The honesty of children

The volunteer organization I first came to Iwate has come and gone.  They insert themselves into disaster zones, clean things up, and then leave.  I'm told over 1,000 volunteers, many of them foreigners, came to this area and did their thing.

"We've only seen foreigners in movies," one grandmother told me back in the spring.  "It's kind of strange to see you in person.  You're actually real."
"We are," I said, and tried very hard not to grin at the fact there are still those who think foreigners are some strange group of people that only show up on television.

The sense of "you're not quite real" is still present.  I stayed last night at a facility that hosts volunteers, foreign and domestic.  As I walked down the long hallway and passed an elderly man, I said hello.
"Hello," he says, and then looks at me long and hard.
"You're not from here."
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."  Evidently, we're still a bit of an oddity here.

My primary goal for this trip is to hang out with kids.  The sentiment held by some that while it's quite alright and appreciated for all these foreigners to have come in and dug out ditches, that they've now gone has left people feeling empty.

"It's a wrap," one volunteer wrote on Facebook.  No, it's not.  It's a wrap for you, but it's most definitely not a wrap for those left behind whose lives have changed in ways they still have difficulty articulating.

I was asked if I would be willing to continue the foreign exposure, focusing my time on being around children.
"Of course!"
"Really?" a principal of a local day care center asks.
"Really.  Use me.  That's what I'm here for."  Today was the first day I was "used."

We counted to ten.  We sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', we practiced "hello" and "good-bye" and "how are you?" and "see you soon."  I was then shuttled off to the class of five-year olds and was asked to go into more detail.  I held up a large colorful card of a cartoon renkon (a root) and told them "kids your age don't eat renkon in America."  I look down at the kids and see looks of shock and awe.
"Why?  Renkon is so good!" One boy says.

I hold up colored origami paper.  We're going to practice our colors.
"What color is this?" I say as I show them a sheet of red.
"Red!"  Several kids say in English, while others call out the word for red in Japanese.  We practice saying "red" in English and more boys pipe up and start talking about their favorite anime characters who are dressed in red.  I hold up pink, orange, yellow, green, black, white, and blue.  All the kids know the English words for these colors.  I'm impressed.
"What about siruba?" another boy raises his hand and immediately starts talking about his favorite anime character who is evidently silver.  I look for something silver in the room.  Finding it, I point and ask "What color is this?" to which the group of 20+ kids all scream out, "Siruba!"
"Yes!  Silver!"  I then point to something gold.  "What about this?"
"Gorudo!"
"Good!  Gold."  I'm impressed.  Thank god for anime!
In my twisted and perverse need to stump five-year olds I look for a color they won't know.  Finding one and feeling slightly triumphant in advance, I point to a boy's sweatshirt and ask, "What color is this?"  The room falls silent.  That was mean.  Really, woman.  That was not necessary.
"Oh, I know this," one girl says.
"Really?  Think.  Try.  Do you remember?"
"It starts with pa," she says and starts silently mouthing something I can't hear.  I start to say "purple" and mouth it to her, at which point she jumps in her seat, her hand shooting up and not-quite screams, "papuru!"  So much pride in that little body of hers.  It's oozing.
"Right!  Purple!  Good girl."  I smile down at her and she beams back at me.  Success.

I'm invited to share their lunch.  I'm given an adult-sized tray full of food after being asked several times if there are things I can't eat.
"I'm okay," I say and secretly hope they don't serve fried eggs or natto.  I chance it.
It takes the class of 20+ kids and three teachers another 15 minutes to serve everyone.  I'm famished.  I skipped breakfast to get her on time, and the food in front of me has me wondering when we're eating.  I pick up my chop sticks and stick one slice of carrot in my mouth.  I try to sneak it but am caught.  Totally and completely caught red-handed.
"She ate!" the girl next to me says, pointing, and I'm busted.
"Sorry....." I say and try to change the topic.  Not a chance.
"She did!  She ate!" the boy across from me now announces to the rest of the class.  Evidently this faux pas was a lot more of an issue than I thought.
"I promise I won't eat again." I bow to the five-year olds I just tried to teach colors to.  They seem satisfied and we're silent for awhile.

Four kids in chef's hats and white smocks line up at the front of the class and lead the class in what seems a very elaborate ritual of before-we-partake-of-our-food sing-song chant.  I say the right things when I'm supposed to (making it up as I go along, sort of) and am finally allowed to eat.
"You had to wait for that," the girl next to me whispers.
"Okay," I whisper back.

So begins the first of many trips to Ofunato to hang with kids.  I will learn to mind my manners.  I'm sure I will continue to be impressed at how much energy they have, the English they already know, and their ability to call me out when I step out of line.  It's most definitely not a wrap.  There's much to do.