Konnichihowdy: Yeehaw in the Inaka

I’ll never forget the first thing I did when I got to my tiny inaka apartment. When I woke up in Tokyo on the first day of orientation, I felt a scratchy feeling at the back of my throat, and for the next four days it didn’t go away. The rest of the week was a progressively-worse haze as I faded in and out of lucidity during long lectures and sucked down vitamin C drinks in vain. When I finally got to my placement, I buzzed around town finishing up some minor things, before finally being shown to my apartment. As the doors thudded closed, the silence settled in. It was the first time I’d been truly alone in almost a week. The apartment was still a bit dirty. The power had been switched off, and consequently I couldn’t turn on the air conditioner or fans in the sweltering August heat. I tried opening the windows, but there was no air and no relief, just a symphony of cicadas in the bamboo thickets surrounding me. My throat was still burning, and I was covered in sweat. I collapsed...

Not to toot my own horn, but I was the best artist in my first grade class. For every student’s birthday, our teacher, Mrs. Wurstefer, would have the other students draw pictures in their honor, and collect them in a personalized book. But some kids didn’t want to draw, or couldn’t - they wanted to skip right ahead to coloring. That’s where I would come in. Any time our teacher asked us to draw something for class, kids would line up at my desk, and ask me to draw things for them. “Can you draw a rabbit?” “Can you draw a dog with a birthday cake?” “Can you draw me riding a horse?“ So I’d draw their picture, and the kid would scamper back to their desk to color it. It happened without fail every time, to the point that I’d sometimes spend most of the class drawing for other people and wouldn’t have time to work on my own contribution until the very end, if at all. There’s definitely a few compilations of birthday drawings from Mrs. Wurstefer’s first grade class that simultaneo...

I had an established Valentine’s Day tradition with my ex. First, a stop at The Steeping Room , our favorite tea and scones place in Austin, for a light dinner. Then, to the Alamo Drafthouse to see the collection of the previous year’s Academy Award nominated animated shorts. It was a humble tradition, but we loved it. I remember Valentine’s Day 2018. Days after our breakup, unemployed, back in my childhood home. I sat in my room all day, mentally time-stamping all of the things I would be doing if we were still keeping to our annual tradition (the time when I would get home from work and start getting ready to go out, the time we’d arrive at our reservation a few minutes late as we always did, the time we’d get to the theater with enough time to order food and watch the pre-show, etc.). I felt hollow, like a Matryoshka doll, pieces of me taken away, the rest left to rattle around in my skull and remind me of what I was missing. In 2019, I wanted to have a better experience. But...

I’ve seen how the students address Japanese teachers in the halls. They stop, straighten up and stand with arms locked to their sides, bow to a near-perfect 30-degree angle, give a quick “ ohaiyougozaimasu ” or “ konnichiwa ” and keep walking. It’s strange and a little militaristic, but Japan is all about the formalities. With other teachers, they know exactly what to do. But with me, it’s a test. I can see it in the kids’ eyes as I pass them in the hall. The deer-in-the-headlights expressions on their round little faces used to be amusing. That novelty wore off a long time ago. “Hello.” It’s just one word, two syllables. But usually it’s enough to make their little shoulders seize up in terror at the thought of having to speak English outside of the classroom.  I’m not a teacher, at least not on paper. My official title is “ALT.” It’s an acronym that stands for Assistant Language Teacher - the word’s right there, in my job title, but most teachers don’t know what the a...

Northeast Kyushu is cold this time of year. Winter in Texas is in a constant state of flux. One cloudy, cold day in the 40s will often be followed by a warm day reaching into the 70s. Living in Japan for only six months, I’m still not used to these weird things called “seasons.” What do you mean, the weather gradually changes and stays relatively consistent for a period of two or three months?! Why must I suffer through a solid three months of cold? Can’t I have at least one unseasonably-warm break? I used to hate Texas winter roller coaster - I thought I wanted “true” winter. Sleepy, dreary, frigid, like in Thomas Kinkade paintings. I was a fool . At first I turned on the heat, until stories of high heating bills shocked me into turning it off. I have a kotatsu, but it’s dangerous, and not because it’s an electrical hazard. I’ve spent many evenings in its warm embrace, letting my responsibilities escape through the cracks of my drafty, poorly-insulated apartment. The st...

To be honest, I wasn’t sure where to begin with a "Christmas in Japan" blog. Other people have written about Christmas in Japan extensively, and with more explanation and attention to detail than I have the bandwidth for. 
 I’ve tried to break down my holiday season in Japan experience into 25 key points, facts, and observations that will hopefully go down a lot easier than basashi. 
 1. They don’t have the usual holiday staples. 
 This depends on your holiday staple foods, and the extent to which you’re willing to get them. Some are easier to track down than others, and others will require you to do a little holiday Macguyver-ing.

 2. They don't have turkey. 
 Okay, this is sort of a lie. You can get turkey, but it’s not as easy as running to H-E-B and picking one up from the freezer section. You can find them at Costco, or you can order them online, but as you’d expect they’re very expensive. 

 I went to a “Thanksgiving” party hosted by a JT...

“I like your Halloween costume, Rachel-sensei! Very colorful, ne? ” A well-meaning teacher says to me, upon seeing my outfit. Yes, today I’m teaching a lesson on Halloween traditions in America. No, I’m not wearing a costume. Here’s a breakdown of my outfit: black tights, already starting to run because they weren’t made to accommodate American thighs. Red skirt, a sale item from UNIQLO. Hair down, modestly arranged into a half-updo. And a hand-stitched shirt I bought in Mexico. If you’ve ever been on a cruise I guarantee you’ve seen these shirts, made of cotton or linen with bouquets of colorful flowers hand-stitched around the wide neck. These shirts come in lots of different styles, depending on the region of Mexico where they’re made, and they’re a popular souvenir for tourists. Importantly, they’re not a Halloween costume. But more importantly, I know this teacher means no harm, so I shrug it off and go on with my day. I’ve never felt more scrutinized about my looks t...