Almost two months have passed since I have been in Japan and time has begun to march on just as it would in any typical daily routine. Days pass as I repeat the same sequence of events: waking up, showering, going to work, teaching, sitting in traffic, eating dinner, and light reading or a movie before bed. On one flip of the coin I am moving through the universal experience; setting up and knocking down the familiar. Of course, every coin has its tails, and as Alice discovered, every mirror has its reflection.
Appeasing my daily routine, I browsed through facebook this morning.
A friend of mine and a brilliant writer posted an exert from Lewis Carroll, more specifically, from Alice in Wonderland. His post reminded me of my favorite Lewis Carroll piece: the "Jabberwocky". The "Jabberwocky" always appealed to me because of its curious structure and definition, and also Carroll's unparalleled use of portmanteau. Many of us are aware of portmanteau linguistics today, but through cheesy and annoying advertising that places words like "Chillaxin" into the English lexicon. Carroll, however, had an innovative way of placing two words together to mean one thing, and referred to this approach as the balance of two words at the same time. This method was sheer perfection for a story like Alice's, which was the demonstration of what happens when worlds collide, or more importantly, when we realize that the end of the line is actually the beginning.
What interests me about Alice and her journey in Through the Looking Glass is the premise that she never really left reality, that reality (based on the idea that reality is relative) and actuality simply merged, which gave her the illusion that she traversed into a world of nonsense. When looked at through the usage of portmanteau, words like "mimsy" seem irrational, but when you understand that it is the merger of "flimsy" and "miserable" and the word is placed appropriately in a sentence, it makes perfect sense.
The merger of words leads into the merger of perceptions, and alike the merger of worlds.
For me, Japan is my parallel universe. I, like Alice, stepped through the looking glass. As I float through the monotony of modern living, I am surrounded by my reality of familiar themes. I go shopping in a supermarket and cook my own meals. I live in an apartment on the third floor and arduously carry groceries up the stairs. I drive a car and take weekend trips. I go to work and teach students. My life, is paralleledby another existence though; by the actuality of my surroundings. Hence, two worlds collide.
I always looked at the mirror wondering what it was like on the other side. The reflection that stared back wasn't quite me, how could it be? It looked like I did, but different, it moved its lips like mine, but the reply was incomprehensible. In that difference was another world filled with possibilities. A world that I have never known. I decided that by just simply glaring at my reflection everyday I would never truly know. I must get to the other side. I must go through the looking glass.
As I began to cross over I thought to myself that many people believe that there is only two sides to the looking glass, but a mirror is like a menagerie; it is contains endless reflections when presented with itself.
When I stepped through the glass time stood still, it remained daylight during the times when it should not be day. I crossed over the farthest point on the earth in a short matter of time.
I arrived on the other side to discover that I had lost a whole day.
At first glance everything resembled the image that I left. But of course, I am on the other side of the glass, just by mere principal things cannot be the same. People look like people, but they are different. It is clear that I am not from this side of the mirror. When they talk they use words but the words do not have meaning to me and it sounds like pure nonsense. Grocery stores look like grocery stores but are filled with items that I cannot identify. I have an apartment that is devoid of central heating and requires me to manually light a pilot for the stove, faucet, and shower. Trips take twice as long as I have a maze of riddled language and directions to conquer. Students realize that I am from the other side of the glass and struggle to find ways to relate to me. There is a gamut of emotion that is felt when one steps through the looking glass. Much like Alice, I feel so many different emotions everyday, and some days you are so busy trying to figure out what a momerath is, that you cant feel anything at all. Quite frankly, at times, it makes me want to stab myself with a spork.
For Alice, she was desperately looking for answers to make sense of the nonsense that she found. But in reality, she went through the looking glass to make sense of the nonsense she already knew. She discovers that the whole time she is struggling against the nonsense from the latter side of the glass, that she simply is working back to square one. What she doesn't know is that her journey was actually an assessment of which nonsense is more sensible in her own reality. The epiphany is that the parallel universe exists within ourselves, the reflection can only exist within the mirror. As you shift the position of the mirror you absorb more or less light, more or less reflections. What I am looking for is what position will refract all points of light. How can I repair the disconnect between the nonsense. How can I be all dimensions at all times?
I think this was the juxtaposition between Carroll and portmanteau linguistics. The reason the word can be balanced is because it is one of the same, yet, completely different. Carroll managed to bridge each facet of the mirror, for him, there was no going through the looking glass, because it existed everywhere. For Alice, she just needed to figure that out. In some way, Japan has turned the mirror for me, shown light on another dimension. It appears to be made of nonsense, of cultural difference, but I believe that is the illusion and I am here to find my distinction in a thousand points of light.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
My special friends
I realize I have not wrote in a while. I have been very busy attending seminars, multi-tasking at work, and trying to spread my wings a bit to see the surrounding area. As result, I have accumulated many topics to discuss, but feel that my experience today takes precedence. It may not be much on the adventure scale, but it certainly has a lot of heart.
A few weeks ago I was instructed that I would be visiting a special needs school here in Aomori-shi roughly once a month. I was a bit intrigued by this since people who are mentally and/or physically challenged are not often seen here in Japan. Now I am not suggesting that they hide them under rocks, but in contrast to America or other parts of the world, it is not common to see a challenged person working in your community store. I am not very clear about the place challenged people have in societal Japan, and it wasn't looking good since my only experience was witnessing a mentally handicap man, who was trying to speak to a group of smokers in Tokyo, in which every person pretended that he didn't exist. And the same goes for schools. Children are not integrated here or mainstreamed. There is no range of variation. Anyone with a lisp to cerebral palsy goes to the same institution. No exceptions.
I recognize the potential tangent I could go off on here about the effects on a child's self-esteem, but I am going to save that one for small group discussion.
However, when regarding children, I don't believe the intention is to make them invisible, I think here, challenged people are the responsibility of the family unit, and therefore it is something that is handled internally. I am not doubting that they are loved very much by their families, but I don't know that society as a whole has a tolerance for their condition, or believes that they may harbour any individual power. There are a plethora of challenges all ranging from mild to severe, and people of all types can persevere. The difference is, in my experience, that the belief that one can diligently become a prince from a pauper is a western one. A similarity though, is the belief that people no matter what do have worth, and that no one is left behind.
"Ohana means family, no one gets left behind"
This is what I believe I witnessed today. It was my first visit to the special needs school. I was relaxed and eager for this visit, I have worked with many different groups of children. I arrived at the school to a find a very casual atmosphere where everyone greeted me with a smile. Parents were dropping of their students happily, kissing them good-bye. I met my cooperating teacher and Kyoto- sensei in the foyer and exchanged a very confident introduction in Japanese. I noticed that this school did not have many stairs and had a series of interconnected ramps that ran up and down floors. The windows were spilling in sunlight that reflected off the glossy pathways. We headed upstairs where I was introduced to my desk and the days itinerary. I was only supposed to be there for half a day in which I would be teaching one class with 3 elementary school students. To prepare, I was told to create a sign that included my name, country, and likes. I designed a bright yellow poster that showcased drawn images of myself, the earth with America ethnocentrically centered, and my dogs.
As I sat at my desk waiting for the next period I could hear students from down the corridors making distant sounds in efforts to communicate with someone. I watched children in wheel chairs, some with leg braces, and some lying on platforms covered in blankets be guided past my office. Teachers and aides sang cheerfully or spoke softly to the students. I must say it was a little sobering and I got caught in a brief moment of utter sadness. I had to remember that my purpose was to interact with these kids, not feel sorry for them.
At 10:35 a precession of two teachers and two tiny wheel chairs came to my desk requesting that I join them. Two little guys, age 7 and 8 years, waved their arms in joy at our meeting, smiling large grins, and making happy sounds. Both had cerebral palsy and various other challenges that I could not understand. I shook their hands and told them my name, and then we moved our parade onward. We came into a kindergarten type classroom with a large carpet on the floor, shelves of games and toys, and a chalk board with pictures of the children and their names. We gathered in a circle and sang a welcome song. I was surprised by my ability to speak with the teachers in Japanese and find all the right words to communicate with my new buddies in both languages. I began to show off my poster when another small boy, 6 years old, and paraplegic, entered with his aide. He looked at me and said in perfect English "Hello, nice to meet you". He joined our group and we talked about my poster and I showed photos of Phillie and Mac, which was received with applause and shrieks of approval. We played "London Bridges", which consisted of a sheer red scarf attached to a wall, where the aides wheeled the children underneath, while I held the other end, and when the music stopped I was responsible for draping the scarf around them with a big hug and some tickles (melt my heart). It was a huge success! We continued with a game much like perfection, except one puts small plastic swords into the side of a barrel and hopes that the plastic pirate on top doesn't pop up and fly out. My speaking friend spent the whole game mimicking every thing I said in English, receiving great praise with every word. While the activities were ensuing, one teacher kept blowing up a whoopee cushion and putting under her bottom or another teachers or even lifting the kids out of their wheel chair and making them fart. Then everyone would laugh and say "Kusai", which means stinky in Japanese (of course I got in on it too!). When our time together was up, I received great hugs from my friends, cheers, and a return precession to my office. .,
What a day.
While I was in that class, I realized that the idea is not to hide these children away. The love the teachers had for these kids was clear. They spend more time with these children than parents. Some go to school 8 or 9 hours everyday. The point behind school, is to educate these children the best they can and help them to experience joy and love in their lives. They are not lined up in rows of 8 at desks all day feeling completely oppressed. Hmmmm.....
Does this answer my question about the societal role of challenged people in Japan. No. But it does give me a clearer insight on the value that these children have. They are truly amazing, their teachers know it, and the ones I met at least, are doing an amazing job at simply letting these children live and be loved.
I still carry around a piece of sadness in my heart, because I wish I could see them everyday, not because I feel sorry for their condition. My new friends have given me a memory and an impression that will last my whole life.
A few weeks ago I was instructed that I would be visiting a special needs school here in Aomori-shi roughly once a month. I was a bit intrigued by this since people who are mentally and/or physically challenged are not often seen here in Japan. Now I am not suggesting that they hide them under rocks, but in contrast to America or other parts of the world, it is not common to see a challenged person working in your community store. I am not very clear about the place challenged people have in societal Japan, and it wasn't looking good since my only experience was witnessing a mentally handicap man, who was trying to speak to a group of smokers in Tokyo, in which every person pretended that he didn't exist. And the same goes for schools. Children are not integrated here or mainstreamed. There is no range of variation. Anyone with a lisp to cerebral palsy goes to the same institution. No exceptions.
I recognize the potential tangent I could go off on here about the effects on a child's self-esteem, but I am going to save that one for small group discussion.
However, when regarding children, I don't believe the intention is to make them invisible, I think here, challenged people are the responsibility of the family unit, and therefore it is something that is handled internally. I am not doubting that they are loved very much by their families, but I don't know that society as a whole has a tolerance for their condition, or believes that they may harbour any individual power. There are a plethora of challenges all ranging from mild to severe, and people of all types can persevere. The difference is, in my experience, that the belief that one can diligently become a prince from a pauper is a western one. A similarity though, is the belief that people no matter what do have worth, and that no one is left behind.
"Ohana means family, no one gets left behind"
This is what I believe I witnessed today. It was my first visit to the special needs school. I was relaxed and eager for this visit, I have worked with many different groups of children. I arrived at the school to a find a very casual atmosphere where everyone greeted me with a smile. Parents were dropping of their students happily, kissing them good-bye. I met my cooperating teacher and Kyoto- sensei in the foyer and exchanged a very confident introduction in Japanese. I noticed that this school did not have many stairs and had a series of interconnected ramps that ran up and down floors. The windows were spilling in sunlight that reflected off the glossy pathways. We headed upstairs where I was introduced to my desk and the days itinerary. I was only supposed to be there for half a day in which I would be teaching one class with 3 elementary school students. To prepare, I was told to create a sign that included my name, country, and likes. I designed a bright yellow poster that showcased drawn images of myself, the earth with America ethnocentrically centered, and my dogs.
As I sat at my desk waiting for the next period I could hear students from down the corridors making distant sounds in efforts to communicate with someone. I watched children in wheel chairs, some with leg braces, and some lying on platforms covered in blankets be guided past my office. Teachers and aides sang cheerfully or spoke softly to the students. I must say it was a little sobering and I got caught in a brief moment of utter sadness. I had to remember that my purpose was to interact with these kids, not feel sorry for them.
At 10:35 a precession of two teachers and two tiny wheel chairs came to my desk requesting that I join them. Two little guys, age 7 and 8 years, waved their arms in joy at our meeting, smiling large grins, and making happy sounds. Both had cerebral palsy and various other challenges that I could not understand. I shook their hands and told them my name, and then we moved our parade onward. We came into a kindergarten type classroom with a large carpet on the floor, shelves of games and toys, and a chalk board with pictures of the children and their names. We gathered in a circle and sang a welcome song. I was surprised by my ability to speak with the teachers in Japanese and find all the right words to communicate with my new buddies in both languages. I began to show off my poster when another small boy, 6 years old, and paraplegic, entered with his aide. He looked at me and said in perfect English "Hello, nice to meet you". He joined our group and we talked about my poster and I showed photos of Phillie and Mac, which was received with applause and shrieks of approval. We played "London Bridges", which consisted of a sheer red scarf attached to a wall, where the aides wheeled the children underneath, while I held the other end, and when the music stopped I was responsible for draping the scarf around them with a big hug and some tickles (melt my heart). It was a huge success! We continued with a game much like perfection, except one puts small plastic swords into the side of a barrel and hopes that the plastic pirate on top doesn't pop up and fly out. My speaking friend spent the whole game mimicking every thing I said in English, receiving great praise with every word. While the activities were ensuing, one teacher kept blowing up a whoopee cushion and putting under her bottom or another teachers or even lifting the kids out of their wheel chair and making them fart. Then everyone would laugh and say "Kusai", which means stinky in Japanese (of course I got in on it too!). When our time together was up, I received great hugs from my friends, cheers, and a return precession to my office. .,
What a day.
While I was in that class, I realized that the idea is not to hide these children away. The love the teachers had for these kids was clear. They spend more time with these children than parents. Some go to school 8 or 9 hours everyday. The point behind school, is to educate these children the best they can and help them to experience joy and love in their lives. They are not lined up in rows of 8 at desks all day feeling completely oppressed. Hmmmm.....
Does this answer my question about the societal role of challenged people in Japan. No. But it does give me a clearer insight on the value that these children have. They are truly amazing, their teachers know it, and the ones I met at least, are doing an amazing job at simply letting these children live and be loved.
I still carry around a piece of sadness in my heart, because I wish I could see them everyday, not because I feel sorry for their condition. My new friends have given me a memory and an impression that will last my whole life.
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