Monday, February 15, 2010

Japanese Tryptich, Part 3: Homestay.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I go to meet my family at the Kobe Port Terminal and little Yuka is holding a sign with my name on it. Masumi smiles when I say hello, little do I know that she will think my first name is Miller for the next 24 hours until I find a polite way to correct her. After the 20 families are paired, we play a weird game involving a train and roshambo (which is consequently not a Japanese word as I had always suspected), until the woman whose shoulders I am grasping suddenly turns on me and points. The male emcee then shoves a mic in my face. "You must say something!" I hesitate for a second, then he clarifies. "You Losah! You need sing song." There's a pregnant pause as every song that suddenly clouds my brain is 80s soft rock. "Mary Had a Little Lamb," I begin after a student thankfully shouted the suggestion,  proving once again that I am only the chosen one in a crowd when it involves losing or being asked to shout songs in foreign countries.


I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I ride the subway to Gakken Toshi on the Shigino line, not sure if I should strike up conversation with my host or continue to observe the unwritten Japanese metro rule of silence. I decide to adhere, which also helps me conjure up some much needed energy after a night of not-sleeping on the Tokyo night bus. We ride for an hour then walk to her two story house in a middle class neighborhood of Osaka, stopping at a Patisserie to pick up lunch. I choose a piece of Japanese sweet bread which looks strikingly similar to Mexican pan, then another almond/chocolate puff as she jokes that I must not be hungry. Do all Japanese middle class eat pastries for lunch? Me like.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
The doorbell rings and the energy of the house is transformed from semi-formal to gigglefest when the grandmother arrives. Though her petite frame and small, angular face lead me to believe she might be of the delicate nature, the minute she opens her mouth I am relieved to see her bouncing up and down like a chipmunk. We have long conversations in all Japanese over coffee. I once in awhile gesture to see if we are on the same page. She flashes her disproportionately large smile and warmly touches my arm to say, "I don't know what the hell you're saying, but I like talking to you."

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
The women at the bus stop laugh as I sneeze every five seconds beneath my faux fur hood. "She from California," Masumi explains. "Ohhhhhh" they say in high-pitched unison, a sound that I will soon hear many of them make while agreeing or thinking. It must be the Japanese equivalent of the Indian head bop or the California "like." Ryotaro, who just turned four, screams when he sees me but later punches me in the chest with a toy gun. I pretend to shoot him back. All is okay in kiddieland. If only they had wanted to watch the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics instead of an overdubbed Disney cartoon, I'd say it was a grand, even if over-stimulating day.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I'm riding grandma's bike through the narrow streets of Osaka. Red lanterns sway in the wind above me and the not so pleasant smell of fish fills my nearly clogged nostrils. We walk the aisles of the market and I am suddenly aware of my own awkward presence. I stare at the foreign vegetables and examine the labels like Jeff Bridges in Starman. My hair is blonde and it takes me a second to figure out how the basket fits in the cart. In my mind, I know the situation is akin to one of them walking down the aisle at a Ralph's. I make my way back to the house without falling, though my hands have turned to icicles and I've been too embarrassed to profess that I need to find a toilet (did I mention that I started my period on the Tokyo night bus that was supposed to come with a toilet).


I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
When we arrive at the local Hippo club, instead of finding all of the other SAS students and families I enter the room and am suddenly on stage. They pass around a microphone, each saying to me in strict order "My Name is, My Nickname is, Please Call me, Thank You." I speak multiple times on behalf of the English speaking race then we play an hour of games. My wool socks don't mesh with the slippery wood floor, so I fall on my ass during a game of "Tom and Jerry." The slam felt just like it did back in the roller skating days, but I get up laughing, ready for the next stimulant. When they ask me to share a childhood game, all that comes to mind is "Light as a Feather," followed by the vague notion of "Duck Duck Goose" though I can't remember for the life of me how to play it. I cover by asking to learn one more of theirs, until I later spy a CD with a few lines written in English. I think that I am the Messiah as I interrupt their Arabic session to teach them the hokey pokey. I soon realize that it is the most awkward version of the song ever recorded. With a long interlude between every single verse, I improvise, and with all eyes on me, have now started a new Japanese rumor that the Hokey Pokey involves air guitar, air sax, and a horrible version of the white man shuffle. If you see someone doing this, blame me and my bruised hip.


I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
I love that a party is thrown in my honor where I must say hello and goodbye. When Masumi's female friends hear that I stayed in a capsule hotel, they respond with "You so brave!" I avoid the question of why I'm not married and am happy to soon meet Mieko who is a musician and lecturer. Though Masumi has told me over the past 24 hours that she enjoys staying home with her two children, literally riding them around on her bike, I have had the feeling that she is tired. And based on her limited and seemingly sterile interactions with her husband, I am wondering if it is her choice until she quickly responds to an inquiry that she built all of the furniture in her living room. She shines for a moment then quickly crawls back into her homemaker shell, dismissing her work as well as her art school past "as not big deal" and serving another delicious batch of Okonomiyaki. If there's one thing that's universal, it's tension.

I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
Mieko and I speak for hours about the power of the right brain and differences in our cultures. She asks me how to pronounce certain words, admitting that most Japanese find the "L" and "R" sounds particularly challenging, and recounts an embarrassing story of how she kept trying to order a coffee on her way to Seattle and realized she was saying "correy." As she spoke more and more about the problems she sees in modern Japanese culture, including the inequalities between women and men, it hit me that in this way, we are all alike. It is so easy for a foreigner to view another world from a gaze of wonderment, but there is so much beneath any surface. For example, I took my onsen experience to mean that Japanese take time out of their busy lives to relax, soak, and take care of each other in a way that we don't. However, according to Mieko, working too hard is a huge problem.


I'm on a Japanese Homestay.
Masumi serves the Hawaiian Macadamia nuts I brought, commenting on how American sweets are too sweet, and I know I've been on the ship for a month when I offer to do the dishes and am overjoyed when my request is granted. I am very sad as the women walk me, along with little Yuka to the train station. For the past 48 hours I was a guest in a complete stranger's home, and now I leave Osaka feeling enlightened and lucky to have made new friends.

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