, bats, fan-weilding women (see Mollee Vs. Sparky), old age, starvation, poison, bigger spiders, and mukade. It’s not a pleasant list. I cringed. There had been no birds or bats in my house and I could confirm that the floor-fan warrior had been absent. She and I are very close. The spider didn’t appear to be full grown (he was smaller than Sparky) so I couldn’t quite settle on old age. That meant that a bigger spider, a mukade, poison, or starvation was involved. Since I couldn’t prove the latter, I set out to disprove the former. I searched the bathroom for clues. There were no mukade or spiders and not a sign of black mold. I don’t actually know if black mold is toxic for spiders too, but I don’t think that looking hurt. I made extra sure that the gas stove was off. It was. 

            When these couldn’t be found, I briefly moved my search outside of the house. I looked for larger bugs on the walls and for any evidence of pesticide. I saw none. I decided I would never really know. This brought me to step 3: Spider carcass removal. 

            As an arachnophobic, spider carcass removal is a daunting task. A simple pick up and toss out the window is hardly a viable option, because that would involve ignoring the possibility that a zombie spider could be real. By the same token, vacuuming the body up could also be ruled out because at best I would have to come in contact with it again when I eventually emptied the vacuum and at worse the mutant zombie spider could come alive and escape into my house via the long hose. I could sacrifice a pair of kitchen tongs and throw it directly out the window or into the trash, but my kitchen tongs aren’t particularly long. This lead me to a somewhat more creative route: fire. I have problems, believe me I know. 

            I stood in my bathroom and contemplated burning the dead spider, who I had named Lector, because he reminded me of the mask that Hannibal Lector is forced to wear in the Silence of the Lambs movie to keep him from biting people. 

Initially, fire didn’t seem like a bad choice. I could light a piece of notebook paper on fire and throw it onto Lector’s body in the bathtub. He was already dead so this wouldn’t be cruel – unusual is still debatable. The bathtub was metal rather than ceramic so I did not worry that the fire would cause any lasting damage. My house also doesn’t have a fire alarm, which was alarming (see what I did there) to discover but convenient at the time. 

Then, I started to wonder how bad it would smell and how much smoke it would produce. Although Lector appeared significantly larger, his mass probably wasn’t that much greater than my thumb and pinky finger combined. I stood there and contemplated how bad a burning finger would smell. I hoped never to find out. I worried that the stench or smoke would be too large and would attract my neighbors. 

I then imagined trying to explain the aforementioned, hypothetical scenario to my neighbors. It went something like this:

Neighbor 1: Mollee-san, did you know there is smoke coming out of your windows?

Neighbor 2: We were worried so we came together.

Mollee: It’s okay. I was just burning a spider. I realize that they’re viewed as protectors of the house here, so I want to assure you it was dead before I lit it on fire. I checked by spraying it with hot water and smacking it with a broom. But it looked dead before I did those things – and it was!

Neighbor 1: …..

Neighbor 2: sou desuka….

Mollee: Thank you for checking on me. I apologize for interrupting your evening. 

            My Japanese is also awesome in this scenario. I then stood there and contemplated how and if I would actually be able to explain what the heck was going on. I re-questioned whether or not I had a fire alarm. I couldn’t find one. 

            Eventually, however, I decided that burning a dead spider in my bathtub was a bad choice. I decided to leave it alone and try again the following day. The following day I decided I would use my broom and a dustpan to collect the spider and throw it outside. 

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*A huntsman spider isn’t actually dangerous unless you are a bug, in which case I want to congratulate you on your master of the English language and urge you to donate your body to science.