Saying "Sayonara" to my School

Though my time in Japan wrapped up over a month ago, there are still stories and experiences swirling around in my head that I was unable to put down in writing in my frantic final days. And honestly, since coming home, I haven't wanted to think about Japan too much just yet. But there are stories that I want to remember, and if I don't write them down, I'm afraid of them slowly fading into something barely recognizable.

One thing I still can't get over is how ceremonious the whole goodbye process is in Japan. It's draining when you're the one saying goodbye. But, as someone who likes things to come full circle, and who likes to be aware of transitions and "last" experiences, I appreciate the time that is devoted to these things. My final big goodbye, to my junior high school, especially stands out in this regard.

I remember when my students first found out I was leaving. It was sometime in June. I was eating lunch with a second-grade class (grade 8 in Canada), and the other teacher in the room came over to my table.

"Did you know that Katie sensei is going back to Canada this summer? She will be leaving Masuda," he said, conversationally.

The kids, at first, appeared nonplussed, or as if they hadn't understood. Then they began talking with each other in Japanese, and I realized they were trying to figure out how to respond when one of them asked the others, "how do you say "sad" in English??"

One of the girls looked at me for a long time. "Katie sensei...why? Why?"
I explained that I would be going back to school in the fall.
"Oh. Very sad."
More group discussion and translation ensued, before one of the boys said, slowly and carefully, "please, don't go."

Fast forward a month and a half. My final goodbye lessons came, and passed by just as swiftly. I don't usually get to lead entire class periods by myself, so it was great to get to do so, and to see the kids having fun while doing it. We played a Jeopardy-style Canadian quiz game, and I gave a talk encouraging them to learn about foreign cultures and to remember that every country is DIFFERENT from Japan and that DIFFERENCE is good -- though I'm not sure how much of it they understood. I even managed to play them a song on guitar -- I was worried that I would choke up, but somehow I managed to make it through. Several students came up to chat at the end of each class, asking more about what I would be doing in Canada or the Green Day song I had just played for them; some of them told me they would email me, and some of them did. And just like that, my classes were over, done, and finished.

But as I said, goodbyes are a big, drawn-out deal in Japan, so of course it wasn't all over just yet. The following week I wrapped up my elementary visits, and then it was time for the official last day of school and my goodbye ceremony. Time to drag my suit out of the closet for one last formal occasion, prepare a 3 minute speech in Japanese, and make sure I remembered when to bow and when to stand and sit. Fortunately, I did remember, and the speech even went okay. The students were shocked to hear so much Japanese come out of my mouth at once, and one of my speech contest students in turn gave a touching English speech to me, while others presented me with flowers and books filled with personal thank-you notes from every kid in the school.

I couldn't seem to get this picture up without it being sideways. Anyway, this boy wrote "good luck" on the back and that he's cheering for me :) "FIGHTO!!"

A whirl of formalities, and the ceremony was over. The rest of the day was spent playing sports and having fun, with students traipsing into the staff room throughout the day to hand me notes and pictures and handmade hair scrunchies.

A note from the two special needs students, in which Yasuhiko tells me that at first, he liked me "just a little", and asks me to please come and watch him play basketball in the All-Yokote tournament when he's in his final year.

After school the teachers met for my goodbye/end-of-term enkai (work party), and I had the most fun that I think I've ever had at an enkai in Japan. I had a chance to talk to almost every single one of the teachers, and didn't feel my usual awkwardness when it was officially time to mingle and move around the room. The teachers presented me with a yukata (a beautiful kimono-style robe worn to festivals in the summer), something I had always loved but never thought to purchase for myself. I even got to joke around with the principal, and had a lengthy discussion with the young school librarian about his favourite books, which eventually turned into him just listing English fictional characters -- "Gandalf! Bilbo Baggins!!!"

I was ready for this to be my final day at Masuda, to make the goodbye official. But I still had to go in one more time the following week, after a slew of days off to clean my apartment, pack, and move out. In the end, I'm glad I got to go back one last time, because it was magical. Truly magical. Get ready for a story of Disney-family-film proportions.

I spent the morning calmly cleaning my desk and chatting to teachers. Watarai sensei even taught me how to play a traditional Japanese card game. When it was time for me to leave, I got up slowly, not really sure what to do. I said a hesitant "well, I guess I'll be going" to one of my JTEs, and before I knew it, the entire staff room was on its feet. A few seconds later, and -- I have no idea how -- it seemed all the other teachers had trickled into the room from around the school. With everyone assembled in what seemed like some sort of prearranged spectacle (but which was really just a standard Japanese farewell procedure), the principal and vice principal came forward to say official bowing goodbyes. Eventually, after spending much time bowing and saying "sayonara" and looking around the room at everyone, there was nothing else to do but start toward the door. And everyone followed me.

This was the first time the emotions of it all began to hit me. I was walking down the hall, down the stairs and to the entryway, as I had at the end of the day for two years. Only this time I wouldn't be coming back. And every teacher in the school was behind me. Soon an announcement came over the intercom that Katie sensei was leaving the building. Once again, it took only seconds before the entire school was crammed into the tiny foyer to watch as I put my shoes on and struggled not to cry. Students filled the hall and all the way up the stairs. I was sure the tears were going to hit, when Watarai sensei started singing "It's Time to Say Goodbye" by Andrea Bocelli; then I just laughed. With one final unified chant, the students all thanked me - "arigatou gozaimashita!!!!!!" I lingered just long enough to soak up the moment, then walked outside.

All of the teams who were practicing halted their drills to stand side-by-side, bow, and say goodbye. "Thank you!" "See you!" "I love you!!!!" Just when I thought things couldn't be more picture-perfect, someone shouted my name from overhead. I looked up, and there were another four dozen students, leaning out of classroom windows all around the courtyard, smiling, waving, and calling my name. That image is burned into my mind, of the school building and all of those kids waving in the sun. I don't even think it was actually a sunny day, but my memory has made it sunny. The last group to say goodbye was the tennis team -- the genkiest all-girls club in the school. Ami came straight up to me and just stopped, forcing her face into a pout. "Very, very, very...sad!!!"

And then it was time to leave.

I'm gonna miss those kids.

Taiko farewell party: drumming and drinks

Goodbyes in Japan are serious business. Like a formal ritual, it is important that goodbyes are given the proper amount of time, care, pomp, and fanfare. The whole process took about a month from when it began, in the form of parties and ceremonies and gift-giving and remarks that I would be missed - "samishiiiiiii" (literally, "loneliness") was intoned over and over by co-workers, students and people I barely knew.

My first farewell event turned out to be one of my most special and cherished experiences of this wonderful and warm aspect of Japanese culture. For the past year and a half, I've spent almost every Friday night at a shed out in the rice fields practicing taiko, the art of traditional Japanese drumming. This has been one of my most memorable experiences in Japan, and I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to join the group. Myojin Daiko is made up of mostly elementary school kids, their moms, and three of us foreign girls. When they found out that Nikki and I were leaving, they insisted on throwing a party for us, one which was elaborately and carefully planned over several weeks. All we knew was that two of the teenagers in our group, Rina and Tasuku, were in charge of planning the whole thing - it was their special project.

When we arrived at the banquet hall that evening, I was surprised to see that nearly all of the children, mothers, and the rest of their families were in attendance. I hadn't felt that we had been such a big part of the group, but we were special enough to warrant a large gathering for them to all have a chance to say goodbye to us. Rina and Tasuku opened the night with a special performance, joined "spontaneously" by Masashi, one of the instructors. The grade five and six kids in the group read a speech to us, which Rina had cleverly translated into English. Nikki and I gave speeches ourselves, my first of many Japanese speeches in the weeks to come. Finally, our group played the piece we had been working on for most of the past year, and when it came time for an encore, all the kids and moms came up and we played some of the more traditional festival pieces.

During a particularly upbeat number, one of the little boys started dancing around at the front. A group of children gathered, and soon they were jumping everywhere. Everyone in the crowd got into it, and suddenly I noticed that even the banquet hall staff had joined in - one of the servers was banging away on the drums himself, quite skilfully I might add, tuxedo and all.

Food and drink was in abundance. At one point, Masashi made an announcement that Katie and Nikki should drink lots, so the kids were supposed to go to us and top up our beverages. A moment later, all of the children, from four years old to twelve, were lined up around us, awkwardly clutching beer bottles, filling our glasses to the brim before we even had time to sip what had just been poured for us. All the while offering words of thanks and goodbye. That's an experience I can't imagine having anywhere other than Japan.

The kids in the group are adorable. At some points during the meal, I really wanted nothing more than to put down my food and drink and run around the hall and play with them, making faces and silly noises as we so often did during breaks on Friday nights. The kids were all over the place that night. Every now and then I even spotted a fluttering of tablecloth and a little face peeking out from underneath.

Gifts were given - photos! flowers! drums! more than I had room for in my suitcase! - and that night wasn't the end of it. The following week Masashi and Yumi had a huge framed photo of our group to give me, and on our last day in Yokote, Yumi met us once more to give us t-shirts emblazoned with our group's name on the front. Gift-giving knows no bounds in Japan! Eventually, the evening wrapped up and the kids went home, but several of the adults moved on to the after-party - the nijikai. We spent another hour over food and drinks chatting in Japanese (with bits of English) about our home countries, Japanese festivals, and local Akita dialect. The whole event made me appreciate my taiko experience even more; I wish I could have had this kind of awareness before I was leaving, while I still had time left to enjoy more lessons with them. Although I felt like we hadn't made much of a impression on the group as a whole, their warm and thoughtful remembrance of us was enough to leave a definite impression on me.

On Generosity

The other day I had no classes in the afternoon, and was trying very hard not to fall asleep at my desk, struggling to think of ways to keep myself alert, when the science teacher came over and offered me a dish of homemade yogurt. This is the fourth time in about a week that he’s brought his homemade yogurt to share with the entire staffroom. Times like these I think about how lucky I am to be here and in such a warm, friendly school.

Japanese people are overwhelmingly generous and hospitable, in a way that’s so engrained that thoughtfulness doesn’t even get a second thought. Take the science teacher, for instance. I had barely spoken to him at school before I ran into him at a local arts festival. He came with his wife, who had been invited by a friend of mine, the leader of her English conversation group. We chatted for a bit, both surprised to see each other outside of the staff room. The following Monday, he came by my desk to say – rather, read; he had prepared what he wanted to say on a piece of paper – that he enjoyed the arts festival and my set with Anthony; he said we had very good singing voices. He then asked if I liked Japanese culture (of course!), and lent me a book about traditional Japanese things like rock gardens, paper fans and soba noodles, written in both English and Japanese. Awesome, right?? Later he gave me some photographs he had taken at the event, and he gave gifts to my mom and aunt when they visited. Now he regularly comes and asks “can I talk with you?” whenever he’s looking for a chance to practice his English.

Last time he came over to chat was the time he brought the yogurt. He then asked me if I liked movies. He told me he had recently watched a Johnny Depp film with his family, and then mentioned another Japanese film, wondering if I had heard of it. I wasn’t sure until he began explaining the premise of the comedy – a man from ancient Rome is somehow transported to Japan. “Oh! I saw a preview…” hm. Would he be familiar with the word “preview”? “Chotto matte” (wait a minute) – and he ran back to his desk. To fetch his dictionary, I assumed. Nope. He came back with his iPad, and before I knew it he was pulling up the trailer and hitting play and we were watching it in the middle of the staffroom. Students coming in and out to ask teachers questions, teachers bustling by, busy with photocopying and lesson prep no doubt. And here we are, watching a trailer that is primarily made up of comedic scenes of men in bathhouses. But every other teacher who stopped to look at what we were watching immediately said, “ah, Thermae Romae! Funny movie. You should see it.”

Instances of generosity don’t stop there. There was the time my school nurse kindly helped me fix up my busted lip (*snowboarding incident*), and didn’t even laugh TOO much at my ridiculous-looking face. There was the time my school invited not only me but my mom and aunt as well to join the second-graders on their school trip to Hiraizumi. Or the time an elementary school secretary gave me her fan because I commented that it was nice. I tried to refuse, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Lesson learned: be careful with your compliments? Now whenever I compliment someone on something they have I get worried that they’re going to turn around and give it to me. There was also the time someone from my English conversation group sent me home with a loaf of fresh bakery bread and homemade jam because I had remarked that I missed the bread from home. Or when that same lady asked for my aunt and my mom to stay overnight at her house, and then treated them to a private onsen visit the next day while I had to work. Or the woman in a Kamakura cafe who gave us paper cranes made my her mother and told us to enjoy Japan.

I could go on. But basically Japan is pretty freakin generous and I never feel like I can quite repay it.