Language Learning in Saitama Prefecture

Language Learning in Saitama Prefecture

There is a perpetual bustle in Tokyo. Shinjuku sits at its heart and is the gateway for all destinations North and West, channeling a relentless flow of people in and out of Japan’s magnificent capita city. Our new employer had received us at their head office in Shinjuku, wined and dined us amidst the skyscrapers, neon lights, and elegant restaurants. That year, they had had hired 4 Americans. Well three American — myself, Greg, Rick, and then Murat from Turkey who had just graduated at the University of Arkansas. I called my parents, gushing and telling them how lucky I was.

On Wednesday, the head of HR treated us to a special 38th-floor dinner. Between bites of marinated jellyfish, he mentioned, almost apologetically, “Tomorrow, we will take you to your work location. It’s a bit of a train ride.”

The next morning, his assistant herded us onto an early morning train on the JR Takasaki Line. It soon forked away from Tokyo’s famous Yamanote circle line, bound north. As we rattled away from the city, the buildings steadily shrank, to two and three floor structures, then to wooden houses, and to my dismay, to low slung metal sheds. Thirty train stations, and a shuttle bus ride later, we arrived at a nameless concrete dormitory flanked by rice fields and a gas station. “These are your new living quarters,” the assistant told us.

A short, stocky dorm manager who spoke no English greeted us. Despite a year of Japanese classes, I quickly realized I didn’t speak the language. Just: hello, thank you, and what time is it.

“Hello!” I said boldly.

“Welcome to the Kumagaya dormitory,” he replied.

“What time. Work?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning, 9am.”

”Thank you.” I bowed.

After unpacking my belongings in my microscopic room, I discovered the building’s TV lounge, where a group of Irish guys say in front of a screen flanked by drink vending machines.

“Have a beer,” one offered.

It was 2 PM. “Maybe later.”

“I’m Mike, this is Dave, from Cork Ireland. We’re new here, too.”

Survival Japanese

Hinting that having coworkers that couldn’t communicate wouldn’t be very useful, our new manager informed us we would immediately start half-day Japanese classes, Monday to Friday.

In class, the Irish playfully went along the teacher, while us Americans (having been taught we are number one at everything since birth), argued.

“Why does the Japanese language waste so much effort with standard and polite forms?’

”It’s a cultural difference.”

“Some of the hiragana letters look exactly the same. It doesn’t make sense!”

“Bunka chigai, it’s a cultural difference” our teacher would repeat, over and over. She didn’t explain, didn’t argue. There was something to be learned from her steadfastness in not engaging in debate.

Greg was the most American in his demeanor, and the one who took class least seriously. Sometimes he crossed the line into bullying our teacher. With his red hair, big arms, he reminded me of the people who had tormented me in high school. Later, after a bad experience, he would change to become one of the most respectful of the Japanese culture.

Back to language study. One of the difficulties with learning Japanese is the word order. It’s backwards from English.

Instead of saying “I ate an apple yesterday,” one says, “I yesterday an apple ate.”

There are also specific words to count almost every type of object. Like in English, we have 1 mouse or 2 mice. 1 person or 2 people.

A Number Story

One Monday morning, Eamon Donnelly had a question for our Japanese teacher.

“I think I may have said something stupid yesterday,” he said. “I went to Kumagaya train station and asked which train platform number goes to Tokyo”

“What did he reply?” the teacher asked.

“He looked at me strangely and said 54.”

“You got on a train at platform 54?”

“I looked all over and couldn't find it. It's a small station, there were only 4 platforms: 1,2,3,4.”

“I see. Repeat to me exactly what you said.”

Eamon said slowly, “Tokyo. Nan sai desu ka.”

“I see.” The teacher smiled. “You said Tokyo, and then asked the station conductor how old he was.”

We laughed wondering about what the station clerk must have thought to be asked his age by a stranger, who then turned around and rushed off.

And it made me realize, this language would take effort. Over the next couple months, I threw myself into classwork, manga comic books, conversations at shops, painstaking vocabulary memorization. Gradually, I pieced together enough to have a basic conversation, to even be able to watch television. I was proud.

My routine of work and study would be occasionally be interrupted by visits from Todd from our American branch, who would quickly become my friend. A salesman in Texas, he spoke no Japanese but visited our factory every few months to meet with the engineers. With his charm and cowboy swagger he was everyone’s favorite.

My coworkers would ask me why I wasn’t more like Todd. I would slowly learn fluent Japanese skills weren’t really what the Japanese were looking for in outsiders.

Beer and Chicken Karage with The Yakuza

Every Friday night after work, the Japanese would go home to their families, and we would venture out on a joint American-Irish mission into town to drink. Nearby Tomikura’s bar was run by Tomi, a Korean-Japanese proprietor who was especially friendly. The Asahi Draft was served ice-cold in 1 liter glasses. Perfect. As is the custom in Japan, we were served endless heaps of fried potatoes and chicken nuggets to go along with our beer.

Locals avoided us—in their small town, eight drunken foreigners weren’t ideal conversation partners. Even the female English teachers in the area (Brits and Americans) mostly kept their distance.

So we would drink late into the night looking for action. One night, after midnight, we stumbled into a new bar. A thin, older Japanese man approached.

“Yakuza,” he said, slashing a finger across his face. “Arm wrestle?” He grabbed my bicep and massaged it.

He wouldn’t take no for an answer. We put our elbows on a bar table. Him being feeble I quickly won, while politely pretending to struggle.

“Next, my friend!” He called over his friend. They were an odd couple. He was thin and frail, his friend was young and very muscular. His chest bulged out in his tight t-shirt like a Japanese Schwarzenegger. When he rolled up his sleeve, his bicep looked superhuman. With an unstoppable force, he pushed my arm down, not showing any sign of strain as I struggled.

“We are the yakuza,” the old man repeated again. “Let’s drink!”

We downed two more beers, while engaging in banter as antagonistic as the impromptu arm wrestling match. He didn't seem to like me at all. I decided to go home. Greg, our red-haired aggressive American, said he would stay, and drink with the real men of the town.

Looking at the young guy, built like a professional wrestler, who was giving me a weird salacious grin, I said. “Are you sure?”

“No problem., I’m American, they are Japanese, they can’t hurt me.”

Greg spent the next week in the local hospital, after having received the worst beating of his life. He couldn’t remember exactly how it all started. The police didn’t want to get involved. If a foreigner was drinking in a bar with the yakuza at 1 AM, they didn’t consider it their problem.

An Unexpected Plot Twist

We stopped going to other bars. We realized, we did stick out as the only foreigners in this rural industrial suburb, which concealed hidden threats. It was safe in Tomikura with its friendly proprietor on the main street next to the train station.

On a Friday night drinking session, Eamon walked in with a smile on his face. “Guess what?!” he said, as he sat down. ”I found a job in Tokyo.”

“A job in Tokyo. How is that possible?” I asked. Tokyo was where nightclubs were, other foreigners, the possibility of meeting women who might want to date a foreigner. We were all instantly jealous.

“Through a recruitment agent. And, they are looking for computer skills, and paying three times more than here.”

Within a year, we were all in Tokyo.

Young people draft plans, only to watch their lives unwind in squiggles toward unknowable goals.