Japanese Education, the Metric System, and Why My Bread Maker is Broken

I suppose if self-help books were available when I was a child, and I suppose if my parents were the type to read such books they would have looked for and bought several with titles like "How to Raise a Strong-Willed Child."  Children like me, those with opinions and the vocabulary (and audacity) to speak minds are today referred to as "strong-willed".  Back then, I was just sassy.

Raising such a child in a culture different than that of their passport adds an interesting twist to life.  There are consequences to raising a child in a foreign land.  My parents chose complete immersion for me and my brother.  I'm grateful for the instinctive and intrinsic knowledge I have as an adult, of Japanese culture and language and the protocol required to live and work successfully in Japan.  The trips back to the US during my childhood were fraught with angst and confusion, but those, too, eventually worked out.  By many I've worked with in the US I'm considered highly functional, albeit a bit different (but not always in a bad way). I'm not quite American enough, but usually pass.  An odd response here and there keeps people on their toes.  Or, that's what I tell myself.

When one buys a bread maker as an adult and already is not inclined to read directions about the various pieces included and where and what they should attach themselves to, one hopes using such machines is simple.  Throw in the ingredients (in order, preferably), push buttons and wait.  That's about as far as I get with my patience, strong-willed that I am.  After two failed attempts at making bread I was prepared to return this device, clearly defective.  "Let's give it one more try," my beloved says, and because he was a math major as an undergraduate I agree.  Surely math skills are paramount in placing the right amount of ingredients into the little square box that would produce the eventual loaf.

Herein lies the first problem.  Raise a girl in the metric system, take her to a country where units of measure include words like ounces and fortnight, introduce her to friends who talk about "stone" as a way to calculate weight, then throw her back into a country where the metric system rules and there is inevitable mathematical confusion.  Grams and meters are easy units to use with everything in tens, one hundreds and one thousands.  I'm all for the metric system.  To this day I don't know how many quarts are in a liter, fluid ounces in a Japanese cup (different than an American cup), or how specifically to calculate F into C. 

Back to the strong-willed child.  My first, and second grade teacher, Mrs. Sekiko Sato was, by all accounts a wonderful teacher.  She made one life-altering statement, however, and I place blame squarely at her feet for the fact to this day I do not know how to swim.  She gathered us in the school pool one day, and pointing to the black drain in the middle of the pool said, "Don't ever go near this hole because it will suck you in and you'll never see your mother and father again."

That did it.  This pool and all it represented, swimming mostly, was something I would forever avoid.  Why would schools have a facility on its grounds that would suck children away from their families, forever doomed to roaming underground drains?  What was wrong with this place?  I did not need to know how to swim.  My life would be full and complete without this skill.  To this day, I do not swim.

Similarly, when Mrs. Sato taught us that "doing math in your head means you don't use addition, subtraction, multiplication, or division" I was left dumbfounded.  How did one do math without any of these four basic principles?  "Imagine yourself using an abacus," she said.  I went home and told my parents I needed abacus lessons (they promptly complied) and when the instructor came to our home with his abacus in hand and proceeded to teach me how to do math in my head, moving disks up and down making clicking sounds I knew once again Mrs. Sato was wrong.  My abacus teacher most definitely had me doing any and all four math methods in my head.  I was adding, subtracting and more.  On top of this, I found I was expected to remember numbers using these pegs and not write them down.  Answers did not miraculously appear on my abacus.  I was expected to think.  Japanese children clearly had a skill foreign children were incapable of learning, I decided.  This is why it was possible for them to do math while not adding, subtracting, and the like, the way Mrs. Sato said.  I gave up the abacus after several lessons, telling my parents it was a most stupid and out-of-date way of doing math.  "I'll just master the calculator instead," I believe I said.

For a strong-willed child like me, the Japanese educational system did much to confuse as it tried to mold me into a proper Japanese child.  Group-think was prioritized.  There was actually a class called Ethics.  I grew into a strong-willed, sassy child who spoke my mind, did not swim, hated math, and blended well to the extent any foreign girl could.  Confusion aside, I turned out okay.

Some time after I left the Japanese educational system, the government decided to adopt a more child-centered approach, one many considered western.  Children were encouraged to speak their minds.  Children were given options.  Group-think was less of a priority.  On the surface, these traits seem positive.  The consensus of the outcome, however, has many Japanese my age and older, disgusted with "young people these days" who volunteer their opinions when not asked, who do not follow orders from above, and who try one thing and then move onto another if the outcome isn't just right.  Hiro, my friend from Tohoku is openly critical.  "The words 'I think' shouldn't ever flow out of anyone's mouth but for those in their twenties, that's all they say.  If I didn't ask them what they think, and let's face it, I never would, why would they think it's okay to offer up their personal opinion?  The fact they hop from job-to-job, switching whenever they become dissatisfied or bored, my generation was never allowed to think this way.  Yutori Kyoiku, that system where individual thought was encouraged?  That's Japan's biggest mistake."

Hiro is not alone.  I've heard this same sentiment from many.  But, back to my bread machine.  I distinctly remember being taught grams and milliliters were the same.  I have since been informed by this applies only to measuring liquids.  Flour, to be measured in grams (when going into a bread machine) must be weighed.  This requires a scale.  That requires a purchase of a scale.  A child who was strong-willed who has since become an adult does not like the idea the metric system can fail or that another trip must be made to the local 100 yen store to buy a scale to weigh ingredients before they're added into a recipe.  Bread machines are meant to simply the act of baking.  Weighing flour is an additional step, going completely against the idea of simplifying.  I heartily object to this part of the metric system.

The two loaves made in the bread machine since my two previous disasters have turned out perfectly.  I acknowledge this is because I weighed the flour.  The machine, alas, was not defective.

Today's post offers random thoughts on Japan's educational system and all it entails, waking up to the scent of fresh-baked bread, lamenting the fact my kitchen does not have an oven, why I do not and will not swim, and why even when having to weigh flour I still believe ones and zeros are better than changing the definition of a foot to match that of the current king's foot-size.  (Wikipedia that last part if you don't get the reference.)

Here's to a year of happy bread making.

Picture This

April brings a new school year.  The most immediate effect this change has on me is the new faces in the preschools I visit with every trip to Tohoku.  Having spent the entire school calendar year with the five-year olds the year before, I knew names and faces, who liked what, who acted up, and family histories.  With this crop of kids, I’m nowhere close.  With three visits under my belt, we’re still working through details.  It feels like we’re perpetually on a first date.

My main goal with the kids hasn’t changed:  I want them to not fear foreigners, know they already have a large vocabulary of foreign words, and grow up with a sense of wonder at the world beyond.  My job is to bring consistent joy to their lives, give them something to look forward to, play, offer acceptable touching in the form of hugs and pats and high-fives.  I want them to be happy.

I learned quickly almost every child ages three and above can count from one to ten in English, know most colors in English (thank you Power Rangers), and all I need to do is add to this list.  When I tell them the common words they use everyday—the romanized ones—are also English, Italian, Portuguese, French, and Chinese their eyes pop. 

Which is why I take my laptop full of photos, pointing to each one and as they identify ice cream, chocolate, cake, potato chips, taxi, ball, dress, belt, donuts, and lions.  “These are all English words.  See!  You already speak English!”  It’s a hit every time.  With every visit, I show more pictures.  With every visit, the kids are in total shock at how easy English is.

I saved teaching shapes until January for the last class but this year I’ve started with the book of shapes.  I make a heart with my hands and ask them what it is.  Then I ask what it means.  Through giggles, it’s the girls who answer, “It means you like something.  Or someone.”  Snicker, snicker.  I extend my heart-shaped hands out to them and tell them I like them.  Very much.

On days where the weather-gods shine down on us, we play outside.  I take the book of shapes out with me on this particular day, and as I scan the playground for suitable shapes to call out I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Amya-san, Amya-san.”  I see a boy looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“My daddy died in the tsunami.”  He gave me no indication this was coming.  I’m completely caught off guard.  No “hello” and no “what are we doing today?”  Just straight up, “My daddy died.”  

To which I say what exactly?  I don’t know his name.  This is the third time we’ve played together.  I don’t know his family.  I know nothing about him.  I crouch down in front of him and am about to speak when I see his teacher walking towards me.  “Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get ready to play.”

Do I let her walk away?  Is she pulling him away from me for my sake?  Do I let him go?  She takes him by the shoulders and starts to take him back to the larger group when he turns around.  A screenplay writer couldn’t have cued that better.

“Wait,” I say.  “It’s okay.”  The boy turns around and gently releases himself from his teacher and walks towards me.  This is unreal.  He stops in front of me and I quickly sneak a glance at his nametag.  Now I have a name.
“Do you miss your daddy?”  I ask.  There’s no point pretending this isn’t happening.  He nods.

“I have a brother who died so I kind of know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”  He nods again.

“But, I know your daddy is right here,” I say pointing to his heart.  He looks down at my finger.  “In your heart,” I rephrase.  I swear I’m about to lose it.

“We visit his grave sometimes,” he says.

“That’s good.  Do you take flowers?”

“Uh huh.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know what they’re called.  Before it got cold I picked some flowers from the field and took those to him.”

“I’m sure he really, really likes that.”  The boy nods.

The other kids have gathered around us now, coming over in twos and threes wondering what this boy has done or said to warrant all this attention.  Most kids have heard the grave part of his story and now the floodgates are open.  Blown open.  The kids start talking at once: who lost their home, who lost their dog, who lost their grandmother, bicycle, toys, a favorite doll.  I’m overwhelmed.  I look up at the teacher, signaling with my eyes I need help.  Two plus years up north and this is the first time I’ve had kids come up and tell me their stories.  Unprompted and unscripted, everything is pouring out.  I honestly don’t know what to say.  With all these children talking to me at once I can’t possibly answer everyone or address every comment.  Then again, I can’t ignore their words either.

I stand up.  This quiets them.  “You’re all really brave,” I say.  “I know it’s hard, but you’re all really strong and you’ll grow up to be amazing adults.  When you’re all grown ups let’s get together and have ice cream.  Okay?”  The kids squeal and run away.  Just like that, we’ve moved on.

This unexpected outpouring of unfiltered honesty caught me off guard in ways I’ve not experienced in the time I’ve spent up north.  Yup.  I’m exhausted.  And, it’s not even noon.

“Amya-san,” I hear, from a voice behind me.  It’s the same boy.  I was walking toward the center of the playground but I stop.  He runs up to me.  I kneel down, meeting his eyes.  “Yes?”  He looks down at his moving and twisting fingers.  At last he holds up his hands.  For an instant I’m confused, but then I get it.  I make a heart with my hands folding his into mine and smile.  I stand up quickly because I don’t want him to see me cry and I kiss the top of his head.  “Let’s go play.  I’ll race you,” and with that we dash off to play color tag.

School Violence in Japan: More Questions Than Answers

Japanese news over he past month has been peppered with stories about the effects of school violence.  A high school student committed suicide after repeated beatings from his team manager, and the womens' judo coach for the national team resigned after the athletes filed a mass complaint accusing him of violence.  Unfortunately such stories are not new.  I've often reflected upon multiple and similar incidents from my elementary and middle school days at times like this.  In the end I'm left with more questions than answers.

It seems for those of my generation growing up, what is now being referred to as violence and beatings were more the norm in school.  Coaches would routinely slap disobedient baseball players, kick legs, or throw buckets of water on them.  I use baseball players only as an example.  Back in our day, it was more unusual for coaches to not "train" by means of a shove here, a smack there.

"It instilled in us a sense of competition," one friend tells me.  "It was embarrassing and it hurt.  I wasn't going to let my coach get the best of me so I tried harder."

I call Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan who has an answer for everything and ask to meet.
"Sure I was slapped.  Not punched, but slapped across the face.  I didn't think of it as a beating.  For me though, it wasn't the coach that did this but rather the older students.  It was just part of life for us in high school.  This is how sports clubs functioned.  We got stronger.  It pissed us off so we got back by practicing more than before.  We got better."

I ask, "Why do some students commit suicide then?  Don't the coaches know when to stop?  Why was it not 'violence' for you but it is for these kids?"
"Students these days are taught they have options.  'If you try one thing and it doesn't work, you can try something else.'  On the one hand, this is good.  On the other hand, and don't take this the wrong way," Alpha Male looks at me sideways, "It's more of a western way of thinking.  We weren't taught that growing up but kids these days are.  When we were in middle and high school we just took it because that's how things were.  Now, kids are taught more independence, freedom and that they can choose.  It's good, but the educational system has changed into something not quite Japanese."

I ponder this.  Multiple incidents from my childhood come to the surface, each competing for the "which is the worst" category.  One teacher, someone I liked, routinely called up one boy to the front of the class, pulled him up by his sideburns and continued to judo-trip him while he cried and screamed for help.  Half the class laughed, the rest of us sat stunned.  He didn't do anything wrong.  He wasn't a trouble-maker.  One day it just started.  How long did he go through this?  All I remember is the announcement the teacher made out of the blue one day that this boy was diagnosed with diabetes.  The "beatings" stopped that day, never to continue.  I'm still baffled by what this teacher did, and why.

Another teacher mercilessly picked on a girl who moved into the community and into our classroom.  She didn't bathe often.  The teacher, with every opportunity would let her and the rest of us know she smelled, making her cry.  Why do this?  Is this a hint?  It didn't work because it didn't change anything.  Except that one day she didn't come back to school.  We were told she moved away.

What was normal at one time in recent Japanese history is no longer.  Feedback is consistent:  Japanese education is to blame.  People my age and older are disgusted by Japan's youth.  "Spineless," and "Too opinionated" are two ways today's young are often described.  Should we be adding to this "Can't take a beating"?  I find myself confused.

February Joy, February Angst: On Why I'm Glad I'm Not Four

February brings the coldest month of the year in Tohoku.  Tired of snow, ice, and wind that cuts through the many layers of winter gear, spring feels far away.  It's no consolation the month only has 28 days.  It drags on, bringing down any semblance of positive energy trying to poke out from the frozen ground.

Except February is also the month for two holidays.  One Japanese, another clearly not, there’s a buzz.  Those otherwise dejected have two events to discuss.

One is the Japanese festival of setsubun.  Traditionally, this is when oni (ogres) come down from the mountains into the homes where little children live, terrifying them with their grotesque masks of pure evil and horridness.  The children throw beans at them calling out, “Oni wa soto!  Fuku wa uchi!”  

“Ogres, go away!  Good luck come inside!”  Indeed. This story is about the bravery of children determined to protect their friends from these monsters, whatever it takes.  But, first some background.

It is most definitely a local tradition, more fun for the grown men who some how get pleasure (?) of tormenting their children.  (Payback, anyone?)  There’s no going easy on the kids.  It’s tradition.  That the children cry is a given.  It’s almost the point.  All this in the name of continuing on what’s been done for generations—it’s cute and funny—except when you’re the kid facing the evil giant.

This year, the oni from Goyozan, a local mountain up north in Tohoku wrote a letter to the kids, giving fair warning of what he’s coming down from the mountain to do.  It’s Japan’s version of Santa Claus, except in this case, Santa not only doesn’t give presents if you’ve been bad, Santa comes in a evil-Santa costume, horns sticking out from under his hat throwing coal at kids who disobeyed parents.  Or something of the sort.

Here’s a translation of the letter, in its most terrible oni handwriting, complete with a larger-than-life hand print for a signature.

To the brats at XXXX Preschool,

I am the red oni from Goyozan.
How dare you all throw beans at me last year!

It hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep that night.  This year, I’ll take back you up to the mountain with me if you don't finish their lunch properly, don’t take naps, and don’t listen to your teachers.  You better be prepared!
I’m coming to your preschool on February 1^st.  Be there.  And, don’t throw beans at me.  Got it?

From the Oni of Goyozan

What must it be like to go to school with this handwritten letter from the oni most feared hanging in the hallway?  I’m so glad I’m not four years old.

Now, the story.  I’m at one of the preschools I routinely visit.  Today we’re practicing English discussing shapes.  I start with happy shapes.  In the spirit of celebrating Valentine’s Day, I take out the Valentine’s cards I brought from the States and explain to the kids, “In America, boys and girls give chocolate and cards to people they like.”   The girls pick up on this right away, giggling.  Even five year olds know in Japan girls give chocolate to the boys they like.  Boys don’t reciprocate.  Oooh.  Gross.

I’m careful to suggest the kids can write the cards to anyone.  Knowing some of these children lost relatives, I don’t say, “to your mommy” or “to your grannie” but I make the list as long as possible making sure the kids can come up with someone.  Soon, crayons in hand, we’re all addressing cards.

Done with our Valentine’s activities, I go back to my book of shapes.  I pick what I think is the simplest and point to the circle.  “Can you find any circles in the classroom?”  Hands shoot up again.  I call one a boy who points to a large bag of crumpled newspaper, the size of golf balls.  I ask what these are for.  Kids talk at once.  It’s explained to me these are the “beans” they will throw at the oni who will surely come to traumatize the kids in early February.  Another boy raises his hand, and he tells me the following story rattling off line after line, not pausing to take a breath, while the children around him nod in agreement.

“Last year, a bunch of really scary oni came to school here and we were scared, but I didn’t cry because I’m brave and strong and my daddy told me boys aren’t supposed to cry, but I felt like crying because I was so scared.  And then, when the oni came last year’s five year olds made a line, they held hands, and we all stood behind them throwing beans and newspaper balls like these at the oni yelling at them to go away because they’re bad.  The five year olds were scared, too--even the boys--and a lot of them were crying but they still protected us from the bad oni.  The babies and the kids in the younger classes were screaming because they were so scared.  But, we all had these five year olds protecting us from the bad oni.  So, our class decided this year the boys will make a line where everyone in the school can stand behind us and the girls will be right behind us because they’re five, too, and they’ll throw as many of these newspaper balls as they can.  We’re going to protect the younger kids just like the five year olds protected us last year.  We’re the five year olds now, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

It took all the resolve I had not to choke up. Forcing myself to smile as I listened to the absolute determination of these five year olds to continue the tradition of protecting the young I said, “You’re right.  You’re all very brave.  Good for you.  I’m proud of you.”  Turning red, the boy nods and I’m not sure what to say next.  Deciding I will lose it if I don’t keep talking, I decide to change the subject.  I flip through the book of shapes and find the perfect one.

“What’s this?” I say, pointing to a star.  All the kids know “star” in English and called out in unison.  We look for stars in the classroom.  Again, a success.  I end the day of shapes-in-English by making a heart with my hands, telling them I love them all, and then whisper, “And, you’re all stars.”

Kids.  I swear.  They should rule the world.

On Not Mincing Words and 100 Yen Shops

Growing up, confrontation, blunt talk, saying what one really means was simply not a part of daily life.  Subtlety, implications heavy with nuances, hidden intent not clearly spelled out, all this was normal in Japan.  Imagine my shock then, fast-forwarding several decades when it's now okay to say what until now was kept inside.  Don't get me wrong.  It's not that all polite talk has been replaced with directness.  Make no mistake.  For the most part, tact still rules.  There are, however, exceptions.  These are noticeable.  These stand out. 

There's this, for example.

It reads, "How many times I gotta say it?!  If you drink, don't drive."

This is blunt in Japan.  It's almost shocking.  It's the smack across the head to those stupid enough to break rules.

Then there's this.
"It's not that you can't.  It's that you don't."  Particularly applicable post-March 11th, for those Japanese (in particular) who are "too busy" and for whom "Tohoku is alright, right?"

I find this refreshing.  There are those here in Japan who will say this kind of frankness is the result of an educational system that promotes self-assertion, a no-no until several decades ago when group-think was the norm.  As an American, I know it's not my place to plug any one "norm" where it's not welcome.  No one culture is superior to another. 

Those subjects alone could turn into several dissertations, so I'll save them for another day.  This notepad, the one on the right was bought at one of Japan's many 100 yen stores.  My new Mecca, I pretty much decorated my entire apartment with items brought here.  Some stores are small "hole-in-the-wall" shops while others take up four floors of a department building.  The merchandise sold here is not high-end, and it's most certainly not fashionable.  It "passes" which isn't bad for someone on a budget.

After dinner one night, I passed one such store as I made my way back to the bus stop.  At first I kept going, but then turned around and made my way down into the basement.  I could afford 500 yen on items I didn't otherwise know I needed.  It's a short-term shopping fix. 

The notepad caught my eye.  I don't need it, of course.  It begged to be bought.  The notebook fairy called out, "Buy me.  Buy me."  I obliged.  If nothing else, a conversation piece it would be.  "Who do you think it's referring to?"  "It's true, don't you think?"  "It's okay to be that blunt if you're telling the truth.  Or no?"

I will pull it out of my bag at hopefully just the right moment and see the reactions both it and I receive.  Blunt talk and 100 yen shops.  An unlikely duo if there ever was one.