Speeches, ad infinitum, ad naseum

Yesterday was the last day of work for 14 teachers and the principal at my base school, Ishinomaki Nishi high school. The principal is retiring and the teachers are moving to other schools. And in Japan, that means three things: ceremonies, speeches and drinking. The second aspect deserves special attention. The sheer number of speeches was astounding. Here's the breakdown, and keep in mind that I can't understand any of them and each speech was about 5 minutes long, on average:

1.) All 14 teachers gave one each and the principal gave two at a morning ceremony in the teachers' room.

2.) Again, all 14 teachers gave another speech, the principal gave two and the vice principal gave one at another morning ceremony in gym, which the students attended.

3.) And yet again, all 14 teachers, the principal and the vice principal spoke at a formal farewell party after work.

So: (14 x 3) + 2 + 2 + 1 + 1 + 1 for a grand total of 49 speeches.

Which equates to about 245 minutes, or over 4 hours of monologue that I couldn't understand.

I don't mean to be irreverent or cynical. I know it was an important event for the school and all these teachers; maybe it's because I couldn't hear the content of each individual speech, but I couldn't help but see the absurdity of 49 compulsory speeches in one day from the same 16 people, but, then again, I'm not Japanese.

Outsider

Sometimes I feel out of place here. Maybe it's because I've never been part of an ethnic minority, and, unlike in America, you cannot be a different race and be considered Japanese. In other words, any person from any heritage can potentially be American, but in Japan, if you're white or black you're automatically a gaijin*.

On a related note, I passed a Japanese midget the other day on my way to the train station and he looked at me like I was the strange one.

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*Gaijin is short for gaikokujin. But, the former literally means ''outsider'' and can be considered rude as opposed to the latter, which means ''foreigner.'' I have never been called gaikokujin.

Disclaimer: the above picture is not of said midget. This one's a Thai boxer. If ''midget'' isn't the current P.C. term, my apologies.

End of the Year Party, Part I

This blog should probably keep up with my experiences as they happen, but in direct defiance to that idea I'm going to recount something that happened over two and a half months ago. Perhaps these sorts of experiences can better be told with this kind of extended retrospect, or maybe that's just how I justify the journalistic laziness I've had with this blog lately. But, even with two and half months between now and Suisan's end of the year party I think this deserves to be told.

While holding a hastily gift-wrapped bottle of transcontinental barbecue sauce I sat in a car heading for a nearby town called Matsushima. Our final destination: a nice hotel with a view of Japan's self-proclaimed third most beautiful landscape: an inlet bay with hundreds of rock-walled islands; beautiful, no doubt; third most beautiful? doubtful. My secret Santa gift: one of about a dozen BBQ sauce bottles my parents sent me in attempt to show their love and provide me with the ability to recreate my dad's mouth-watering Texas barbecue. They love me, no doubt; me recreate Texas barbecue in Japan? doubtful.

In accordance with ever-important Japanese punctuality, we arrived early and left the car with the valet but, little did I know at the time, I left my crinkly bottle-shaped gift on the car seat. So after touring the lobby and chatting with other early comers I realized I forgot my gift. I told the teacher I came with and we tracked down the valet. It looked to be a busy night for him so he told us to wait in the lobby. So we stood near the front door inadvertently becoming the designated greeters for the party until the last guests arrived and made their way to the private room. So we waited in the lobby until every seat in the party hall was filled. And we waited...We waited until everyone was waiting on us. We could no longer be considered punctual, and in Japan, that's the shame of shames. As the minutes ticked by I could see the growing tension in the teacher's face and sensed frustration in the awkward silence.

I distracted myself by thinking about the journey that that little bottle of barbecue sauce made across the largest ocean in the world just to be wrapped in Pooh Bear themed paper and left on a car seat postponing the merriment of all the staff of Suisan Fisheries high school. That bottle was single-handily keeping over fifty Japanese adults from starting the most important faculty social event of the year. All the teachers would have to patiently wait for the arrival of that bottle before touching the food and drinks set out on the table in front of them. But, then again, that line of thinking was just my attempt to displace blame onto a bottle of hickory smoked goodness, and barbecue sauce can never be blamed for anything except of course for making meat delicious.

To be continued...