Sports Day!

Growing up in Minnesota, my elementary school had field day. It was a once a year opportunity to skip classes for an extended period of gym. It seems the youthful jocks could not make me feel inadequate enough during our regularly scheduled gym class, so they got a special holiday for just that purpose. That was my adolescent outlook on physical education, anyway. I have since improved my ability a bit, and my attitude more so.

From what I can see, every Japanese school has a special day that translates as Sports Day. It is like American Field Day, plus a truckload of steroids. The format is as follows: Sports Day is on a Saturday. The entire school (staff & student) attends. Everyone gets the following Monday off. Everyone is divided between two teams, red and white. The day is an excuse for teachers to wear their new tracksuits. They all do. There is a great deal of pride involved, and the losing team cries. But to be fair, the victors may also cry.

I have heard accounts of these Sports Days from other ALTs. Being at a mountain school, my day was slightly different. Ikawa Junior High is the smallest junior high in the district, so they combined with the elementary school and kindergarten for a total of 22 students. This was still not enough, so the teachers and townspeople joined in. With a local population of 700, we had a turnout of roughly 200 people at the Ikawa Sports Day.

To prepare, students and staff left school after lunch on Friday and met at the elementary school, where the bigger field was located. There, a healthy handful of locals came to assist with setup. Tents were hoisted, a track was chalked, international flags flown high, and various items carried around. The tents were substantial, but probably did not require the two-dozen people that helped to put each one up. If I stood still, I was asked to help, and when I helped, I was in the way. Every age group assisted, but the retired old men ran the show. Readily available, and eager to make something, the majority of the two-dozen tent-raisers were in the retired old man faction. You have never seen such incompetence as a collection of competence with the same goal. Two-dozen master chefs destroying a simple broth. I stood aside, and the tents eventually found their way up.

The next morning, I walked with the teacher group to the elementary field (all the teachers live in the same dorm). Townsfolk trickled in, and we saw to the final touches of setup. A group of women working over numerous cutting boards and two cauldrons, oversaw the miso soup that would be for lunch. They faired much better in the group effort than their male counterparts.

There was an opening ceremony, where a guy who must be important talked, the kindergarteners took turns speaking to announce something, and the three sixth graders played some huge mountain horns that the elementary school saves for special occasions (they let me blow one once). Then everyone participated in a group stretch routine. (you saw the photos in the Thriller post) They played some goofy and really perky song over the loudspeakers that barked commands in Japanese. I started out mimicking other’s movements, but was soon very lost. I later heard that everyone learns that stretch at a young age. I missed out

The games began. The first was a goofy relay for the elementary and kindergarten. Little kids rode on shoulders as the bigger kids ran fifty paces to a pole. On the pole were loosely clipped packages of individual rice crackers. The kids grabbed them in their teeth and rode their partners back to the starting line. Then roles reversed, and the little ones led their bigger, and now blindfolded, partners to the rice cracker distribution pole. Too much fun to quit, the organizers summoned the principals and me to participate. Once blindfolded, I was given the hand of my partner. It was tiny. I was teamed with a three-year-old boy. Adorable, but not the greatest competitor.

Throughout the day the events varied greatly and had multiple categories. Men’s, women’s, youth, adult, and elderly. And not just athletic competition, but there were also exhibition events. A group of women performed as a dance troupe in special colorful outfits. Japan loves these dance routines, and makes use of them at many festivals. The same dance number was repeated a few times, and more groups joined in. There was a tug-of-war that I joined in on, losing once and winning once. The final athletic event was the adult relay, a 4X150m (approx) foot race. This was the one event I new I would be participating in with advance notice. For everything else I was dragged out. We got fourth of five.

After all the events, the fire department (who had competed, as well as the police), made use of the assembly to give a fire safety seminar and demonstrate their equipment. People took turns spraying the extinguishers in the dirt and hoses in the trees. The day was a fantastic time, and an all-around positive sporting experience. Being off in the mountains, Ikawa is free to do things a little different than the city folk. They dropped the competitive edge, and boosted the community engagement. I cannot remember if I was on the red or white team, but I do recall we lost by a small margin. I did not see any tears.

Townspeople spontaneously perform Thriller

Combating the monotony of mountain life, at least one hundred Ikawa residents performed segments of Michael Jackson's popular Thriller dance routine.

"Like nothing I have ever seen," said an undisclosed source.

The performance contained representatives of every age group, but was primarily the elders of the community. Many had track suits, but few had rhythm.

Asked for comment, temporary village squatter, Davin, said, "I am not entirely sure that this happened. In fact, I do not think it did. Hey, you don't look like a reporter?"

Engineered Slop Appeal

As I sit down and type, I have just returned from my first kanji lesson. This morning I was invited to sit in on Vice Principal Mochizuki’s calligraphy class with the 7th grade students. I started out by writing my name in Katakana. Ms. Hanamura, my tutor for the class, laid my name out on a sheet of paper so that I may use it as a guide. I went through seven or eight sheets practicing my stroke order and brush control.

I might as well had used a magic marker. My quickly scrawled Japanese John Hancock looked dull and malnourished when compared to the juicy lines of what I was trying to emulate. Ms. Hanamura and Mr. Mochizuki determined my best piece and placed it aside. Before tackling the next word, I wandered the room to see how the students were fairing. The word of the day that I would shortly join them in practicing was “dream.” The first thing I noticed was the speed, or lack of it, with which they moved. I understood that we were practicing writing, and so I wrote quickly. My results were ugly. What they were doing was closer to drawing.

I set to work on “dream.” The word comes in two vertically stacked parts, the first in nine strokes and the second in seven. I slowed down for this round, and plumped up my lines. This time they were thick. Too thick. There was no variation. Thick lines complimenting thick lines insults the art of Kanji. My fat little dream stared up at me, wanting a Snickers bar. A few more passes, and things improved. Seems more esthetic than practical, but I would like to learn more Kanji.

What struck me the most was the control. Not just of the brush, but the whole outcome. Every shift and shuffle of the brush is an intentional move. The contact when it first engages the paper is angled just right. Pressure is lifted then reapplied and the stroke thins and thickens accordingly. And to finish, the stroke slowly trails off, immediately lifts, or thickens and then cuts to a sharp point. The last one is lovely and most difficult for me. Each of the motions is practiced, the final result being organic, flowing, and casual.

The casual presentation is in truth completely intentional. It is like the model with a hairstyle that looks fresh off the pillow, but we all know a world class stylist spent a great deal of time to primp it just so. The manufactured natural look.

Regardless of the language, I have always been a fan of the unique traits that appear in writing. A flick of the wrist and pen or brush trails off. Too much ink and you get a bulge or drip. The beauty is born of those fine serendipitous details that occur. But here, where such unteachable things are taught, we learn a uniform uniqueness. It is said of Japan, that the nail who sticks up shall be hammered back down.

So then it is okay to draw outside the lines, just so long as that is the way you were taught…

Something familiar also.

A group of folks can only play so many games of hearts before a deck of cards will just not cut it. On this note, I figured each of the ALTs should become responsible for one game. I found my game in a toy store a couple weeks ago. Actually, it was a toy/ninja weaponry/extremely realistic airsoft guns/gaming store. I did not find the game upon my first visit, as the Japanese packaging is radically different, and I was distracted by shiny throwing stars. I was also looking into purchasing a samurai sword to send home for my brother’s birthday. I was not sure of the legalities, so I dropped that quest. Sorry Gerbs.

I am now the proud owner of a Japanese edition Settlers of Catan board game. To break it in, we spent a low key Friday evening at a hip but humble bar named Photo. The place has a black and white decor accented by neon drink coasters showcasing some of my least favorite American presidents. The bartenders were likely pleased that we doubled their business, so they left us to a table in the back.

We had attempted the game a week earlier, but I was rusty on the rules, and far short of able to read the Japanese instructions. This time I came armed with an internet printout of English guidelines. The inaugural victory went to me, and not just because I shared rules when they were convenient. I rolled well, and proved my dominance in the settlement of a fictitious island nation.

As with any time I win something upon my first attempt, I considered retiring for good. That way I can maintain a 100% average. Though as early retirement would defeat the purpose of my purchase, I elected to take my chances within game play. I lost the second game, but I can no longer remember to whom. I think that shows a highly developed sense of acceptance.


Right now I excitedly await the arrival of Bang, an out of print game that Jess had a friend locate and ship from the States.

Something familiar.

I may have a substantial percentage of German blood, but I have yet to visit the fatherland. My familiarity with German culture comes second hand through family and friends. Though last weekend when Oktoberfest came to Shizuoka, I was all too ready to embrace my heritage.

It was not until last year that I first paid any notice to Oktoberfest, when I had my own backyard Munich, a neighborhood success. I was all set for it to pass right by this season. Then a couple days beforehand, I caught word on an events calendar.

Now I may be a native Minnesotan, but my appreciation for beer was born in Wisconsin. In addition to having a Wisconsin pallet, I also have a Wisconsin wallet. I find myself the frugal fellow on evenings out and about. That said, my inner-accountant did not attend Oktoberfest with me. He stayed home to see that the air conditioner remained off.

Not knowing what they would ask, I was certain the price would be right for a proper German lager. And at 1300Yen (approx. $12) a half liter, it was fine. Here, key ingredients to brewing are heavily taxed by the government. As a result beer is either expensive, or lacking essential components.

The three day event was very well attended. Tables of strangers were filled up cheek to cheek. When I sat down for a few minutes, the Japanese fellow next to me was anxious to practice a little English. A live band played American jazz standards (jazz is everywhere here), and then broke into YMCA by The Village People. You can be anywhere in the world, you need not know the ABC’s, but you will know YMCA. Folks kept their seats, but sure did let their hands go dancing.

Next up was a proper lederhosen laden band flown in from Europe. They had the instruments for squeezing, strumming, blowing, and a whip for cracking. I met up with them at a convenience store after the show. They gave me a card and told me to look them up when I make it to Bavaria. Sure thing.

In addition to sampling the local culture, it is always of great interest to see what bits of our culture are imported. Some things are good, while others should keep to where they are from. I took this particular western import to be a fine success and a positive exchange.

The steep path

It was bound to happen sooner or later. I am in a new place, away from home, exposed to new things. I consider myself to be sufficiently open-minded. In my time here I will try new things, maybe change a couple ideas. But there are some occasions where I need to put my foot down and hold fast to my convictions.

On Friday just before lunch, the 8th graders invited me to their class, for what I can only assume was a recruitment event targeting yours truly. They had picked some leaves that very morning from green tea plants on the school’s property. I appreciated their inclusion of me to the affair, but I was privy to their agenda.

I played along. The process from leaf to tea was already underway, but I had not missed much. For about an hour they rotate the leaves between a bowl and a skillet. In the bowl, the leaves are rolled lightly between the hands, making them more compact. Dumped on a paper towel on a low set skillet, the leaves are continuously shuffled with chopsticks. This is to dry the leaves.

I asked questions to learn more about the process, as our method did not seem the most efficient – a few people working for an hour to produce 100g of tea. Ikawa is after all, a big tea region. From what I could understand, there are big machines that both heat and shake the leaves. Seems elaborate for the local farmers, but I will have to look a little further.


After the work was done, the students heated some water and steeped our fresh tea. It was good. I think I enjoyed it more having just seen it made, and being a part of the process. And kudos to the students for the role reversal. It was fun having them give me the lesson.

Though for such a great attempt it was fruitless. No one has yet confessed, but I am well aware of the nation wide conspiracy to derail my coffee love. A personal message: “Japan, I know what you are up to, and you have your work cut out for you. Well you can not stop my love of coffee, you can do your best to build my like of tea.”

Ikawa/School begins!

…First off, I apologize for my posting absence. The reasons will be apparent soon enough…

Last Monday morning I found my way to the Shizutetsu Station, and hopped a bus for Yokisawa. The ride was about an hour long. Once there, I waited 40 minutes on a bench to transfer to my next bus. The next bus was a van. It had a driver, an old guy with a backpack, and me in a suit. That ride was a bit over an hour, and took me to Ikawa. Ms. Hanamura picked me at the bus stop and brought me to Ikawa Junior High School. There I met the 11 staff that instruct the 10 students.


Yes, 10 students - four kids in seventh grade, three in eighth, and three in ninth. Ikawa Junior High School is the smallest school in Shizuoka City. And at two hours drive into the mountains, it is also the furthest. This is my placement for the first month. Because of the distance, I am supplied with a local apartment about a mile from the school. Monday mornings I bus from the center of Shizuoka to Ikawa. I teach for the week, and then a teacher gives me a ride back to center Friday after work.

I have never lived on my own before, and now I have two apartments entirely to myself! It does make things a bit difficult when I barely have the goods to furnish one apartment, let alone two. The apartment in Ikawa is in a building with the rest of the teachers. They are all in the similar situation of commuting home for the weekends. Every night dinner is served on the main level, and people can come and go. This has provided for a nice casual way to chat with my colleagues. At this point of the evening, people have typically dropped their pants and dress shirts to dawn t-shirts and shorts. The food has been pretty tasty and mostly traditional. We had sashimi on Wednesday night.

Ikawa has a population of 700, and it boggles my mind that the city provides the resources that it does. The school is about ten years old, not even a toddler when converted to human years. It looks like it could support about 200 students, I guess it is good to be prepared for expansion. The rural students are thus far a quiet bunch. I hope to shake that up a bit. As for now, I am still an outsider. The teachers/staff are extremely friendly, helpful, and sharing. If I have not tried a certain kind of sweet, they will see to it that I do!

For my first week I gave nine lessons, three of which were self introductions. The self introduction is a big deal and oh so mandatory for an ALT such as myself. I must admit, I am a bit of an authority in the field, when it comes to lecturing about myself. I gave them the geography - America/Wisconsin/Eau Claire. I made certain that they knew the importance of cheese, and what a Cheesehead was. There would be a quiz on it later. Then I introduced my immediate family. They are Minnesotans, but it is forgivable. I then shared my interests. Saturday mornings are a must at the Farmers Market and Ultimate Frisbee is the greatest sport. They would ask me about some famous baseball player, but I would steer it back to Frisbee. I showed photos of Romar Greenhouse where I worked. The kids were rural, and some farmers, but they were still pretty impressed by “1,000 chickens!”

The triumphant photo was always saved for last. I always qualified it by saying it was very special. Once I had their full attention I would present them with an 8x10 glossy color photo of Lindsay and I all dressed up at the Viennese Ball. Every good story needs a romantic interest, and the kids loved it. Sometimes other teachers would be in the class, and they would tell other teachers who would then ask to see the photo in the office. I currently have an outstanding promise to share the photo with the principal’s wife.

Thus far I am quite pleased with my assignment. I am splat in the middle of the mountains, the area is beautiful. I have already seen a monkey climbing a power pole. It was big with shaggy grey hair and a pink face. We had a two second staring contest, which I won, and then he jumped into the trees. I hope there will be a rematch.

Now that it is the weekend, I have come back to the city and have had the opportunity to swap classroom tales with the other ALTs. All of us are having different experiences, though mine are emerging as the most unique. The more I hear, the more it seems that I have a great classroom situation as well. Ms. Hanamura, my JTE (Japanese Teacher of English), whom I assist, has been ever so helpful, and enthusiastic to work together. Some ALTs are already collecting the horror stories.

More than anything it just feels great for school to be in session. It was quite difficult to travel halfway around the globe and spend a month in detention at the Board of Education Office. None of us were hired for our skills in sitting and waiting. My story could change, but for now I am feeling great. The classroom is comfortable, people are interested in me, and everything is new.


Oh yeah, internet. I have a wireless internet service that, though portable, is limited to the urban realms of the city. The school office has one computer with access to the web. I may be able to sneak online occasionally, but for now my blog posts will be mostly weekend happenings.