Ellen Ehrnrooth: Dance

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I initially started out this semester with the intention of volunteering at an NGO so I could improve my formal Japanese skills – something I felt like I was lacking, both in terms of my ability to use it and identify when to use it. I settled on an NGO that a previous KCJS student had had a fantastic semester with, and I was excited to take on the challenge. However, I quickly realized that I did not have the time to contribute meaningfully to the work they did – I felt quite strongly that I was causing them some trouble by being there as a foreigner with questionable Japanese skills. Although my time there was brief, I still learned a lot – I found it really interesting how the keigo dynamics worked in regard to me as a foreigner, and I was called Ellen-san instead of Ehrnrooth-san – then again, I do have possibly the most difficult-to-pronounce-in-any-language name conceivable.

After I came to the decision to switch CIPs, my mind wondered about what was best to do. I had had a less-than-ideal experience at my CIP last semester, which was taking dance lessons. However, I am the world’s most enthusiastic dancer (albeit a not particularly skilled one), and I realized that it was worth giving it another try. Last semester I mostly took K-pop dance classes, which may have been the cause the lack of a community feeling – the majority of the people in the classes were high schoolers and were there with their friends, and it was hard to relate to them in many ways. For that reason, I decided to take classes at a couple different studios with a wider demographic of students this semester, and the styles I’ve focused on have been waacking (a style born out of 1970s Los Angeles LGBT clubs) and hip hop – and I am happy to report they have been a success compared to last semester.

In a sense, it has been a very multi-lingual experience. First of all, the number of random English words that are a part of the vocabulary dancers use continues to surprise me. Both waacking and hip hop find their roots in the U.S., so it makes sense that the technical vocabulary would travel over – but some of the words used have very obvious Japanese counterparts, so the usage of the English words feels kind of unusual.

Not that I am complaining; it does make understanding the instructions much easier, especially when they are combined with the onomatopoeic sounds the instructors sometimes use to describe movements. This has been a challenge, albeit an amusing one. I am really bad at remembering the meaning of Japanese onomatopoeia, and often get it wrong when trying to explain things in conversation, to the amusement of my Japanese friends. However, the power of guesswork can go far, and usually I am able to figure out pretty quickly what I’m being told to do. The times when I don’t, however, are pretty obvious.

Those times of confusion were communicated pretty instantly with my facial expressions, which actually ended up being to my benefit. I think I emote visually a lot, which means the teachers would come over quite often to help me out as it was immediately obvious when I was confused. This was an interesting parallel to my classmates, who tended to just try and focus on drilling the mistakes on their own until they fix them. The different routes we took to get to a place of understanding has been an interesting thing to observe.

Lastly, dance to me is a language in itself – so even when I had some difficulty understanding what was happening around me, when everyone performs the choreography together, there is a sense of mutual understanding. This common understanding went far, and I felt much more welcomed in my classes this semester compared to the last. The teachers took an active interest in asking about me and introducing me to the class, and the students followed suit, with me exchanging contact info with some of them. I think taking classes in more niche styles (waacking and style hip hop fall into that category) helps – people who have niche interests, in my opinion, tend to mostly be happy to find other people who have those same interests, even if there is something like a language barrier that can get in the way of communication.

The studios I attended most often can be found here and here.

Jeanine Bell: Volunteering at Klexon English Conversation Circle

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For my CIP, I joined Klexon, an English second language learning group as a volunteer. I’ll admit that things went about as I expected at first — non-native English speakers were very nervous to start talking, but were interested in knowing why I came to Japan. As the weeks rolled by, we moved on from basic self introduction topics, and I got to know some of the people rather well. Some of the things that I hadn’t really realized before coming to Japan were some of the simplest daily tasks. A lot of the people I talked to mentioned going to the grocery store on an almost daily basis (whereas I typically would go once a week). Also karaoke boxes are super popular, but that seems to be the only place people will really cut loose to sing. I’ve gotten a few strange looks for mentioning how my friends and I will burst into song while walking down the street. One of my Japanese friends said that it was more of an issue with being embarrassed than being polite.

Aside from being a little surprised at some of the more reserved attitudes and lifestyles people adhered to, some things felt very much the same. As always, the easiest thing to talk about is food, and no matter who it is or where they’re from, they have something to say about food. On top of that, outside of Klexon’s usual meetings, I’ve come to realize that all kinds of people are capable of drinking a little too much, and either way the sober people feel a little bit responsible for them. Fortunately, the people I was with, no matter how inebriated, were always pleasantly polite and considerate. Either way, I’m glad I got to talk to people in different environments and settings and learn about the differences and similarities we all carry.

Gina Goosby: Volunteering at Kyoto Korean School

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This semester, I set out intending to continue volunteering at Bazaar Cafe. However, when I was approved to conduct research at a local Korean school, I figured it would be an excellent opportunity to try a new CIP. With the help of a Doshisha student, I arranged to lead some of their middle school English classes. Being a foreigner and a complete novice at Korean (this school requires students to speak only Korean while on campus), I was worried that I would be eyed with suspicion or even flat-out rejected. But when I arrived, the students and faculty greeted me warmly — students would wave and say “Hello” when they saw me, as did teachers. Classes centered around speaking: class began with a Q&A where the students and I took turns asking simple questions. Then, I guided students in reading aloud from their textbooks or gave a short speech and quizzed them on the content. We ended each class by learning and singing a song.

I think I learned more about Korean culture than Japanese culture during my CIP, but I imagine there are some overlaps in the culture of Japanese and Korean schools. Little things, like the fact that students greet teachers in the hallway or that everyone knows at least three Disney songs, did not surprise me. What did surprise me was that at this particular school, teachers and students interact almost casually: outside of class time, teachers seemed more like older cousins, especially to the high school students.

I had expected a rigid barrier of formality between teachers and students. I think the difference stems from the school’s importance beyond education in just history or math — Korean schools are one of the pillars of the Korean minority community in Japan. At school, students are treated as young members of the community, which in my experience is a bit like a large family. Even though I am not exactly a member of this “family,” the friendly atmosphere helped me feel at ease.

If you are good with middle schoolers and speak Korean and English — or simply have an interest in Koreans in Japan — I highly recommend this CIP. The teachers I spoke to expressed interest in having more native English-speaking volunteers. Who knows, you may even get a feature in the nationwide Korean school magazine like I did!

Mars Peredo: Manga Kyoushitsu and Warabe-uta Baby Massage

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My two CIPs were drawing comics at Studio Miura’s Manga Classroom and helping my host mom run her local nursery rhyme and baby massage class. Despite some struggles to communicate, both became highly valuable experiences.

The manga class was a quiet and relaxed gathering of generally younger people working on their comics or illustrations with occasional advice from the teachers present and also snacks. I thought it would be lessons rather than this sort of gathering, and since I knew no art terms in Japanese or what I wanted to get out of it, I struggled for several weeks drawing and communicating inefficiently. I learned to keep a little list of art terms I heard with me for reference, and practiced mustering the courage to ask questions or to repeat things I didn’t understand. It took a long time for me to settle in, but I learned useful ideas on Japanese panel layout etc. for my manga about noh (but with rabbits instead of humans). I want to improve at trying to ask questions.

For baby massage class, my main job was to sing the English translations of Japanese nursery songs while the mothers followed along and massaged their babies. Apparently Warabe-uta Baby Massage is not so common; combining nursery songs with massage (to promote the baby’s physical health and connection with the parent) is a recent concept. The class was made up of a few younger moms and their babies in a very casual setting: although my host mom sometimes used polite language when giving instructions, everyone generally spoke in casual language as peers, including newcomers. (There was a somewhat similar mix of codes in the manga class, so that I was never sure how to speak, as I was no master of politeness.) I started with mild polite language and slipped into casual (usually accidentally). The classroom was a place for the moms to not just interact with their babies, but also consult my host mom, a chiropractor and mother of a two-year-old, as well as chat together. I was surprised that the atmosphere was so casual, and in turn warm, homely, and open.

The “foreigner” and mixed race population in Japan is said to be increasing, and I got to witness this through a friendly mom, whose husband she said was Canadian, and their baby, whose skin, the moms remarked brightly to my surprise, was “definitely white.” The mom cheerfully started a conversation with me to practice her English and ask where I was from.

I also learned about the heteronormative gender dynamics in the group. First, there were no men in the class. It’s not that men can’t do baby massage –my host mom instructed that fathers could participate too– it seems that it’s just not common, just as mothers are still expected nurse children while the father works (yet my host mom holds multiple part-time jobs besides her husband’s). In addition, the strong female presence was felt when my rather quiet host dad suddenly came in and exited the room of already familiar mothers. Lastly, I saw how heterosexual norms can be imposed on infants: a lively baby boy was paying particular attention to me (perceived female by the moms) and a baby girl, so my host mom remarked that he was being “lovey-dovey” (rabu rabu), even though babies can’t have conscious thoughts. This was in contrast to how my host mom said that my toddler host sister was being “friendly” with or liked me.

In my CIPs, I learned about making efforts to communicate, and witnessed the fluidity of mild politeness and casualness as well as developments and gender norms in the family through casual classroom-like gatherings

Me and the mothers massaging the kids (and a baby doll)

John Miller Karate Circle at Kyoto University

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This semester I continued attending my CIP from last semester, which was a Karate circle at Kyoto university. It is rather informal group, where attendance is not strictly required. However there is a core group of about six students who regularly attend both two hour sessions each week. After a month break, it was great to be able to reconnect with reconnect with friends I had made last semester.

There were several foreign exchange students from other countries, including France, Germany and China. This made the circle approximately half Japanese and half foreign. While this did sometimes weaken the initiative to speak Japanese, there were plenty of opportunities to speak to the Japanese members. I great opportunity I had was serving almost as an interpreter between  my German friend Henrik, who does not speak Japanese well and the Kyoto University students who do not speak English well.

Continuing with the same CIP into the second semester was advantageous in my opinion because I was able to deepen relationships I had made the previous semester. Last semester, I did not spend much time outside of the dojo with the other members, however this year, we went on several outings together, including hiking Mt Atago and going to izakayas. I had a number of memorable conversations with my friend Henrik during those trips. He told me several fascinating stories of his great grandfather who was an officer in the German army during WWII. We were then able to ask Japanese students about their perceptions of the war and how the war is viewed differently between Germany, Japan and the United States.

Another aspect of Japanese culture I was able to observe was the importance of gift giving. The club president made cookies for all the members on Valentine’s Day, which was very nice. Last week, we wrote special appreciation messages for those who graduated in March after several years in the circle.  

 

Kevin Woolsey: Noh Translation

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For my CIP this semester I translated scripts of Noh plays under the supervision of Professor Diego Pellecchia, who taught the Noh portion of the class on Japanese performing arts at KCJS this semester. His team is creating a website which will serve as a reliable source of information on traditional Japanese performing arts for both English and Japanese speaking audiences.

Noh is a form of classical theater which generally took shape in the late 14th century and flourished under patronage of the warrior class. There are more than 200 plays still performed today, with the scripts generally written from the 14th to 16th centuries. As a result, the Japanese found in the scripts is quite different from modern Japanese; in fact, even at the time of writing the style had already become a classical written form. On top of that, the language of the scripts becomes very poetic at points, using rhetoric techniques found in waka poetry as well as citing poems themselves.

Naturally, this presents many challenges when trying to translate Noh scripts into English. Perhaps the most notoriously difficult to translate poetic technique is the kakekotoba, which are basically puns. One example which can actually work in English is matsu, which can mean a “pine” tree or to “pine” for someone, as in to wait for a loved one’s return. However, such convenient cases are rare, leaving one with two choices: come up with something clever, or just give up trying to translate it.

The following is an example from the play 猩々 (Shōjō):

飲めども変はらぬ秋の夜の盃 / nome domo kawaranu aki no yo no sakazuki (Drinking will not change this autumn night’s sake cup reflects the moon’s)

影も傾く入江に枯れ立つ / kage mo katabuku irie ni kare tatsu (light setting upon the inlet he stands among the withering reeds,)

足元はよろよろと…… / ashi moto wa yoroyoro to (legs wobbling,)

 

The kakekotoba in the first line is within 盃 (sakazuki): as a whole it means a sake cup, but the last two syllables serve as a kakekotoba for 月 (tsuki), the moon. This allows two readings for the first line: 飲めども変はらぬ秋の夜の盃 (an autumn night’s sake cup which does not change upon drinking = the sake never runs out) and 月影も傾く入江 (moon setting above the inlet). In other words, there are effectively two sentences, with the end of the first and beginning of the second overlapping in the sound zuki. I tried to reflect this in the translation, stringing two sentences together into one around the word “cup”.

Another kakekotoba can be found in the third line, with ashi meaning both “reed plant” and “leg”. The end of the second and beginning of the third line can be read either 枯れ立つ芦 (withering standing reed plants) or 立つ足 (standing legs). I tried to reflect both meanings naturally with the phrase “he stands among the withering reeds”.

It is impossible to fully recreate the experience of reading the original through translation, but it is possible to convey some sense of the techniques present in the text beyond the surface meaning.

I am glad to have had this opportunity to not only practice my translation skills but also contribute to a project which will be a valuable resource when released.

Dylan Atencio: La Carriere Cooking School

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For my Community Involvement Program, I participated in La Carriere Cooking School, located in downtown Kyoto. The school is geared toward Kyoto locals, and separated into men’s and women’s classes. As a member, I was able to learn many methods of cooking–particularly focusing on Japanese cuisine. Many of the other men tended to be middle-aged and older, sometimes there to learn how to cook for themselves, and sometimes there to be more involved in the kitchen with their family.

My first several times were rather a bit of a struggle language-wise. Though I have a decent grasp of understanding conversational Japanese, I did not know most of the food-oriented vocabulary (I did not even know the word for “pepper” before going in). However, over time and with help from the instructors, I became much more comfortable using the terminology and was much better able to follow the recipes as a result. One of the most interesting things I noticed was that when we made Japanese food, it was a necessity that I follow the recipe exactly, and the instructors would sometimes get flustered if I deviated. When it came to European-style food, however, the atmosphere felt much more relaxed, and I was allowed to experiment more freely. As well, the only instructor that seemed okay with me trying to tweak the recipe as I pleased was the only one who had worked outside of Japan.

While cooking, I was able to converse with the chefs and other students, and as my cooking terminology grew, my ability to have more fluent and nuanced conversations about the food increased too. Of course, I did have the more interesting conversations with the younger men–partly because we had more in common, and partly because it seemed that the older men were much more focused on keeping their head down and understanding and perfecting the recipe. For instance, I often was able to talk with others about cultural and linguistic differences between Japan and western countries. Cooking in a Japanese kitchen was a very different experience from the kitchens that I was used to, in that it was much more regimented and focused on aesthetic detail. However, I am glad to have had this opportunity.

Heather Heimbach: Doshisha Figure Skating Club

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I participated in the Doshisha Figure Skating Club. Last semester I participated in a circle, but since most circles are on break during the spring semester, I decided to join a sports team instead, since many of them continue to have practice through the university break.

About once a week there would be a morning practice from 6:30 to 8:30 am where the club rents out the ice for only club members. Most members would go to this morning practice as well as several afternoon practice sessions throughout the week. I went to the morning practice as well as practicing in the afternoon, usually on Mondays and Thursdays since I did not have class on those days. The practices were usually held at Kyoto Aquarena, or the rink in Hyogo.

At the ice arena, everyone warmed up individually. Before practice, the person in charge for the day would call a team meeting. I never figured out who had what position of leadership in the club, except for the Captain, who usually wasn’t there. Someone would then announce the schedule of the practice, which was usually divided into compulsory figures for 15 minutes, skating drills for 20 minutes or so, and then individual people running their programs while the rest of the skaters are free to practice jumps and spins.

However, oftentimes advanced skaters usually ignored this order (listed above) and did whatever they wanted. At the end of practice, everyone had to clean up the ice by filling the holes. I never did this in America. Again, oftentimes advanced skaters ignored this and continued practicing and no one had a problem with it. When leaving, everyone would say otsukaresamadesu, do a head bow and walk out.

Some people stayed at the arena to continue practicing and other people had part-time job at the rink. I usually had to leave because of class. I didn’t really hang out with anyone outside of practice at the rink.

One of the most interesting things was that while the team had strong senpai-kouhai relationships and was pretty traditional in terms of having rules and status quo, rather than age, skating ability was the most important factor in the club hierarchy. Advanced skaters acted as leaders, leading drills and correcting the beginner skaters, regardless of age.

Sometimes there was a coach who would come to offer advise. Everyone was told to greet the coach and listen. However, some advanced skaters did not, but again, no one stopped them. The coach mainly worked with the beginner skaters.

There were several rules that mandated public apologies if they were broken. By that I mean, at the team meeting held after the practice ended, the member who broke the rule might have to apologize to the whole team for being a bother (meiwaku). For instance, being late to practice (if you are a beginner), forgetting duties (if you have them–I didn’t), not going to the team “meeting” before and after practice.

Having to go to the team meeting was annoying because sometimes people wouldn’t be done putting on their skates, or one boot would be on and the other untied, but everyone had like 5 seconds to get there, so people would have to run over or limp over in socks or with only one shoe on. And usually the meeting wasn’t anything important.

One of the girls was always late and she would skate around and apologize to every single person. I never understood why this was necessary, since the “team” practice is actually mostly people practicing individually, just at the same time.

When I started going to more practice sessions throughout the week, I got to know the members a lot more. Also, I think when they saw that I was showing up regularly and that I actually like skating a lot, we were able to easily build a connection off of that. A lot of the members work at the rink or go every day to practice. I got to know the people who often went to practice, and the people who went on the same days as me.

I really enjoyed joining this skating team. Because it is something that I would do even in America, I think I was able to feel very natural joining the team in Kyoto. Going to international exchange events in order to make Japanese friends always felt forced to me, but the skating team–because everyone is not there to make gaijin friends but to skate– made me actually feel included in a community. Everyone spoke to me in Japanese.

Joining a sports team can be difficult since you can’t really participate in everything they are doing (like multi-day training retreats, traveling to matches, etc.) but it is a great experience. However, I don’t recommend joining a sport you haven’t done before.

Rebecca N. Clark, Iaidô (Spring Semester)

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I hate stage fright —the way it feels like there’s a riot of dancing mad butterflies in your stomach and a jackhammer where your heart should be; the distinctive itch along the nape of your neck as you imagine all eyes on you; the fear of overhearing whispers commenting on what you did, or did not, do to mess up. Unsurprisingly, it’s scarier when you don’t fully understand what people are saying, when every whisper you hear could just as likely be about you as someone else if only you could understand the language enough to tell the difference.

During the month of training leading up to my first competition in iaidô —Japanese sword-drawing— I couldn’t keep these thoughts out of my head. They kept creeping up on me, pouncing right when I would reach for the hilt of my sword, turning a smooth draw into a stuttering, stumbling flail of limbs and blunted steel. My senseis at the dojo probably noticed it, the way I shied from being in the front row of any in-dojo demonstration or the look of terror that I never managed to hide fast enough when they asked me to perform solo to demo a new technique. One day, as we put the finishing touches on our routines the Sunday before competition, we held a mock competition. As each flight stepped up and ran through the four kata (routines) we had to perform, each person called out their number and the name of our dojo’s style, musoujikiden eishinryuu. When my turn came, I took a breath and started to speak, gripping my sword, sheathed at my left hip, like a lifeline. I made it through the number, but then the name of the style came.

“Musoj— Musokide —Musokiden enryuu,” I finally stuttered out, face probably as pink as my practice kimono. It was embarrassing, to say the least, that I messed up something as simple as our style’s name, but we had to keep the mock competition going. After a quick correction from the head sensei, N-sensei, my flight and I completed out set and soon the mock competition was over.

The dojo’s de facto mother figure, H-sensei, had of course been watching, and when we split off into belt groups she took over teaching mine and started by having me practice saying our introductions. I could do it if I went slow, but it sounded odd coming after the confident declarations of my belt-mates. Rather than letting me apologize, she waved her hand in that affectionately dismissive way few can pull off and turned to all of us. With a clap of her hands she declared,

“We’re all your nakama. And so we’re going to help you.”

Then she turned to the native Japanese speakers and had them all say their introductions again, but this time at a steady and slow pace that I could match. I was stunned at hearing her declare us all to be nakama —friends who share a close bound and look out for the well-being of each other and the group— and felt myself wanting to cry at the sincerity and acceptance with which she said that and at the grins the other students immediately sent my way.

We all sounded the same when H-sensei was done with us, and as she went off to talk with another student, I apologized again to the other students, feeling bad for inconveniencing them. They just chuckled, and K-san, a feisty young woman the same age as me, replied with her trademark smirk,

“Isshou ni ganbarou!” (We’ll do this together!)

Then the call for us to lineup and ceremonially remove our swords for the final time as practice ended went out and we all scrambled for our places. I smiled through the whole thing.

When competition day came, I was nervous, but not nearly as much as I would have been if I didn’t know I had my dojo-mates and senseis, my nakama, standing beside me and supporting me. My flight went up, and we all said our introductions, my own fitting in right alongside theirs, even if the American accent I can never seem to shake fully was still there. It was over in a flash and we walked off the stage together, laughing with the aftereffects of nerves and congratulating each other on a job well done as our senseis smiled in approval.

In the end, I didn’t place, but I still consider the memory of that experience alongside the men and women who count me —and I them— as their nakama to be one of my dearest from my time here. Moreover, I learned first-hand about the importance of teamwork in Japanese group mentality and how that translates into experiences such as my own, where the members of a group look out for the well-being of both each other and the group as a whole. Though this is not a quality unique to Japanese culture and society, it is one for which my experience here in Japan, interacting with the Japanese, has been all the richer.

Evan Scardino: Tenrikyō

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This semester I have been conducting research on the Japanese new religious organization called Tenrikyō. In tandem with this research, as my CIP I have been attending services, meals, and monthly festivals hosted at the Heian Nishi Bunkyōkai in my neighborhood. I have been acquainted with the family that runs the church, the Ōshita family, since last year and they have been immensely helpful to me in my study of both their faith and Japanese culture as a whole.

Usually what this entails for me is watching the Ōshita family perform the service, eating a meal with them, and helping with tidying up the church room after the service, putting away chairs and offerings and such. The most helpful part in terms of my Japanese learning is without doubt the conversations shared over meals.

At the monthly festivals, the entire community of this church gathers, and I’ve had the chance to meet and talk with a large number of people, the overwhelming majority of whom are middle aged or elderly. This has provided me with a chance to observe dynamics of an older generation which I have less of a chance to interact with in my schooling. Their tendency towards self-deprecating humor is much stronger than that of the college students I have met, and an even greater tendency to discuss the weather at length at the start of any social interaction. They also speak Kyōto dialect, rarely heard in my generation.

The elderly exclusively use Kyōto dialect. Perhaps in their youth standard Japanese was not as widely taught or enforced. While the middle-aged people seem to be most comfortable speaking Kyōto dialect, they don’t lead with it. When I first came to the church, the middle-aged people would use standard Japanese, but as time went on, either they became more confident in my Japanese ability or I became a more recognized face in the community and they as well started using Kyōto dialect when speaking to me.

Kyōto dialect is somewhat distinct from the more widely known Kansai dialect. When I expressed interest in learning about Kyoto dialect, the brother of the head priest, Norio, was happy to oblige. He taught me the phrases “Samū oman na!” and “Atsū oman na!” used to express that today is particularly cold or hot, respectively.

I tried these phrases out on my college-age friends, and the ones who weren’t Kyōto natives didn’t understand at all. Even the ones who were from Kyōto, while they could understand, said they didn’t know how to speak much Kyōto dialect themselves. But at the next church meeting, I tried out my newfound words on some of the elderly people, and they seemed overjoyed at my efforts.

This story demonstrates a more unfortunate aspect of modern Japanese society: dialect is disappearing. In my Japanese class, we read several articles about the disappearance of dialect as standard Japanese becomes ever more, pun intended, standard.

I’m sure the people of the church were happy to have someone interested in this aspect of their culture, as only interest in the dialect will keep knowledge of it alive. One of the people whose words we read, an entertainer by the name of Ina Kappei, said that people who speak dialect need to be proud of it, and that pride, in the face of whatever derision they may face for speaking it, is the key to keeping it alive. Aside from the occasional joke about how hard it is to understand, the people of Heian Nishi seem to have pride in their unique way of speaking.

My experience with the people of Heian Nishi has been wonderful. I’ve been amazed time and time again by their kindness, and they have taught me so much. The opportunity I had to explore often overlooked aspects of Japanese society, such as dialect and new religions has been welcome, and the crossover with my classwork that dialect has provided has also been fascinating. I’m proud to say that with the support of this community I am “bocchi bocchi ni shiteiru” in my endeavors to understand Japanese culture and language.