A man said to the universe:
"Sir I exist!"
"However," replied the universe,
"The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation."

Stephen Crane

Thursday, May 31, 2007

Doumo arigatou . . .

Several years ago the community college I was working at began offering a conversational Japanese language class. According to the department secretary the school had a successful Japanese program several years before, but the instructor had quit and they had never been able to replace her. (My own opinion is that the department chair at the time just didn't want to have anything to do with any language that didn't have Latin as a parent.) I had for some time been reading a lot of Japanese fiction, and had often wondered how much the original differed from the translations I was reading. I was also vaguely bored. The upshot of all this was that at the tender age of fifty-seven I enrolled in JPN 115 meeting on Monday and Wednesday evenings.



When friends and co-workers found out what I was doing their reaction was fairly uniform. "Wow, that's great," followed by an awkward pause of a second or two, and then, "Um, why?" Many told me I should take Spanish. It would be much easier than Japanese to learn, and much more useful. They are probably right. The thing is I wasn't looking for usefulness. Anyway, to answer their question I would give them one of three answers. Some were told that I had decided to have a mid-life crisis but was too old and fat, and poor, to attract a young, blond mistress, or buy the roadster of my dreams. Other people were told that I was getting prepared in case the company I worked for ever decided to expand into Japan. And a few people, in a moment of weakness, were told the truth, which was, and still is: I don't really know. (Actually the first two explanations are also true in some strange theoretical way—they're just not very accurate.)

There certainly was a strong desire to read Ibuse's Black Rain and Kawabata's Palm of the Hand Stories, among others, in their true voices. Especially Black Rain. It is such a brutally honest account of the horrors of that day in August, and how it affected the lives of those who survived and continued to cause misery and suffering for years afterward; but there is also an over-riding, gentle optimism that touches me in a very profound way. There are scenes that are extremely moving in English, and even though I would not understand most of the subtleties I would like to experience them in their true voice.

But, perhaps more importantly, there was a real feeling of stagnation in my life, and a need to rattle the bars just a bit. Work, while almost always abusive and often frustrating, was also very routine and held few real challenges aside from the usual campus and corporate machinations. This isn't to say I disliked my job. Oddly enough, when I was allowed to do it with out interference from management and faculty it was quite enjoyable. But there is a very fundamental reason "Dilbert" strikes a nerve in almost every corporate worker in the United States, and it is that we all work for that pointy haired boss, and our Human Resources departments are, for all intents and purposes, run by the evil Catbert. And my old email signature of "Why are campus politics so vicious? Because the stakes are so small." is only funny because it's a fundamental truth.

Anyway, one Monday evening that August I entered the classroom about ten minutes late (one of the ironies of working in a college bookstore was that my management could never understand why I needed time off to take a college course), and began a very rewarding journey. It's been a kind of bumpy journey. I have had to drop out some semesters because of hemorrhages, or having to have a knee joint replaced a couple times, and sometimes work interfered more than it should have; but I have had two excellent instructors that have been patient, understanding, and amazingly enough have actually been able to teach this petrified brain a few things. I think it was possible because, while they are very different personalities, they both care very deeply about their culture, and wish to share the beauty of their language. アンソン晶子先生と豊田茂子先生、どうもありがとうございます。(Professors Akiko Anson and Shigeko Toyota, thank you very much.) I can never really thank you enough.

電気がつくとかえってゆく子供らに水平がある
Electric lights Schoolboys returning home The sea-line beyond.


Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Happiness is a warm . . .

The other day while stopped at a red light I noticed that the SUV in front of me had a decal on its rear window that said, "I belong to the NRA/And I vote." My first reaction was, "Big, bleeding whoop." Then I tried to figure out the driver's intent when he placed the decal in his window. Was this person (In my mind's eye I pictured an overweight male with a none too clean 1973 hair cut, wearing Wrangler's that fit only because he wears them very, very low—fastening his belt somewhere in the vicinity of his scrotum. (I always want to remind these guys that belt buckles are not supposed to be horizontal.) He finds stock car racing extremely interesting, and its strategy fascinating), was this person trying to make a patriotic declaration, or was it a threat?


I suppose one could make the argument that he was telling The World, or at least the traffic stuck behind him, that he was an American who takes the electoral process and his rights under the Constitution seriously, and is willing to defend them both vigorously. On the other hand, one could read those words and come to the conclusion that he was saying something like, "One way or another I'm going to force you to do things my way."

Now, I will never know which interpretation was closest to that driver's true beliefs, or if, indeed, he had even thought the statement through and actually formed an opinion. For all I know, the decal was there when he bought the vehicle, or perhaps it was in the envelope of stuff that came after he paid his dues (along with his Official NRA Membership Card—to be carried at all times) and he just stuck it on the window because it looked cool. But I am positive that the image formed by that giant SUV and that decal is one of the major reasons we Americans are so reviled by much of the world's population. The grossly oversized SUV or pickup truck is all too often the vehicle of the road bully. The driver's intent is to intimidate those around him, and force them to give way and acknowledge his power, both physical and economic. He cares nothing about your rights, or safety, and the decal is there to make sure you get the point. Not an image to generate real respect or friendship.

I'll admit that I don't really understand why so many, especially Muslims, hate us so vehemently, but when I see a black Suburban or Tahoe or Escalade or Ford 350 with an NRA sticker I begin to see why just a bit.

人をそしる心をすて豆の皮むく
Discarding my wish To revile someone I shell peas.

Please allow me to introduce myself . . .


I am, I regret to say, not a man of either wealth or fame. I am a middle-aged, edging toward elderly, vaguely retired, over weight man who has decided to try and explain himself to the world. Not that the world has been particularly interested, or confused, about who or what I am, but if I were the kind of person who let a lack of interest deter him I would have had very few second dates in my younger years. The hope is: if I can come close to explaining this jumble of opinions, prejudices and desires clamoring for space inside my head to any of the people who are, most likely, ignoring this exercise in vanity; then I just might have a fighting chance of understanding what's going on in there. We will see.

As far as the easily explained stuff is concerned, I was born in Idaho, grew up in Michigan and currently live in Arizona. After high school I went to Eastern Michigan University (they might try to deny it, but I have proof) where I majored in literature and philosophy. As you might expect, with an educational background like that most of my working life was spent in the transcendental world of retail. For the last twenty-two years I worked in college bookstores, primarily as the textbook buyer. Some months ago I arrived at a place where I could no longer tolerate the campus intrigues and politics, corporate demands, and the general hostility inherent in that occupation and I quit. I will probably be looking for a job in the very near future (I have grown oddly fond of having a home and food to eat), but for now I am retired.

Currently my interests are cooking, literature, music, learning to speak and read Japanese and writing self-indulgent essays about myself. My family means more to me than most people suspect, and is one of the main focal points of my life, but since they have strong opinions about their privacy I will try to avoid dragging them into these little exercises. Suffice it to say that there are current and former wives, two sons and a daughter, a grandson, mother and a couple of siblings et al, and on a good day several of them might be willing to admit we are related. On a really good day a few of the 'et al' will remember; but since I have not yet attained that state that guarantees a huge, loving family (i.e., I haven't won the lottery) I try to leave them in peace, and they show their gratitude by returning the favor.

If you have stumbled onto these pages, or I have badgered you into linking to them and am pacing back and forth behind you waiting to see your reaction, and are still reading—thank you. I hope you will find future episodes witty, humorous, perhaps even interesting. I will, however, in keeping with current communication standards, do my best not to be thought provoking. I have big plans for the future, which is to say I've thought of a topic of another installment. After that it all starts getting rather vague, but then, life gets boring if there is too much certainty.

草萌ゆやくゆるこころのすなほなる
Grasses are sprouting: My repentance is mild.