Six Syllables

In Japan, everyone says “Itadakimasu” before each meal. It's an unquestioned tradition. There are many such rituals in Japan: the aisatsu greetings for good morning and good night, bowing to superiors, the proper way to use chopsticks, that go back so far in Japanese history, people can’t imagine it being any other way.

Everyone except for our son Kenji. He likes to make his own rules and has long ago decided uttering six syllables before eating is an inefficient waste of everyone's time.

In kindergarten, his teachers said, “He refuses to say Itadakimasu. He must be shy.”

In primary school, the teachers said, “He’s the only one who doesn’t follow along.” Then, with something between curiosity and sympathy in their voice, they would ask, “Are there problems at home?” 

We didn’t understand how one word would signal problems at home, and we shook our heads.

Kenji is now In middle school, and we’ve been called into yet another teacher-parent meeting.

Mrs. Takeuchi, wearing glasses, sits in front of us with the calm demeanor of one who enforces rules onto unwilling subjects. “Kenji’s uncooperative behavior is simply unacceptable,” she says.

“It’s just a word, it’s really not a big deal.”

She stares us down with a look that says our objection isn’t clever enough to qualify for an answer.

“He does everything else he needs to. Doesn't he?” 

“It’s disruptive.” She taps her finger on her desk. She takes a deep breath, and gets around to saying what she has prepared for us. “We have a special counselor that visits the school to deal with oppositional students. But you’ll need to pay for her lessons. They’re 12,000 yen [$100] an hour”

“Do we have a choice?”

“I’ll contact Ms Ueno,” she replies, and then signals the meeting is over.

That night, as we eat dinner, we can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous this issue over one word is. After we’ve finished eating and said the customary “Nice Meal” (there’s a set phrase for that too), we can’t contain ourselves.

“Why don’t you say itadakimasu?” we ask him.

“Because I’ve never said it.”

“You can just say it. ‘itadakimasu! Itadakimasu!'' we both say, mocking him. The blood rushes to our faces and we want to shake him until he agrees with us. “It's just a word, do you hear us?!”

His face turns red. He says nothing.

A week later, we drive to school to pick him up from the after-school counseling. we need to say thank you to the counselor. In Japan, it's usual to show appreciation to anyone who’s doing a service, whether paid or unpaid. If it was free, we’d have to bring a box of cookies or something similar.

Ms Ueno, young and optimistic looking, says, “It’s the first session. We’re just getting to know each other.” A hint of strain creeps into her expression.

“How did it go?”

“That’s private.”

“Can’t you tell us anything?”

“Counselor privacy.”

We say thank you and bow, and we get into our family Honda in the parking lot.

“How was the counseling session?” 

“She asked why I don’t say ‘itadakimasu’ and I just said I don’t want to.”

He just said the word now. But it’s no use pointing it out. He’ll just dig in further.

“Anything else?”

“She tried to get me to talk about other things, but I didn’t say anything. I know she’s trying to trick me into talking about not saying the word.”

We’ve paid 12,000 yen for him to say nothing for an hour. 

The sessions continue. The same result every week. After a month, a message comes back from Mrs. Takeuchi. “Ms Ueno says she's not making progress and doesn’t think it makes sense to continue the sessions.”

Kenji is stubborn. The sessions must have taken a toll on Ms Ueno’s confidence in her own ability to effect change.

Ms Ueno doesn’t know what to do, Mrs. Takeuchi doesn't know what to do, and now we don’t know what to do.

“Ok, you win,” we say to Kenji. “We give up.”

No one talks about it again for months. Feeling how angry we have been about it, it feels safer to skirt around the topic to keep the peace. We hold the issue firmly out of our minds.

Japanese New Year, O-Shoogatsu, is a time for meeting distant family members and spending time together eating, drinking, and possibly visiting a Shinto shrine. In the old days, every establishment in the country, outside shrines, would shut down. One would need to prepare three days of food in advance for the celebration. It’s not quite like that these days.

We invite all our relatives to come over. With apprehension, we invite Aunt Misako. To an outside observer, she might appear to be a free spirit, Bohemian minded, fun, but to a family member who's received telephone calls at 3am and knows her medical history, she suffers from schizophrenia. When she’s on medication, she’s manageable. We try to find out if she is, but we can’t find the right way to ask politely without upsetting her.

Misako arrives on the afternoon of Jan 1st. The first thing we notice is she’s wearing a tight-fitting dress and black lace stockings. More an outfit for a nightclub or a hostess bar than a family event. 

She says thanks to us for inviting her, and then quickly turns her attention to Kenji.

“Kenji! I haven’t seen you in a year.”

She grabs a chunk of his belly with her hand, as if she’s going to tear it off. Kenji jumps. 

“You are a strong little man now.” 

He smiles politely. He looks too scared to try to escape. Misako will surely pursue.

“I’d like you to teach me some of your computer games,” she says. “Which ones are good these days?”

“Elden Ring is the best”, Kenji says.

“Will you show me how to play it?”

Misako spends the next two hours playing games with Kenj, and ignores the adult conversation. Perhaps she feels more comfortable with children than with adults. Children don’t judge her.

As we listen from the other room, we hear bits of their conversation.

“I heard about the itadakimasu problem from your parents,” she says, and cackles with laughter. “That’s a good one!” 

“Really?” Kenji looks surprised that an adult is taking his side.

“Yeah! Screw those teachers and their rules,” she says. “Now, let’s play your next game and see if I like it.”

Kenji loads a different game.

“Kenji, one thing I learned is,” she says, while rapidly pushing buttons on the game controller, “sometimes changing yourself 5%—you are still 95% you—can make things easier.”

We watch her say this in her wild clothing, and wonder which 5% of herself she changed to fit in.

When they end the level of the game they’re playing, she stops him. “I need to have a cigarette. I’ll be back later, kid.” 

After her cigarette, she has built up the courage to talk to the adults. After drinking a few glasses of Shochu vodka, she begins telling wildly inappropriate sex jokes. She can be entertaining. But, after an event like this, we’re sure to get 3am phone calls accusing us of all sorts of conspiracies against her.

That night, the phone calls don’t arrive. She must be in a good mood.

Time passes. Three months later, we take Kenji to a weekend sports festival. At lunch, he sits with ten of his classmates. After they open the lids of their lunch boxes, one of the boys says, “itadakasmu” and in unison, everyone joins the chorus. I see Kenji’s lips move and appear to say the six syllables.

On the drive home, we discuss the day.

“We saw you say itadakimasu. We don’t know how you did it, but good work!”

“Every time I say itadakimasu, I give them the middle finger under the table, it balances out me doing something I don't want to.”

We think about this new form of inappropriate behavior. It isn’t exactly what we were aiming for. But the other students would see him cooperating. This is an improvement, isn’t it?

We feel proud he’s worked it out by himself. He’s developed his own ritual.

We wonder how many adults give their employers the middle finger when they walk into the office at 8am, and then do a full day's work. It's probably more than a few.