A word about chopsticks

Now, obviously, any sensible person can tell you that two little wooden sticks are not the cutting edge (see what I did there?) of dining technology. They are insufficient for the tasks of eating soups, or of cutting anything, much less stabbing tiny individual peas. The peas just end up squashed. So, to combat this inefficiency, the Japanese have taken to approximating the table manners of a wild dog. It is not uncommon to see someone pick a bowl of rice, put the edge of it directly on his lips, and literally shovel food, like some sort of two-sticked backhoe, directly down his throat. A person might also pick up a bowl of soup and simply slurp it directly, without the intervention of any hand-held eating apparatus. This, of course, is accompanied by a constant slurp, which is considered the polite way to enjoy everything from soups to noodles. This audible courtesy, while admirable, given the trend towards decadence in this modern world, gives the strong impression, when sitting amongst a group of Japanese diners, of a dozen janitors unclogging a dozen toilets with a dozen old plungers. Amongst them, even I seem to be a bastion of civilized eating behavior, holding strong against the slurpy, stick-waving hordes. But, amongst all this strange behavior, I have noticed one more thing missing from the Japanese table setting: napkins. The Japanese, apparently, and I have yet to witness it, do not spill food. Ever. For eating like wild dogs, they are very clean and fastidious wild dogs, the kind who would wipe their paws on the mat before coming into the house. This lack has been a source of some consternation for me, since, being a little less than completely adept with chopsticks, I have a tendency to drop, spill, and spray, especially with noodles. And when, in those rare circumstance when someone does knock over a glass or something, the manner of remedy is neither a dishrag, nor a paper towel, but your common tissue. Needless to say, lacking adequate quilting, I find these measures sorely ineffective.

About schools

I have two middle schools that I teach at here in Shiiba. The first is the "large" on, Shiiba Chugakkou ("chugakkou" is Japanese for "middle school") and the second is the small one, Matsuo Chugakkou. On my first day at Shiiba, I was given the tour by the vice principal, who's name I've never learned, but that's alright, I can just call him Kyoto Sensei, which is Japanese for "vice principal". He's a very, very short man, bald, with only four fingers on his right hand. I don't know what happened to his pinky, and I haven't the courage to mention it. Shaking hands with him is a lot like shaking hands with a ninja turtle. Still, he's a quality gentleman, and he speaks excellent English, which has been of great help.

On the first day at Shiiba, we had a welcome back ceremony. The students had just gotten back from summer break, so, of course, there must be a ceremony. A start of term ceremony at my school consists of a great deal of speech-making. First, I had to get up and say a little something, but I'm afraid I broke all sorts of rules of etiquette. You see, when going on stage to give a speech, the correct thing to do is to stand, walk in front of the principal and vice principal, and give a little bow. Then, ascend the staircase up to the stage, and as you reach the stage, bow to the Japanese flag hanging at the rear of the stage. Then approach the podium, give a bow to the assembled audience, then speak. When you've finished speaking, you bow again, walk to the stairs, turn back, bow to the Japanese flag once more, descend the stairs, present yourself before the principal and vice principal and bow again, before returning to your seat. The problem is, I spoke first, being the new guy, and had no benefited from any examples. So when I simply vaulted up onto the stage, without having the good etiquette even to bow while I did it, I elicited not a few gasps and giggles from the student body.

I'd be more concerned of their opinions if I weren't so vain and self-absorbed. Also, if the student body weren't such a bunch of nerdy, goody two-shoes. (I've never had occasion to write "goody two-shoes" before. What the hell does that even mean?") One student from each of the three grades spoke to the assembly, and, thanks to the vice-principals helpful translations, I heard a few discouraging remarks. One student professed his desire to not let his extra-curriculars interfere with his studies this year, while another decided it was important to tell his fellow classmates about his plan to be more inquisitive in class, and ask the teacher for help when he was confused. The third year student, which is the oldest class, talked at length about her plans to prepare for her high-school entrance exams. Needless to say, I was a bit dismayed, since I have no idea what to do with thoughtful, motivated, disciplined students. I hadn't prepared lessons, after all, just jokes. If this is indicative of the state of Japan's youth as a whole, I worry for them.

Following these contrite, sycophantic little suck-ups, a couple of the teachers took the stage to address the students. I will not bore you with the same cliches you heard a million times when you were in school, but there were some strange departures from what I remember being told when I was that age. For instance, one teacher gave quite an involved talk about the importance of dental hygiene, which included the consequences of neglect, ranging from bad teeth, obviously, to increasing the risk of communicable, infectious disease. But he happily advised them on the correct manner in which to brush, the length of an adequate tooth-brushing session, and vivid imaginary demonstrations on the best way to hold the floss in order to get those hard to reach teeth in the back. I can only imagine the lasting impression it will make on these children, when they're thirty-five, endlessly brushing in order to stem a typhoid infection.