My favorite book is a love story because I don't have a boyfriend so I want to sympathize so I read this book.
The boy is my type so I want him to be my boyfriend but it is impossible so I give up.
Monday, November 12, 2012
My Favorite Book/Manga (SJ: 11/12)
三年生 - Elective:
Friday, October 19, 2012
弓道 in 柏
Nick, it's not the article I wanted; it's the article I deserved.
We have been in a bit of a crunch at work. I've even had to cancel my gym membership because I haven't had time to go. This will mark the first time since before compulsory PE at Biola that I will be without a membership to any sort of fitness center.
Then again, 先生 would say it would all work out. That is if he ever said anything other than "you're doing it wrong."
That being neither here nor there, what you need to know is that I found out that I was now taking 書道 and am somehow running the English Conversation Club
But, hey, I did just get "The Very Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates
Anyway, so what to write about? Especially if I've spent the last 19 consecutive days at Ichikashi…
Every couple of days you'll see them walking to or from 北柏駅, replete in traditional Japanese clothing with a bow in tow, slung across their back in a leather case like a pool cue or a fishing rod. For the longest time I had no clue who they were, what they were doing, or why they were doing it in or around Kita-Kashiwa. That is until I figured out that the giant building on the other side of Teganuma was the 柏立中央 Gymnasium: one of the biggest municipal gyms in Kashiwa city.
When Ken and I checked it out in June, we were told that they had daily basketball leagues, two or three halls of semi-competitive (to highly-competitive) ping pong tables, three dojos (for judo, kendo and/or karate), a sumo stable that housed children's sumo lessons on the weekends, and a competition-size kyudo range.
Kyudo. Of course.
胴造り. 引分け. 会. 離れ. 残心.
Actually, in all, there are eight formal steps to 弓道 (kyudo), traditional Japanese archery. Each of the eight steps, from the initial placing of the foot (足踏み)--breathe in, breathe out--to the readying (弓構え) and raising (打起し) of the bow--breathe in, breathe out--to the final release, is deliberate and drawn. And despite it's inherent violence, there is a remarkable peace that covers the 弓道場 like a thick woolen blanket. Silent but for the twang of the long, uneven wooden bow and the hiss of the arrow and breath of the archer.
Even though the sharp cries of kendo peeled across the empty lot, carried into the open-air hall on the soft, early autumn breeze, it was hard to ignore the sacredness of the space radiating with a thoughtfulness that, like light splashing into the humid dark of the night air, cascaded out onto the soft grass range below. It felt wrong to move or speak. It even felt invasive to be there to watch.
Though standard ranges, from hall to 的場 (target house), can span up to 60m, the length of the range at 柏立中央体育館, we were told, was just about 28m, or what is termed a "short" matoba. As it was, the archers we had the privilege of watching were struggling with 10- and 20-kilogram 弓, bows that seemed "just right" for a range of under 30m.
"構いません," we were told. "It does not matter."
As it is with all of the 武道 sports, there is as much emphasis placed on moral and spiritual development as there is on physical accomplishment and mastery. In fact, the first words of explanation out of 先生's mouth were all about the spiritual components of 弓道. Well, that's what Matthew told me. Of everything he said, I understood no more than 6 words. One of them was "かまいません."
Kyudo, we were told, was as much stoic, contemplative meditation-in-action as it was the violent launch of missiles. Actually, the loosing of the arrow from the bow seemed mildly incidental to the entire process. Rather, from the moment the archer places his foot, to the motionless, thoughtful moments after the arrow has rattled itself deep into the 巻藁 bale, the archer is in a still, silent pursuit of the Platonic ideal of 真善美 (shin-zen-bi): truth, goodness and beauty.
To put it simply, the pursuit of shin-zen-bi is the embodiment of the endeavor for and application of truth. Though circumstances and situations are variable, though wind and light may change what the eye sees, when one can see the absolute truth of things as they are, the archer is unperturbed (冴え, さえ: clarity). Practice must then be conducted in trust and faith in the rightness of truth. From that honest pursuit necessarily results in good action, lest the revelation be meaningless. Goodness is this wholehearted intention (誠, まこと: sincerity) of seeking the rightness of action once truth has been revealed. These actions that stem from the solid roots of truth give blossom to the flower of beauty, which is the spiritual goal not just in kyudo, but in all things in the life of the archer (平常心, へいじょうしん: one's presence of mind).
Whether the arrow hits the target is of no matter, 先生 intoned. After all, 正射正中 (せいしゃせいちゅう): correct shooting is correct hitting. "A spirit settled," the Shaho-Kun says, "becomes a harmonious unit."
This is the ideal, from 足踏み to 残心, or the returning to the body from the state of spirit concentration.
Of course that's easy to say when every arrow you loose manages to hit the minuscule 36cm wide target.
We have been in a bit of a crunch at work. I've even had to cancel my gym membership because I haven't had time to go. This will mark the first time since before compulsory PE at Biola that I will be without a membership to any sort of fitness center.
Then again, 先生 would say it would all work out. That is if he ever said anything other than "you're doing it wrong."
That being neither here nor there, what you need to know is that I found out that I was now taking 書道 and am somehow running the English Conversation Club
1± "into the ground."
1, all while managing to fall behind in my writing for TSCA despite starting my article two weeks ago. I just haven't had the time to vet the information. Or make it interesting. Or readable.But, hey, I did just get "The Very Best of Daryl Hall & John Oates
2Remastered.
2." Oh yeah, I'm back on the Yacht Rock!Anyway, so what to write about? Especially if I've spent the last 19 consecutive days at Ichikashi…
Every couple of days you'll see them walking to or from 北柏駅, replete in traditional Japanese clothing with a bow in tow, slung across their back in a leather case like a pool cue or a fishing rod. For the longest time I had no clue who they were, what they were doing, or why they were doing it in or around Kita-Kashiwa. That is until I figured out that the giant building on the other side of Teganuma was the 柏立中央 Gymnasium: one of the biggest municipal gyms in Kashiwa city.
When Ken and I checked it out in June, we were told that they had daily basketball leagues, two or three halls of semi-competitive (to highly-competitive) ping pong tables, three dojos (for judo, kendo and/or karate), a sumo stable that housed children's sumo lessons on the weekends, and a competition-size kyudo range.
Kyudo. Of course.
胴造り. 引分け. 会. 離れ. 残心.
Actually, in all, there are eight formal steps to 弓道 (kyudo), traditional Japanese archery. Each of the eight steps, from the initial placing of the foot (足踏み)--breathe in, breathe out--to the readying (弓構え) and raising (打起し) of the bow--breathe in, breathe out--to the final release, is deliberate and drawn. And despite it's inherent violence, there is a remarkable peace that covers the 弓道場 like a thick woolen blanket. Silent but for the twang of the long, uneven wooden bow and the hiss of the arrow and breath of the archer.
Even though the sharp cries of kendo peeled across the empty lot, carried into the open-air hall on the soft, early autumn breeze, it was hard to ignore the sacredness of the space radiating with a thoughtfulness that, like light splashing into the humid dark of the night air, cascaded out onto the soft grass range below. It felt wrong to move or speak. It even felt invasive to be there to watch.
Though standard ranges, from hall to 的場 (target house), can span up to 60m, the length of the range at 柏立中央体育館, we were told, was just about 28m, or what is termed a "short" matoba. As it was, the archers we had the privilege of watching were struggling with 10- and 20-kilogram 弓, bows that seemed "just right" for a range of under 30m.
"構いません," we were told. "It does not matter."
 |
Photo illicitly obtained from benoist via Flickr. |
As it is with all of the 武道 sports, there is as much emphasis placed on moral and spiritual development as there is on physical accomplishment and mastery. In fact, the first words of explanation out of 先生's mouth were all about the spiritual components of 弓道. Well, that's what Matthew told me. Of everything he said, I understood no more than 6 words. One of them was "かまいません."
Kyudo, we were told, was as much stoic, contemplative meditation-in-action as it was the violent launch of missiles. Actually, the loosing of the arrow from the bow seemed mildly incidental to the entire process. Rather, from the moment the archer places his foot, to the motionless, thoughtful moments after the arrow has rattled itself deep into the 巻藁 bale, the archer is in a still, silent pursuit of the Platonic ideal of 真善美 (shin-zen-bi): truth, goodness and beauty.
To put it simply, the pursuit of shin-zen-bi is the embodiment of the endeavor for and application of truth. Though circumstances and situations are variable, though wind and light may change what the eye sees, when one can see the absolute truth of things as they are, the archer is unperturbed (冴え, さえ: clarity). Practice must then be conducted in trust and faith in the rightness of truth. From that honest pursuit necessarily results in good action, lest the revelation be meaningless. Goodness is this wholehearted intention (誠, まこと: sincerity) of seeking the rightness of action once truth has been revealed. These actions that stem from the solid roots of truth give blossom to the flower of beauty, which is the spiritual goal not just in kyudo, but in all things in the life of the archer (平常心, へいじょうしん: one's presence of mind).
Whether the arrow hits the target is of no matter, 先生 intoned. After all, 正射正中 (せいしゃせいちゅう): correct shooting is correct hitting. "A spirit settled," the Shaho-Kun says, "becomes a harmonious unit."
This is the ideal, from 足踏み to 残心, or the returning to the body from the state of spirit concentration.
Of course that's easy to say when every arrow you loose manages to hit the minuscule 36cm wide target.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
一生懸命
I know it's been a while since I've last sat down to write, but things have gotten incredibly busy with work and 部活 and all that.
"All that" also includes breaking in the new ALT
And while I hadn't really gotten around to putting anything in ink yet, I have been thinking it through and adopted a personal motto of sorts that has directed much of my decision-making process for the past few months: 一生懸命, "with all of my being" (all of one's existence at risk).
It's a motto that I used when trying to decide how "invested" I wanted to be when joining 部活, in trying to decide how selfish or generous I wanted to be with my business and personal time, what limits to put on work and work relationships, and whether or not I should assume the publicly humiliating task of dancing at 文化祭 with the other 三年生先生.
So this motto has become a de facto strainer through which I have started to filter out tasks and hobbies from among the dross. It was also, I realized last night, a rather handy framework around which to build my ELT-manifesto.
Currently, I have an odd assortment
Personally, I think it's important to recognize the unique mutability of the ELT program that marks it as such a remarkable program within the context of the Japanese public educational system. I find it fascinating the liberties that we are afforded as a program within the normally rigid hegemony of the larger institution and we have been provided, both through neglect and ignorance, a fantastic opportunity to make appreciable changes that can make a real difference in the lives of students academically and interpersonally.
Historically, the TSCA/KIRA-ALT partnership has seen more than its share of strong, smart personalities that have worked to bring the program from its excited beginnings to the luxurious place of honor (and compensation) it currently holds within the immediate Ichikashi community and the broader municipality.
It is my heart's desire
There are three reasons why I feel so compelled.
The first of which is by far the most tenuous. Over the last couple of years Ichikashi has been blessed to have Suda-校長 at the helm. Actually, the ALT program has had this exorbitantly good fortune as Suda-先生 harbors a not-so-secret love for international education and exchange. But, as the Japanese educational system would have it, he is coming to the end of his stint, having to change schools at the end of the school year in June. Suda-先生 has been a boon to our program (and other such ones like it on campus), and we have been very lucky to have him at our vanguard. And while it is extremely unlikely that the next principal who comes will (or can) do away with our program, it would behoove both me and Matthew (and anyone who comes after us) to ingratiate ourselves to the incoming administrator. That way, when the ELT program and its affiliates come under the scrutiny of a brand new administrative eye, we would be above reproach in terms of relational and fiscal economy.
Speaking of relational and fiscal economy, one thing that has been crossing my mind recently
I liked to talk about how my last job was a godsend. How it practically fell into my lap "just in time" so that I didn't have to declare hardship on my loans, and how it subsisted through my four years of indentured servitude. But I was far from in love with the job. And at times my behavior made that quite clear.
I constantly think about how ungrateful I behaved. How ungrateful I seemed. How ungrateful I was. And it makes me sad to think that I put my coworkers and bosses through that. So it isn't with temerity that I send my thanks and well wishes to them. And yet it is that same heavy-heartedness that I carry with me into this job, a job I love passionately.
In a way, since it defies physics to go back in time and fix my attitude
There were really ever only two reasons. But I figured that if you had prepared to drudge through three reasons that you'd be so much happier knowing that you were done that much earlier.
Anyway, that's all I have for now. I'm working on a post which should be up in a couple of weeks. So, until then, また、ね。
"All that" also includes breaking in the new ALT
1The "ALT" title has always kinda irked me in terms of our job and its description relative to similar positions as it has acquired a rather negative, entry-level/slacker connotation. A few months ago I petitioned the principal of the school to recommend that, with the change in positional status a few years ago, there should also be a corresponding change in job title to reflect such differentiation. Now this is probably not that big of a deal to the people of Japan, which was probably why it was easy enough to acquiesce to, but when it comes to describing the job to future employers--as well as to potential recruits--it's important enough to be seen as separate and distinct from among "standard" ALTs. Especially as we are fully licensed teachers with equivalent status.
That being said, we have to figure out what we want to be called. There is an old term, ELT, which stands for English Language Teacher, which, apparently, is an archaic moniker for the position that seems well suited for the task. We might go with that one.
1. It's too bad because one of my goals for before the new recruit showed up was that I wanted to have a more concrete idea of what my term as ALT/ALT-先輩 would look like. Ever since we first talked about the inevitable end of Ken's term I'd been thinking what my personal vision for the TSCA-ALT program was going to be: the long-term direction I wanted to take my stint at Ichikashi in.That being said, we have to figure out what we want to be called. There is an old term, ELT, which stands for English Language Teacher, which, apparently, is an archaic moniker for the position that seems well suited for the task. We might go with that one.
And while I hadn't really gotten around to putting anything in ink yet, I have been thinking it through and adopted a personal motto of sorts that has directed much of my decision-making process for the past few months: 一生懸命, "with all of my being" (all of one's existence at risk).
It's a motto that I used when trying to decide how "invested" I wanted to be when joining 部活, in trying to decide how selfish or generous I wanted to be with my business and personal time, what limits to put on work and work relationships, and whether or not I should assume the publicly humiliating task of dancing at 文化祭 with the other 三年生先生.
So this motto has become a de facto strainer through which I have started to filter out tasks and hobbies from among the dross. It was also, I realized last night, a rather handy framework around which to build my ELT-manifesto.
Currently, I have an odd assortment
2I have decided to frame it according to a standard carnalistic-dualist split, as it's simple and doesn't require me to invent a third spoke around which to model.
2 of non-assessable goals which, by definition, makes them bad goals. Except in Japan, where unobtainable, non-assessable goals are the norm. After all, if they're un-assessable, they're unassailable! Rather than see them as requirements or achievements, I suppose, they're really more like reminders of what it means to me to 一生懸命 at my job.一生懸命 Heart
Increase our presence within the Ichikashi-teacher's community, ingratiating ourselves as:
1) Coworkers ("co-sufferers") - attending all school-wide faculty meetings and contributing a positive and involved presence at community functions, events, and extra-curricular activities, especially those that teachers are socially required to participate in.
2) Colleagues - taking an active interest in the working (and personal) lives of teachers both in and out of the Foreign Language office by being intentional with interactions and generous with our time and energy.
一生懸命 Mind
Increase our relevance as a program academically by:
1) Increasing the efficiency of our program - writing an overarching unit-plan for the three major courses (3年生 writing, OCI-2A and OCI Elective) that can be used as the basis for lesson plans (inherited, redesigned or rewritten)--ones that more accurately address the stated needs of each individual program. We would then be able to avoid the constant reduplication of effort and work that occurs on an annual (or even monthly) basis.
2) Increasing the quality of our program output - by having a more efficient planning process, we can spend more effort in improving the accuracy, usefulness and scope of lesson materials--including (but not limited to) teacher outlines or OCI-2A International-Travel "handbook" pages--as well as begin to implement assessment protocols. Finally, by creating space in the annual calendar, we would be able to conduct ongoing training and research into contemporary educational theory, allowing us to incorporate progressive teaching methods, such as multi-media.
3) Increasing the perceptive efficacy of our program - by continuing to address the (felt and programatic) needs of our programs, we would also look to take steps to promote the positive impact that ELTs have on campus. This includes continuing to make concentrated efforts in preparing students for English language testing and university entrance examinations either through direct tutoring or through the introduction of advanced, elective programs, as well as continuing to encourage the English Conversation Club to become a more academically relevant institution by promoting regular and practical English for general and specific purposes (casual--through language projects such as videos, pen pals, and writing--and academic--through assigned/mandatory testing or high-level language use via speech contests). Additionally, we should seek to continue to increase the breadth of impact that the ELT program has on campus through more concerted efforts to use English with and provide services to students not directly impacted by International Courses or ECC.
Personally, I think it's important to recognize the unique mutability of the ELT program that marks it as such a remarkable program within the context of the Japanese public educational system. I find it fascinating the liberties that we are afforded as a program within the normally rigid hegemony of the larger institution and we have been provided, both through neglect and ignorance, a fantastic opportunity to make appreciable changes that can make a real difference in the lives of students academically and interpersonally.
Historically, the TSCA/KIRA-ALT partnership has seen more than its share of strong, smart personalities that have worked to bring the program from its excited beginnings to the luxurious place of honor (and compensation) it currently holds within the immediate Ichikashi community and the broader municipality.
It is my heart's desire
3一生懸命.
3 to add my two cents and a bit of elbow grease and try to leave the program in a better position at the end of my three years.There are three reasons why I feel so compelled.
The first of which is by far the most tenuous. Over the last couple of years Ichikashi has been blessed to have Suda-校長 at the helm. Actually, the ALT program has had this exorbitantly good fortune as Suda-先生 harbors a not-so-secret love for international education and exchange. But, as the Japanese educational system would have it, he is coming to the end of his stint, having to change schools at the end of the school year in June. Suda-先生 has been a boon to our program (and other such ones like it on campus), and we have been very lucky to have him at our vanguard. And while it is extremely unlikely that the next principal who comes will (or can) do away with our program, it would behoove both me and Matthew (and anyone who comes after us) to ingratiate ourselves to the incoming administrator. That way, when the ELT program and its affiliates come under the scrutiny of a brand new administrative eye, we would be above reproach in terms of relational and fiscal economy.
Speaking of relational and fiscal economy, one thing that has been crossing my mind recently
4And this is number two.
4 was the difference in how I treat this job and how I treated my previous job. Really, I cannot imagine loving any future job as much as I do this one. Every day I wake up happy to go to work, happy to come home tired on the bus, and happy to look forward to doing it again the next day. As true as all that is, this has more to do with how I now realize how ungrateful I was about my last job.I liked to talk about how my last job was a godsend. How it practically fell into my lap "just in time" so that I didn't have to declare hardship on my loans, and how it subsisted through my four years of indentured servitude. But I was far from in love with the job. And at times my behavior made that quite clear.
I constantly think about how ungrateful I behaved. How ungrateful I seemed. How ungrateful I was. And it makes me sad to think that I put my coworkers and bosses through that. So it isn't with temerity that I send my thanks and well wishes to them. And yet it is that same heavy-heartedness that I carry with me into this job, a job I love passionately.
In a way, since it defies physics to go back in time and fix my attitude
5And, conveniently, my core desire to move on from that job.
5, I am trying to make up for my double-douche-bagginess by double-loving the job I have now.There were really ever only two reasons. But I figured that if you had prepared to drudge through three reasons that you'd be so much happier knowing that you were done that much earlier.
Anyway, that's all I have for now. I'm working on a post which should be up in a couple of weeks. So, until then, また、ね。
Friday, August 31, 2012
Jan and the Speech Contest
Meet Jan
She's one of several 外国人 students (non-citizen residents) enrolled at Ichikashi. Ichikashi has a very limited number of seats available for students who wish to enroll as 外国人, usually around five every year, as they require special language consideration both in their enrollment testing as well as "linguistic academic support" (which includes a supplemental Japanese language course).
This is interesting because usually, at least when it comes to English (and other foreign languages in general), these students are often quite high-functioning, probably because many of them come from countries where English is a semi-normal facet of every day life.
It's easy to forget in my limited exposure with them in OCI/Composition class that life outside of 英語の練習室 is quite different.
Over the past two weeks we've had the privilege of working one-on-one with Jan to help her prepare for the Kashiwa Speech Contest in October. Ken and I had done some pre-planning with Jan before summer break began so that by the end of summer we could have the makings of a workable draft, thinking that we'd run into the normal hem-and-hawing of speech-writing. Before we left in July she decided she wanted to write about how hard school in Japan, academically, was as a foreigner.
Cool, right?
However, last week when Jan sheepishly slid the door to the Foreign Language Office open, I knew something was up. Maybe she hadn't worked on anything at all over the last two months. Or, even worse, maybe she had gotten cold feet and wanted to pull out of the contest.
In actuality, she had a small notebook stained in pen with ideas scribbled across whole pages. Really, what she had come to say was that she had changed her mind: she didn't want to talk about how hard coming to Japan for school was anymore. Rather, she wanted to talk about how hard it was for her mom.
Even better.
I asked her if I could share what we have written. This is what we’ve come up with so far:
The speech-writing portion of prep is always hard. But the actual speaking-training is always the most cruel. Yet I do not doubt her resolve.
“Are you getting tired,” I asked, my own tongue feeling thick with cotton, my eyes strained with furrowed brows. “Are you sure you don’t want a break?”
We had been working on rounding out vowel sounds and enunciating hard consonant clusters for the better part of an hour. I was worried we were getting close to “the end” working on words like “inevitable” and “particularly.”
“We can take a break,” I added. “You’ve been doing a good job so far.”
“No, I don’t need a break,” she said. “Let’s keep working. I mean, I don’t want to do just a good job. I want to win.”
1 Sorry, she didn’t want to take a picture!
1.She's one of several 外国人 students (non-citizen residents) enrolled at Ichikashi. Ichikashi has a very limited number of seats available for students who wish to enroll as 外国人, usually around five every year, as they require special language consideration both in their enrollment testing as well as "linguistic academic support" (which includes a supplemental Japanese language course).
This is interesting because usually, at least when it comes to English (and other foreign languages in general), these students are often quite high-functioning, probably because many of them come from countries where English is a semi-normal facet of every day life.
It's easy to forget in my limited exposure with them in OCI/Composition class that life outside of 英語の練習室 is quite different.Over the past two weeks we've had the privilege of working one-on-one with Jan to help her prepare for the Kashiwa Speech Contest in October. Ken and I had done some pre-planning with Jan before summer break began so that by the end of summer we could have the makings of a workable draft, thinking that we'd run into the normal hem-and-hawing of speech-writing. Before we left in July she decided she wanted to write about how hard school in Japan, academically, was as a foreigner.
Cool, right?
However, last week when Jan sheepishly slid the door to the Foreign Language Office open, I knew something was up. Maybe she hadn't worked on anything at all over the last two months. Or, even worse, maybe she had gotten cold feet and wanted to pull out of the contest.
In actuality, she had a small notebook stained in pen with ideas scribbled across whole pages. Really, what she had come to say was that she had changed her mind: she didn't want to talk about how hard coming to Japan for school was anymore. Rather, she wanted to talk about how hard it was for her mom.
Even better.
I asked her if I could share what we have written. This is what we’ve come up with so far:
My mom is very important to me because, first of all, she was the one who gave birth to me. She changed my diapers when I was a toddler and made sure that I was healthy and active. She would take care of me when I was sick and made sure that I had everything I needed. When I was little, she would read books to me every night and made me feel loved with lots of hugs and kisses. She would always cheer me up and comfort me when I was scared, teaching me to do my best and not give up when things are scary or get hard.
If it were not for her, I wouldn’t be here. I’m really grateful that I have a mother like her. She really means a lot to me.
But this is why she is my biggest inspiration:
You see, when she was in Manila, my mom got pregnant with me at a very young age. Because of that, she had a very big decision to make: she could take a year off of high school and put me up for adoption or put aside her friends, high school parties, and dreams of becoming a cabin attendant, making lots of money and traveling all around the world, to raise me as her daughter. For her, though it meant things would be difficult, it was not a hard decision.
She decided to quit high school and get a job so she could raise me. When she was 8-months pregnant, she got a job at 7-11, but the pay was very low. She realized that even with this job, she would not be able to afford a great future for me. So when I turned 3-years-old, she packed up and left her family and friends and moved to Japan to find a better job.
Moving to Japan was very hard for her. She didn’t even speak the language, and so things like kanji were very difficult for her. She will readily admit that it was tough, but she always said it was worth it because it was to offer me a better future. She always made her decisions based on what was best for me, not what was the easiest.
My mom always does her best for me and it makes me feel so special. It inspires me to work hard in school so that one day I might be able to fulfill her dream of becoming a cabin attendant.
However, like for my mother, sometimes it is very hard for me to understand Japanese. All of the kanji in school is very hard, but most especially the sciences. It is very discouraging to score so low because of the language barrier. Even if I understand the idea in the textbook, I find it hard to pass tests and assignments because the kanji is so complicated.
Last semester was particularly difficult. Even though I studied every day, practicing and memorizing kanji, I was unable to pass my biology test. It is very disappointing to spend so much time studying and still not pass the exam. Sometimes I want to quit because failing feels inevitable. But just when I feel like giving up, my mom tells me, “kahit anong mangyari wag kang susuko, kasi alam ko naman na kaya mo eh”: “do not give up. I know you can do it.”
Even though the kanji used in science is challenging, I will not give up studying. I know I can do it because my mother has shown me that it can be done. She gives me the confidence to work through adversity and study hard. Like her, I want to do what’s best, not just what is easiest.
But it isn’t always easy to choose to do the best. My mom and I argue sometimes about me hanging out with my friends instead of studying. She is always worried about me, telling me to be careful. It used to make me mad, her constant questioning, but now I realize that she wants me to be safe, that she wants to make sure that I don’t make the same decisions, the same mistakes, that she did. She always tells me that I can do better, and that I should make the most of my opportunity.
She has given me so much already, and for that I am very grateful. By this I know that she loves me, so I want to make her proud by fulfilling her dreams, not just of being a cabin attendant, but by making the most of the bright future she has given up so much for me to have.
The speech-writing portion of prep is always hard. But the actual speaking-training is always the most cruel. Yet I do not doubt her resolve.
“Are you getting tired,” I asked, my own tongue feeling thick with cotton, my eyes strained with furrowed brows. “Are you sure you don’t want a break?”
We had been working on rounding out vowel sounds and enunciating hard consonant clusters for the better part of an hour. I was worried we were getting close to “the end” working on words like “inevitable” and “particularly.”
“We can take a break,” I added. “You’ve been doing a good job so far.”
“No, I don’t need a break,” she said. “Let’s keep working. I mean, I don’t want to do just a good job. I want to win.”
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Umi no Hi
The spring events calendar is relatively light compared to those of the fall and winter. Sure there's the Freshmen Welcome procedures and orientation. But when stacked up against the school excursion to Okinawa in November, the trip to Yokohama in May is just mere "practice."
The crux of our spring program, though, is the host segment of both of our exchange programs. By the end of July we have hosted two separate groups from Torrance for a total of five days in an attempt to simulate and summarize a day in the life of a normal Japanese high school student.
For me, the best part of these trips isn't so much the rare opportunity to riff in English to nearly unanimous groans
I mean it's hard not to be consistently wowed by the quality of our Brass Band club and it's massive wall of trophies and the accordant dedication to practice and perfection literally unavoidable as the persistent clacking of metronomes and the haunting whine of woodwinds echo through the halls, their tick and twitter a constant reminder of my own lazy mediocrity. And, of course there are the unique cultural experiences of Tea Ceremony, Ikebana and Shodo. Even still, what seems to surprise the students most are the sports clubs.
I suppose club is the right word for it. In Japan, when you commit to a sport, you're committing to the club team, whose only, unconditional requirement is your daily commitment. There is no such thing as a multi-sport athlete because, within the system, it is impossible for a student to be committed to more than one club at a time.
To their credit it should be mentioned that no student is ever turned away from a club due to lack of ability or performance
Regardless of a student's status, clubs meet virtually every day, some multiple times a day, throughout the entire year, as freshman until the day they must retire midway through the summer of their senior year. There are no "seasons" when it comes to sports, and likewise there is no break from practice. Even still, invariably, the athletic calendar centers its axis around the prefectural tournament. For the bigger sports like baseball and basketball, the schedule finds its heart in the heat of the summer "大会" ("taikai").
Sure there may be a spring invitational tournament or a conscripted scrimmage between two schools, but inter-high school athletics come down to these athletic "tests": the Prefectural Tournament (県大会) and then the National Tournament (全国大会).
Way back in the early 2000s, when my only previous, direct exposure to Japan was limited through Harmony Gold VHS adaptations of classic Japanese animes and documentaries on PBS about national treasures (both historical and living), Discover Films: POV released a short doc on the all-Japan national inter-high school championship tournament, the Summer Koshien.
First played in 1915
Undoubtedly, sometimes what gets lost in the fervor of the literal aspect of sport and its purported inherent, absolute cultural value is the fact that the game is still played by children whose identities and relationships are deeply tied to whatever 部活動 they find themselves in their freshman year. It's easy to forget that high school is a transitionary period from childhood into adulthood, and the summer retirement of the 三年生 is the first and most heavy-handed of the many milestones that mark this passage.
Koshien and 全国選手権 are mere dreams for just about all of our sports teams. Not only is the success of the club pegged to your team's ability to survive deep into a single elimination tournament, but for just about all of the jerseyed athletes (a preponderance of whom are 三年生) these tournaments are their last event before they are forced to "retire" from the club to make way for their juniors. For every single one of our students, winning that proverbial "next game" is as much about getting to play one more game with their friends as it is winning the title of "National Champion."
"This weekend is our last tennis tournament," one girl wrote in her journal way back in May. "I want to win because I love playing tennis."
Girl's tennis turned over their annual calendar more than a month ago and was among the earliest of all the sports to retire out their seniors. But I remember recently catching her gazing longingly out of the window of 練習室3, a room that happens to have a beautiful view of the courts on the south side of the campus, her eyes ladened with tears.
"I miss tennis," she said. "But I miss tennis club most of all."
The crux of our spring program, though, is the host segment of both of our exchange programs. By the end of July we have hosted two separate groups from Torrance for a total of five days in an attempt to simulate and summarize a day in the life of a normal Japanese high school student.
For me, the best part of these trips isn't so much the rare opportunity to riff in English to nearly unanimous groans
1 As opposed to confused silence.
1, but to, again, be reminded of those amazing, subtle differences of culture that I have grown more or less accustomed to.I mean it's hard not to be consistently wowed by the quality of our Brass Band club and it's massive wall of trophies and the accordant dedication to practice and perfection literally unavoidable as the persistent clacking of metronomes and the haunting whine of woodwinds echo through the halls, their tick and twitter a constant reminder of my own lazy mediocrity. And, of course there are the unique cultural experiences of Tea Ceremony, Ikebana and Shodo. Even still, what seems to surprise the students most are the sports clubs.
I suppose club is the right word for it. In Japan, when you commit to a sport, you're committing to the club team, whose only, unconditional requirement is your daily commitment. There is no such thing as a multi-sport athlete because, within the system, it is impossible for a student to be committed to more than one club at a time.
To their credit it should be mentioned that no student is ever turned away from a club due to lack of ability or performance
2 Neither physical nor academic.
2 and very few players, if any, are ever cut. Notwithstanding, as each school carries only one team, and while some teams can carry upwards of 30 or 40 kids, only the best players have the honor of being "jerseyed," or selected to be eligible for the game roster, to play in the actual games.Regardless of a student's status, clubs meet virtually every day, some multiple times a day, throughout the entire year, as freshman until the day they must retire midway through the summer of their senior year. There are no "seasons" when it comes to sports, and likewise there is no break from practice. Even still, invariably, the athletic calendar centers its axis around the prefectural tournament. For the bigger sports like baseball and basketball, the schedule finds its heart in the heat of the summer "大会" ("taikai").
Sure there may be a spring invitational tournament or a conscripted scrimmage between two schools, but inter-high school athletics come down to these athletic "tests": the Prefectural Tournament (県大会) and then the National Tournament (全国大会).
Two weeks ago, Ichikashi's boy's basketball team took first place in the Chiba Prefectural Tournament earning them a spot in the national tournament.
Around then, Taiga, a boy in Ken's composition class, ran a 14:20.44 5k3 A number that would put him at the top of the charts in California.3, qualifying him for the national meet.
And then last week saw the first pitches of the Chiba regional qualification for Summer Koshien, arguably Japan's biggest sporting event.
Way back in the early 2000s, when my only previous, direct exposure to Japan was limited through Harmony Gold VHS adaptations of classic Japanese animes and documentaries on PBS about national treasures (both historical and living), Discover Films: POV released a short doc on the all-Japan national inter-high school championship tournament, the Summer Koshien.
First played in 1915
4 And even then it was the penultimate sporting event in Japan.
4, the Zenkoku Koto Gakko Yakyu Senshuken Taikai (全国高等学校野球選手権大会), pits the best high school baseball teams from every prefecture in Japan (one team from every prefecture: two from Tokyo and Hokkaido) in a single-elimination tournament for the title of "Champion." It remains the single largest scale amateur sporting event in Japan and stands as an enduring symbol of democratic meritocracy5 The tournament is aired on national public television with no commercials or commercial sponsors; even the use of the stadium is donated.
5 as virtually every single one of Japan's 5000 high schools is eligible. Of course, all they have to do is have a baseball team and then have that team win their 県大会...Undoubtedly, sometimes what gets lost in the fervor of the literal aspect of sport and its purported inherent, absolute cultural value is the fact that the game is still played by children whose identities and relationships are deeply tied to whatever 部活動 they find themselves in their freshman year. It's easy to forget that high school is a transitionary period from childhood into adulthood, and the summer retirement of the 三年生 is the first and most heavy-handed of the many milestones that mark this passage.
Koshien and 全国選手権 are mere dreams for just about all of our sports teams. Not only is the success of the club pegged to your team's ability to survive deep into a single elimination tournament, but for just about all of the jerseyed athletes (a preponderance of whom are 三年生) these tournaments are their last event before they are forced to "retire" from the club to make way for their juniors. For every single one of our students, winning that proverbial "next game" is as much about getting to play one more game with their friends as it is winning the title of "National Champion."
"This weekend is our last tennis tournament," one girl wrote in her journal way back in May. "I want to win because I love playing tennis."
Girl's tennis turned over their annual calendar more than a month ago and was among the earliest of all the sports to retire out their seniors. But I remember recently catching her gazing longingly out of the window of 練習室3, a room that happens to have a beautiful view of the courts on the south side of the campus, her eyes ladened with tears.
"I miss tennis," she said. "But I miss tennis club most of all."
Friday, July 6, 2012
Chiba no Hi
It's been maybe 9 months since I moved to Kashiwa and, for various reasons such as rain, laziness and not being physically fit enough, I still hadn't taken the time to bike all the way around 手賀沼 (the marsh down the street from my apartment).
Last weekend I saddled up to the challenge and managed the 20km circuit, going so far as to getting slightly lost in the spirit of adventure and turned the trip into one closer to 40. Shrines built on spry hill tops, baseball fields butting up against gentle streams, and fresh eggs sold in vending machines, it was all worth it.
It was nice to finally get that far out of town on my own, to see what the other side of 取手 looks like and get a better sense of what life on the outskirts of a city like Tokyo is like by just making the conscious effort to get out and look. Then again, there is still so much to be seen just across the river from my apartment.
A few weeks ago, one of our students mentioned playing in a dodgeball tournament at a gym close to ふるさと公園, where we had our English Freshman Welcome. Neither Ken nor I knew what he was talking about. 柏市中央体育館 (Kashiwa Central Municipal Gym), replete with basketball/volleyball courts, a small gym for ping pong, a children's gymnastics room, a kendojo, a judojo, a kyoudojo (traditional Japanese archery range house), and a sumo stable! A SUMO stable. For children!
Every Saturday and Sunday morning they have children's sumo training. It's the bee's knees! Kids. And. Amazing.
It's quite the scene. The gymnasium complex, not just the sumo-くんs. And it's really close. Quite convenient. Maybe I will inquire within about their classes. Probably not sumo. Maybe judo.
Just like most martial arts, judo has come to develop an intricate colored-belt hierarchy (段, dan), starting at white and ending in various "degrees" of black"
In more traditional judo schools, when you step out onto the mat for training, regardless of your ranking, you can only wear one of two colors: white or black.
The message is clear: you're either a master (有段者, yuudansha) or you are not (無段者, mudansha, literally "ignorant person," or "having no rank").
Technically modeled after the public school system itself, judo schools were traditionally divided into two groups: underclassmen (mudansha), who are ranked in descending "級" (kyuu) grades of 9-1, and upperclassmen (yuudansha), who are ranked in ascending "段" (dan) degrees of 1-10.
This white/black dichotomy is so strong that many 柔道場 in Japan
There is often a misunderstanding of what is implied by possession of a black belt
Of course, even with the lowest level of black comes the expectation of leadership over their mudansha counterparts (this is usually signified with a title like 師範, "shihan"). But the biggest distinction with the black belt is that it signifies a "mastery" over the 67 投げ技 (throwing) techniques, the 29 固技 (grappling) techniques and the 8 forms of 柔道の形, not mastery over classmates or the craft. The acquisition of the belt signifies a shift away from childish rote memorization towards more mature techniques.
The only things the white belts are expected to do
This master/student dichotomy is so pervasive throughout all of the arts in Japan that it even shows up in 書道 (Shodo, Japanese Calligraphy). Students are graded and ranked according to their ability to replicate stroke weight, balance and design, and assessed on the correctness of submitted patterns as reviewed by a master.
In Shodo once a student reaches shodan (first master-level) it is expected that the student now solely uses more strict 楷書 (kaisho, regular) scripts rather than the beginner's models. By san-dan, they are allowed to begin using 隸書 (reisho, clerical) and 篆書 (tensho, seal) styles. By san-dan, they can also begin using more free-form styles in their writing.
According to many practitioners, one is not "supposed" to teach another person calligraphy until they have reached a minimal rank of 初段 (the equivalent of a first-degree black belt), and even then, only to elementary school aged peoples. Adults require a minimum of 三段.
The final stages of ranking
Just as an aside, with a passive interest in shodo, myself, I found this outstanding website (Beyond Calligraphy) that helps break down stroke order and design balance based on the character's specific etymology. Most notably are the sections on the development of the shapes of basic hiragana.
Anyway, back to that shodo-ranking chart, I was surprised to realize that these rankings are the same rankings that the 英検 (Eiken) English Language Proficiency exam uses.
The table is divided into a top-half and a bottom-half: the top being the masters [those who have acheived a 段 (dan) ranking] and the bottom being 級 (kyuu) (those who have not). Kyuu's begin at Grade 10 (十級) and level their way up to Grade 1 (一級)
I haven't yet met anyone who's passed 準一級, let alone 一級. The highest level I've seen are a couple of our students occasionally try their hand at 二級. But since most universities don't look for much more than 二級, there is little incentive to try. Especially since the last time the students can take the Eiken to qualify to test for university entrance is three months into their senior year, there isn't a whole lot of opportunity to prep a student to take the test unless they've been practicing over the break by themselves.
And all of this without ever being close to "pre-mastering" (準初段, jun-shodan) the basics of English.
Which is fine because if I think back to my high school years, of what subject, exactly, would I have been qualified to be called a "master" of of even the most basic of skills? P2P music and LAN-parties, maybe. Maybe even canasta.
Last weekend I saddled up to the challenge and managed the 20km circuit, going so far as to getting slightly lost in the spirit of adventure and turned the trip into one closer to 40. Shrines built on spry hill tops, baseball fields butting up against gentle streams, and fresh eggs sold in vending machines, it was all worth it.
It was nice to finally get that far out of town on my own, to see what the other side of 取手 looks like and get a better sense of what life on the outskirts of a city like Tokyo is like by just making the conscious effort to get out and look. Then again, there is still so much to be seen just across the river from my apartment.
A few weeks ago, one of our students mentioned playing in a dodgeball tournament at a gym close to ふるさと公園, where we had our English Freshman Welcome. Neither Ken nor I knew what he was talking about. 柏市中央体育館 (Kashiwa Central Municipal Gym), replete with basketball/volleyball courts, a small gym for ping pong, a children's gymnastics room, a kendojo, a judojo, a kyoudojo (traditional Japanese archery range house), and a sumo stable! A SUMO stable. For children!
Every Saturday and Sunday morning they have children's sumo training. It's the bee's knees! Kids. And. Amazing.
It's quite the scene. The gymnasium complex, not just the sumo-くんs. And it's really close. Quite convenient. Maybe I will inquire within about their classes. Probably not sumo. Maybe judo.
Just like most martial arts, judo has come to develop an intricate colored-belt hierarchy (段, dan), starting at white and ending in various "degrees" of black"
1 十段, to be exact.
1. Each belt color indicates a certain level of advancement and achievement, beginning with "initiate" and "novice" and ending, eventually, with "master." This color ranking system was introduced to help inspire progress and make matching skill levels for sparring much simpler. In more traditional judo schools, when you step out onto the mat for training, regardless of your ranking, you can only wear one of two colors: white or black.
The message is clear: you're either a master (有段者, yuudansha) or you are not (無段者, mudansha, literally "ignorant person," or "having no rank").
Technically modeled after the public school system itself, judo schools were traditionally divided into two groups: underclassmen (mudansha), who are ranked in descending "級" (kyuu) grades of 9-1, and upperclassmen (yuudansha), who are ranked in ascending "段" (dan) degrees of 1-10.
This white/black dichotomy is so strong that many 柔道場 in Japan
2 Especially at Kodokan, 講道館, the birthplace of judo, and Ichikashi included.
2 only use white belts and black belts. It's also interesting to note that the judo instructor at our school is only a 3rd degree black belt (三段) and the Ichikashi student who won 全大会 last year (that's "nationals" for the two of you remaining Gleeks) was only 初代 or 二段.There is often a misunderstanding of what is implied by possession of a black belt
3 So much so that there's even a short entry on it in Wikipedia's Common Misconceptions catalog.
3. Often, what we assume of "mastery," in western terms, is the romantic image of the 100 year-old man living in the 1,000 year-old cabin 10,000 miles away from the nearest town who has dedicated his life to the study of his art, forgoing all other earthly wants and desires and only trains travelers committed enough to conquer the 100,000 stair climb to his mountainside dojo/sanctuary. This kind of master "exists," but is awarded as the "master" title of "教授," or Kyoju, and is often earned at around 五- or 六- 段.Of course, even with the lowest level of black comes the expectation of leadership over their mudansha counterparts (this is usually signified with a title like 師範, "shihan"). But the biggest distinction with the black belt is that it signifies a "mastery" over the 67 投げ技 (throwing) techniques, the 29 固技 (grappling) techniques and the 8 forms of 柔道の形, not mastery over classmates or the craft. The acquisition of the belt signifies a shift away from childish rote memorization towards more mature techniques.
The only things the white belts are expected to do
4 And are allowed to do.
4 is observe and repeat.This master/student dichotomy is so pervasive throughout all of the arts in Japan that it even shows up in 書道 (Shodo, Japanese Calligraphy). Students are graded and ranked according to their ability to replicate stroke weight, balance and design, and assessed on the correctness of submitted patterns as reviewed by a master.
In Shodo once a student reaches shodan (first master-level) it is expected that the student now solely uses more strict 楷書 (kaisho, regular) scripts rather than the beginner's models. By san-dan, they are allowed to begin using 隸書 (reisho, clerical) and 篆書 (tensho, seal) styles. By san-dan, they can also begin using more free-form styles in their writing.
According to many practitioners, one is not "supposed" to teach another person calligraphy until they have reached a minimal rank of 初段 (the equivalent of a first-degree black belt), and even then, only to elementary school aged peoples. Adults require a minimum of 三段.
The final stages of ranking
5 Above 5 or so.
5 require actual in-person examinations.Just as an aside, with a passive interest in shodo, myself, I found this outstanding website (Beyond Calligraphy) that helps break down stroke order and design balance based on the character's specific etymology. Most notably are the sections on the development of the shapes of basic hiragana.
Anyway, back to that shodo-ranking chart, I was surprised to realize that these rankings are the same rankings that the 英検 (Eiken) English Language Proficiency exam uses.
The table is divided into a top-half and a bottom-half: the top being the masters [those who have acheived a 段 (dan) ranking] and the bottom being 級 (kyuu) (those who have not). Kyuu's begin at Grade 10 (十級) and level their way up to Grade 1 (一級)
6 With the Eiken, every level requires a half-step, meaning that between going from Grade 2 to Grade 1 you must additionally pass the 準一級 (Pre-Grade 1 level test).
6 before entering pre-master level (準初段), working their way up to 六段 (or 八段 in some cases).I haven't yet met anyone who's passed 準一級, let alone 一級. The highest level I've seen are a couple of our students occasionally try their hand at 二級. But since most universities don't look for much more than 二級, there is little incentive to try. Especially since the last time the students can take the Eiken to qualify to test for university entrance is three months into their senior year, there isn't a whole lot of opportunity to prep a student to take the test unless they've been practicing over the break by themselves.
And all of this without ever being close to "pre-mastering" (準初段, jun-shodan) the basics of English.
Which is fine because if I think back to my high school years, of what subject, exactly, would I have been qualified to be called a "master" of of even the most basic of skills? P2P music and LAN-parties, maybe. Maybe even canasta.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
My Imaginary Animal (SJ: 6/29)
三年生 - A(2)
Do you know who this is? This is a boy. His name is Akichan. I named him Akichan. He is very big; maybe his height is 100m. So he walks slowly but he can make big jumps and fly to the sky. He likes to play the guitar. So he has good music sense.
He only has a few friends. Why doesn’t he have more than a few friends? His face looks scary.
His favorite food is potatoes, chicken, beef, pork, chocolate and cake. He has many favorite foods. He usually drinks a beer. He likes to drink. He is 125 years old but he looks very young.
He has a girlfriend. His girlfriend’s name is Akiko. They are very lovely. He does twitter. His account is @xxxxxx but he can’t understand any language. So he can’t use twitter.
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