Mollee meets the Police

                 I get really nervous around police officers:  “dead hooker and a bag of cocaine in the trunk” nervous.  This started when I was in preschool. 

                One day at the aforementioned preschool, we had “safety awareness day” like all schools do. A policeman came in and talked about the things that the police do for our community.  I grew up in a very wealthy, suburban community so while I don’t remember his exact speech I imagine it went something like this: “we protect children and dogs from the crazy drivers that choose to go more than 5pmh over the speed limit, we test the quality of your donuts, and we come to your schools and give you cool paper hats.” I say this not to make fun of the police officers in my home town, who actually do hard, valuable work, but to make fun of the fact that my city promoted “protecting the innocent minds of children” to the point of absurdity. You couldn’t tell your child that Santa wasn’t real without having a grief counselor on speed-dial. 

                So at the end of the speech, when the policeman explained that there was a special number we could call “in the event of an emergency” he didn’t bother to elaborate. He left it as “you can dial 9-1-1 if you are in danger, hurt, need help, or feel unsafe.” Keep in mind that he was talking to a classroom of kids under the age of 6. 

                Unfortunately for Mr. Policeman, I love and always have loved to apply my newfound knowledge as quickly as possible. So when my dad was late coming home from work I decided that the police could help me. My mom was upstairs giving my brother a bath. Instead of waiting to ask my mom to help me call the police, I decided I’d be brave and do so myself. 

                I dialed 9-1-1. It rang and a woman answered. I got scared and hung up. I was a really shy kid. I sat there for about three minutes. I dialed again. A different voice answered. I got nervous and hung up again. I did this eight times. Eventually, I accepted the fact that I was too afraid to talk to the police and went upstairs to play with my model dinosaurs and horses. I was a cool kid. 

                About ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. My mom answered it. I heard her yell “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHY ARE YOU HERE?” really, really loudly. I got scared and hid under my brother’s bed. Eventually, five sets of feet entered the room. A face and a flashlight looked under the bed. They coaxed me out and brought me downstairs. 

                My mom was sitting, handcuffed, at the table. This was the first big clue that something was wrong. One of the cops was holding my two brothers. They asked me to sit down. They asked if I knew who called them. I stuttered out that I had called them because I needed their help; I wanted them to bring my dad home from work. They asked if there was anything dangerous in the house and if I felt safe. I said yes even though my mom looked ready to kill me. This was the day I learned that if you repeatedly call the police and hang up, they assume the worst and send not one, not two, but FIVE squad cars and an ambulance to the house.  Some of the officers looked like they were biting back laughter, but the oldest and meanest looking explained that wanting my dad home from work wasn’t the kind of “need help” that they meant and that I should never call them again. He didn’t say only to call in the event of x, y, and z – just to never call again. Period. 

                After this event, I avoided the police at all costs. When I was really little, this meant I would run away when I would see them. I would hide in bathrooms at school and refuse to go into donut shops. When I got older and a little less dumb this fear manifested itself as feelings of discomfort and guilt. This brings me to Kumamoto-ken Japan, 2012. 

                After my hair-cut adventure, I met up with my co-workers for a barbeque. The plan was to not drink since I drove myself there (it’s illegal to have anything other than a 0.00 BAC in Japan and operate a vehicle). However, one of my co-workers who wasn’t drinking insisted that he could drive my car home because he had walked and lived only a few blocks away from me. Beer sounded good, so I relented and drank one beer. I repeat, I drank ONE beer. 

                After a few hours I realized that this particular co-worker had disappeared. I asked around and the consensus was that he had probably forgotten and left. I asked if it was okay for me to leave my car at the field and walk home. They said yes but that someone would drive me since I’m a young lady and all that. I said sure. The night itself was really fun and I spent some time debating the pros and cons of MACs and PCs. My Japanese isn’t really that great – it just so happens that most of the words for “computer-ey things” are the same in Japanese and English.  I felt pretty cool. We also talked about the upcoming US election and I was reminded, again, that a lot of people follow the politics of other countries. We talked about how I wished this was more common in America. This night was a major success because it was one of the first serious, deep conversations that I was able to have in Japanese. We were only able to discuss the tips of those icebergs because of my abilities, but boy was I proud. 

                At the end of the night my supervisor dropped me off. I walked up to the door, dug for my key, and realized I didn’t have it. It was in my car, which was two miles away. I tried to call my supervisor back but her phone was off. I sat down on my porch and contemplated walking back. As far as people go, I feel very, very safe in my village. However, my village is also filled with wild boars, monkeys, and other critters that go bump in the night. I decided I didn’t have the energy to successfully run away from a feral dog or pig, so I started calling people in my phone book. 

                Eventually, my fantastic friend who we’ll call Seattle answered her phone. She had been sleeping but insisted on coming to get me anyway. I downloaded and played a few games of Sudoku on my phone. Seattle arrived and we headed off into the night to retrieve my house keys from the car. We winded our way through the goonies’ back roads and up a very small mountain. We turned on to the road and were met by a small blockade and a police officer. 

                I hopped out of the car and walked up to one of my bigger fears: a policeman. He rolled down his window. “Good evening!” I began, “I forgot my house keys. They are in my car. I cannot drive because I drank, but may I go in and get them?” He smiled and said yes. I jogged to my car and he followed me. I retrieved my keys and relocked the door. The police officer rolled down his window and asked if I’d like a ride back to the barricade. I said yes and hopped in. 

                I don’t know how similar Japanese police cars are to American police cars – or how many people get to go for a ride in the front seat. The ride lasted for all of two minutes which gave me just enough time to notice there were a lot of labeled buttons that I couldn’t read. We reached the barrier; I hopped out, and rejoined Seattle in her car. At the end of the day, the whole mishap led to a good story and great bonding time with a good friend.

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.