Moji Moji

  Around this time of month in September, my dog, Amelia, passed away. I spent a lot of time crying and condoling myself with Disney themed tissues and chocolate which I would follow up with more crying and chocolate. I was like someone out of Midol commercial, only with less man-fueled rage. 

I eventually graduated into stage II of my grieving phase, which involved contemplating adopting a new dog. This was followed by guilt and the same crying-Disney tissue-chocolate cycle described above. To no one’s surprise I came to the conclusion that it would not be a good time to adopt a pet. 

Fast forward to November. It’s a normal night in the Kuma-gun. I have just picked up my friend, Bear Hat, and we are on our way to a pre-election night Chili dinner. Things are abnormally going according to plan. I pick up Bear Hat on time and we are on the right road to our friend’s house. Both of these things are very out of character for me. 

I was telling Bear Hat about how, since I ruled out getting a new dog, I was contemplating adopting a cat. I was on the part of my speech about how I wasn’t sure what that would mean for my tatami when a giant ball of fuzz darted in front of my car. I slammed on my brakes and swerved. It was a dog. 

Bear Hat and I stared at  each other and used our good friend speak:

“So uh….”

“… that was a dog…”

“yeah….should we…”

“yeah I think so….”

“…ok…” 

Just like that I found myself illegally parked in front of a ramen shop. Bear Hat jumped out of my car and was running into the dark before I even had my seatbelt unbuckled. I paused, waited for a second, and decided to chase her. 

“Bear hat? ….Dog?”

 I called out as I ran down the unevenly paved, unlit sidewalk. I had on boots and no winter coat. I looked very American. 

Winter turned to spring which turned to summer which skipped fall and turned back to winter. Finally, they appeared. Bear Hat had dog by the leash and was leading him towards me. I froggered my way across the busy road to the side they were on and joined them. Dog was a very obviously purebred Shiba Inu. He had a light tan coat. Dog looked very confused. Dog was timid but also very cute. 

Bear Hat and I walked Dog to the Eneos gas station that was just up the street from where we had almost flattened him into a Shiba-pancake. We figured we – and by we I mean Bear Hat – could ask the attendants to see if anyone recognized him. I held Dog’s leash while Bear Hat went inside to ask around. Dog was very skittery and jumped at each passing car. He whined a little bit and darted around in small circles around me. I wanted to pet him but didn’t want to freak him out more. 

Bear Hat returned with an attendant. He told us that there was a glass shop just down the road and that a Shiba-inu had been tied up outside it. He said if that didn’t work to take Dog to the police station. We set off on our way. 

When we arrived at the glass shop it was closed. However, a woman was ascending the stairs of the same building to her apartment. Bear Hat called out “excuse me! Can I ask you a question?” She turned and jumped when she discovered that Bear Hat was not Japanese. Bear Hat explained the situation and Dog while I held his leash and smiled. The woman didn’t recognize him but said she would call the owner first thing in the morning and ask all her neighbors and friends. We thanked her and continued up the road to the Police Station. 

We jaywalked our way across the street, Dog in tow, and made our way up to the doors. I stood outside with Dog while Bear Hat went inside to ask what we should do. I sat on the curb and Dog sat nearby. I wanted to pet him but was still afraid of scaring him. Bear Hat returned followed by two young and fairly attractive police officers- one of which immediately hugged the dog and rubbed him all over. He wasn’t the dog’s owner but claimed to know a lot about Shiba Inu because he had one himself. 

They explained that there was an animal shelter and that they could take him there while they waited to hear from the owner. When Bear Hat asked they explained that the shelter does euthanize dogs that are adopted. They then asked if I’d be interested in taking the dog if it wasn’t claimed. 

I paused for a very long time. There were about a hundred reasons to why I shouldn’t adopt a dog so naturally I said yes – but I’d have to check with my supervisor to make sure I was allowed to have pets in my house. I hypothesized that this wouldn’t be an issue since the gargantuan bugs could easily outweigh a Chihuahua and no animal no matter how devious could do more damage than the mold that I seemed to discover more of everyday. They told me they would call tomorrow and update me. We left and went to our friend’s house. 

On our way, we decided to name him Mojimoji – Moji for short – which is the Japanese onomatopoeia for flittery or jumpy or something like that. 

The next day, Bear Hat called me to tell me that Moji hadn’t been claimed. I prepared to ask my supervisor if it was okay. She was out of the office. I waited for her return. Bear Hat called again a few hours later to tell me that the owner had come in and that Dog’s / Moji’s name was Tarou and that his owner had a present for us. I was sad and relieved at the same time. 

That night I went to Bear Hat’s house and we opened the present together. We were excited because the box said “donut treats.” They weren’t donuts – but they were delicious. We decided that we would be a Pet Rescuing team and that we’d even make a theme song – which will be coming out soon…. Maybe.

Mollee meets the Police

                 I get really nervous around police officers:  “dead hooker and a bag of cocaine in the trunk” nervous.  This started when I was in preschool. 

                One day at the aforementioned preschool, we had “safety awareness day” like all schools do. A policeman came in and talked about the things that the police do for our community.  I grew up in a very wealthy, suburban community so while I don’t remember his exact speech I imagine it went something like this: “we protect children and dogs from the crazy drivers that choose to go more than 5pmh over the speed limit, we test the quality of your donuts, and we come to your schools and give you cool paper hats.” I say this not to make fun of the police officers in my home town, who actually do hard, valuable work, but to make fun of the fact that my city promoted “protecting the innocent minds of children” to the point of absurdity. You couldn’t tell your child that Santa wasn’t real without having a grief counselor on speed-dial. 

                So at the end of the speech, when the policeman explained that there was a special number we could call “in the event of an emergency” he didn’t bother to elaborate. He left it as “you can dial 9-1-1 if you are in danger, hurt, need help, or feel unsafe.” Keep in mind that he was talking to a classroom of kids under the age of 6. 

                Unfortunately for Mr. Policeman, I love and always have loved to apply my newfound knowledge as quickly as possible. So when my dad was late coming home from work I decided that the police could help me. My mom was upstairs giving my brother a bath. Instead of waiting to ask my mom to help me call the police, I decided I’d be brave and do so myself. 

                I dialed 9-1-1. It rang and a woman answered. I got scared and hung up. I was a really shy kid. I sat there for about three minutes. I dialed again. A different voice answered. I got nervous and hung up again. I did this eight times. Eventually, I accepted the fact that I was too afraid to talk to the police and went upstairs to play with my model dinosaurs and horses. I was a cool kid. 

                About ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. My mom answered it. I heard her yell “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? WHY ARE YOU HERE?” really, really loudly. I got scared and hid under my brother’s bed. Eventually, five sets of feet entered the room. A face and a flashlight looked under the bed. They coaxed me out and brought me downstairs. 

                My mom was sitting, handcuffed, at the table. This was the first big clue that something was wrong. One of the cops was holding my two brothers. They asked me to sit down. They asked if I knew who called them. I stuttered out that I had called them because I needed their help; I wanted them to bring my dad home from work. They asked if there was anything dangerous in the house and if I felt safe. I said yes even though my mom looked ready to kill me. This was the day I learned that if you repeatedly call the police and hang up, they assume the worst and send not one, not two, but FIVE squad cars and an ambulance to the house.  Some of the officers looked like they were biting back laughter, but the oldest and meanest looking explained that wanting my dad home from work wasn’t the kind of “need help” that they meant and that I should never call them again. He didn’t say only to call in the event of x, y, and z – just to never call again. Period. 

                After this event, I avoided the police at all costs. When I was really little, this meant I would run away when I would see them. I would hide in bathrooms at school and refuse to go into donut shops. When I got older and a little less dumb this fear manifested itself as feelings of discomfort and guilt. This brings me to Kumamoto-ken Japan, 2012. 

                After my hair-cut adventure, I met up with my co-workers for a barbeque. The plan was to not drink since I drove myself there (it’s illegal to have anything other than a 0.00 BAC in Japan and operate a vehicle). However, one of my co-workers who wasn’t drinking insisted that he could drive my car home because he had walked and lived only a few blocks away from me. Beer sounded good, so I relented and drank one beer. I repeat, I drank ONE beer. 

                After a few hours I realized that this particular co-worker had disappeared. I asked around and the consensus was that he had probably forgotten and left. I asked if it was okay for me to leave my car at the field and walk home. They said yes but that someone would drive me since I’m a young lady and all that. I said sure. The night itself was really fun and I spent some time debating the pros and cons of MACs and PCs. My Japanese isn’t really that great – it just so happens that most of the words for “computer-ey things” are the same in Japanese and English.  I felt pretty cool. We also talked about the upcoming US election and I was reminded, again, that a lot of people follow the politics of other countries. We talked about how I wished this was more common in America. This night was a major success because it was one of the first serious, deep conversations that I was able to have in Japanese. We were only able to discuss the tips of those icebergs because of my abilities, but boy was I proud. 

                At the end of the night my supervisor dropped me off. I walked up to the door, dug for my key, and realized I didn’t have it. It was in my car, which was two miles away. I tried to call my supervisor back but her phone was off. I sat down on my porch and contemplated walking back. As far as people go, I feel very, very safe in my village. However, my village is also filled with wild boars, monkeys, and other critters that go bump in the night. I decided I didn’t have the energy to successfully run away from a feral dog or pig, so I started calling people in my phone book. 

                Eventually, my fantastic friend who we’ll call Seattle answered her phone. She had been sleeping but insisted on coming to get me anyway. I downloaded and played a few games of Sudoku on my phone. Seattle arrived and we headed off into the night to retrieve my house keys from the car. We winded our way through the goonies’ back roads and up a very small mountain. We turned on to the road and were met by a small blockade and a police officer. 

                I hopped out of the car and walked up to one of my bigger fears: a policeman. He rolled down his window. “Good evening!” I began, “I forgot my house keys. They are in my car. I cannot drive because I drank, but may I go in and get them?” He smiled and said yes. I jogged to my car and he followed me. I retrieved my keys and relocked the door. The police officer rolled down his window and asked if I’d like a ride back to the barricade. I said yes and hopped in. 

                I don’t know how similar Japanese police cars are to American police cars – or how many people get to go for a ride in the front seat. The ride lasted for all of two minutes which gave me just enough time to notice there were a lot of labeled buttons that I couldn’t read. We reached the barrier; I hopped out, and rejoined Seattle in her car. At the end of the day, the whole mishap led to a good story and great bonding time with a good friend.

Mollee's first real-life Japanese Test

Mollee’s First Real Life Japanese Test

Last week I took my first “real life” Japanese test. In college, I minored in Japanese, so I am no stranger to language tests; however, this was very different. I had a goal and my life would be significantly impacted by my success or failure. I needed to get my hair cut. 

Written tests are fantastic because there is a finite amount of material that can be covered. Professors usually provide vocabulary and grammar lists and even examples of what to expect. Studying involves note cards, note cards, and more note cards. Also, note cards – can’t forget those. Even speech topics have a “theme” so you can figure out what questions and responses are probable (Why would you like to go to Japan? I want to climb Mt. Fuji again. I also want to eat sushi) and which are not (Should the alien overlords locate planet Earth and find our natural resources desirable, do you think Obama or Romney would be better prepared to negotiate a treaty and avoid an intergalactic war? We’re screwed either way if they want oil.)

Most people also develop a study routine. For me, the first step involved creating color-categorized note cards. White note cards were used for English to Japanese vocabulary, yellow for English to Kanji and hiragana, and pink for grammar rules. Green was used for sample sentences. Note cards rule. I would also make humorous practice speeches that I would memorize. These contained new grammar and/or vocabulary. For example, the following emphasizes counting, only, and too:

I only have one friend. It’s a cat. His name is Felix. Felix has three bowls. He also has two beds. When I go to the post office, I send Felix letters. I send presents too. Sometimes I send pictures. Felix has six friends (and that’s a lot).

I tried to use a similar technique to practice explaining how I wanted my hair. I was nervous, because unlike a bad test grade which you can hide, a failure on my part would be obvious. Imagine if failing grades were handed back in Howlers (the screaming letters in Harry Potter. I’m a cool kid – I know) rather than in their discreetly folded fashion. Also instead of embarrassing you once they’d follow you around for a couple months until you were forced to try again. That’s what failing this would be like. Knowing that, I still found a local, seemingly English-free place to get my hair cut. 

Fortunately, I was able to mostly explain what I wanted in Japanese. I also found out that Mr. Stylist (I give creative nicknames, I know!) also spoke English. With our combined efforts, I was able to leave with the best haircut that I’ve had in years. BOOYA. 

In conclusion, note cards are awesome and my haircut is too. If you ever find yourself in Hitoyoshi, check out the Saso Salon. Also stay tuned, because I am sure I will have to brave the Japanese doctor’s office soon – it’s flu season! Since the gap between my current doctor’s office vocabulary (my head hurts.) and my desired abilities (I feel like I was beaten over the back of my head with a hammer and run over by a truck. I’m pretty sure there is lava in my lungs and a little green man kicking the back of my eyeballs.) I have some note cards to make and color code. Until next time!

PEACE OUT!

Mollee

PS: Something to keep in mind during flu season: if your nose is running and your feet smell, you might be put together backwards.

American Guilt: The first time Mollee wanted to be Canadian

As a whole, my experience in Japan has been incredibly pleasant. The people are great, the culture is great, the bugs are less great, and the food is fantastic. I haven’t encountered any outwardly racist people and I’ve only scared one small child (oops). As a whole, I would describe this experience as a success. That being said, I had one of the most awkward moments of my life last week.

 It’s October which means it’s time for students to start preparing for their speech competitions. As was expected, my JTE (Japanese teacher of English) asked me to help them prepare and I said yes.  I was told that during lunch break I would meet with the students from each grade level and help them practice their speeches.

The first year students went first. They recited a two person conversation from the book. Basically, one student tells the other that it’s “quiz time” and asks them to identify a bunch of random items. It is short and is about as interesting as a real-time video of a snail in mud. The second year’s speech was similar in the sense that it wasn’t particularly entertaining. Again, I helped them with their words and even suggested some gestures that they could use.

Then the third years came in. They had an actual story rather than a simple conversation. It was called “A Mother’s Lullaby.” I was excited – this could be interesting.  I got excited. Then, they started the speech. In order to help you, dear reader, relate more precisely to the panic and “HELP ME” that I experienced during this speech, I am including the exact story (via italics) with my thoughts (bolded)

“A Mother's Lullaby”

This sounds nice…

A big, old tree stands by a road near the city of Hiroshima.

Hiroshima? Uh oh…

Through the years, it has seen many things.One summer night the tree heard a lullaby. A mother was singing to her little girl under the tree. They looked happy, and the song sounded sweet. 

So it’s not about the bomb – thank Cthulu, Xenu, the Flying Spaghetti monster and whoever else is up there!

But the tree remembered something sad."Yes, it was some sixty years ago. I heard a lullaby that night, too."

                                                                                                         This can’t be good…

On the morning of that day, a big bomb fell on the city of Hiroshima. Many people lost their lives, and many others were injured. They had burns all over their bodies. I was very sad when I saw those people.
It was a very hot day. Some of the people fell down near me. I said to them, "Come and rest in my shade. You'll be all right soon."

Oh fuck me. Hey God, we haven’t talked in a while. If I jump back on the wagon could you make me Canadian – like right now? Thanks.

Night came. Some people were already dead. I heard a weak voice. It was a lullaby. A young girl was singing to a little boy.

                                                                                                   There’s a little boy? Aw, crap.

 
"Mommy! Mommy!" the boy cried.
"Don't cry," the girl said. "Mommy is here." Then she began to sing again.
She was very weak, but she tried to be a good mother to the poor little boy. She held him in her arms like a real mother.

On behalf of America I would like to apologize… 

"Mommy," the boy was still crying.
"Be a good boy," said the girl. "You'll be all right." She held the boy more tightly and began to sing again.
After a while the boy stopped crying and quietly died. 

He dies? What is this shit?! I take back everything I thought about the “quiz time” speech. I want Becky to find out what those items are!!! 

But the little mother did not stop singing. It was a sad lullaby. The girl's voice became weaker and weaker.
Morning came and the sun rose, but the girl never moved again.

Oh God… it’s over…. I have to say something now…. Words… I need words…

After the story ended, there were thirty seconds of pure awkward silence. What happened next, though, is what makes this story truly awkward. One of the girls said “Mollee Sensei, I have a question.” I told her to go ahead. 

She looked nervous which made me nervous. She took a deep breath and said: 

“JTE Sensei didn’t tell us what this story was about. A lot of the words are big so we don’t get it. Can you explain it?” 

Now, there are many things that I would much rather have done. I would have eaten a gallon of natto or taken my chances jumping out of the second story window, for example. Unfortunately, neither of those was offered as barter options. I spent ten seconds wishing that I didn’t know any Japanese (which would have got me out of translating) and another ten wishing I was from Canada. Neither of these wishes came true (screw you too Cthulu) and I proceeded to answer. 

I think the girls realized that this was going to be awkward once I explained that the tree watched many people die. I then explained that the girl sang to the boy until he died and she died too. My version was a lot less poetic or something. After I explained, we all sat in silence which I broke with “pronunciation. Let’s work on that.” Before we did, one of the girls piped in that “um… all countries do difficult things.” 

Yes, yes they do. I wanted to give the kid a hug, but hugs seem weird here. So I told her she was right and got on with the lesson.