etaindesigns

Applying to the Jet Programme is a lot like applying to college. One fills out a lengthy application with a due date in early December. If you are lucky you will get called to your local Japanese consulate in February for an interview. And if you are luckier still you will receive an acceptance letter in April telling you that you have a placement in Japan to teach as an Assistant Language Teacher.

2007 was the second time I had applied to the program and in April of that year I received my letter. My elation was tempered by my placement location: Okinawa Prefecture. My first reaction was WTF? I had read all the information online about how to be successful with one’s application. I had not asked to be placed in Tokyo, Osaka or Kyoto, like all the other applicants who therefore open themselves up to being put anywhere because basically there are few urban placements and most JET Programme participants work out their contracts in the inaka (countryside). I had even asked to be placed in Tohoku as my first choice, a region with few large cities except for Sendai, a rough equivalent of the Appalachias in the US. There were mountains, momiji (maple trees), and most importantly snow that would keep me comfortable. Okinawa had none of those things. And that was ignoring the large white elephant on the island, 12 US military installations and a total of roughly 45,000 US military personnel contractors and dependants. -Didn’t I say that I wanted to live in a foreign country?

I have been a pacifist since highschool. This was around the time of the first Gulf War. I couldn’t mentally de-tangle our country’s selfish reasons for going to war (cheap oil) from the idealistic propaganda spouted by our politicians. 9-11 has not changed my mind since then. It’s more likely strengthened it. And it bothered me that whatever positive impressions I hoped to make on the island, they were likely to be colored by pre-conceived notions of what Americans were or ought to be.

At some point my idealism had to give way to reality. I had asked for an urban placement. I had volunteered be placed somewhere I might have to drive a car to work. I had asked to teach high school rather than younger children. All these things had been given to me. I had spent 2 years working my butt off trying to get to Japan. I paid for and threw all my effort into Japanese classes and a TESOL course at a local college. When push came to shove, I had precious few practical economic reasons for refusing the Japanese government’s offer of a job. So, with a promise from my brother that he would come visit and get me off the island occasionally, I reluctantly departed New York City in the summer of 2007 for Okinawa City, Okinawa.

Like many new English teachers, I took over the apartment from my immediate predecessor, two blocks from a high concrete and wire fence that separates the Japanese municipality of Okinawa City from Kadena Air Base. I quickly learned that my knowledge of Japanese was a way to dispel the assumptions of the locals that because I was a caucasian foreigner, I was there because of some attachment to the US military. I threw myself into studying Japanese, making Japanese friends, and trying to forget that the fence was there. And I learned not to talk politics when I bumped into fellow Americans on the street.

            Some parts of my new life in Japan were unbelievably easy because of my placement location; my internet service provider specialized in helping US military personnel living off-base -they spoke English. My auto mechanic was an American expat -he spoke English and was reasonably honest, believing that if it ain’t in fact broke don’t fix it. He told me once to beat my uncooperative A/C fan into submission with my shoe until it really broke six weeks later in the sweltering depths of July -My father would have approved.

Other problems arose during my stay in Japan that were more difficult to solve. Some of them fell squarely on my head. Getting a Japanese driver’s license as my International driver’s permit was about to expire was an expensive and time consuming exercise I’d rather forget (there is no license transfer agreement between the US and Japan if you’re on a Japanese working-visa).

About once a year, a problem would arise peculiar to the situation of a foreigner living in a foreign country that I could not solve by myself with or without the assistance of my Japanese friends and co-workers. Or the self-derived solution would have involved serious inconvenience to my time, health or budget. In each case it was someone from the other side of that fence who came to my rescue. More often than not it was a military spouse, or in one case a teacher, who helped me out of my predicaments. I wish I could describe exactly how these folks helped me, but I understand at least in one case, possibly two they broke rules in doing so, therefore I must remain silent. None of these people who helped me were folks I had known well beforehand or even considered friends. And although I said my “thank you’s” at the time before I went on my way, I don’t think I really understood the level of my appreciation for this help until my fourth and final year in Okinawa when I knew I would be going “home”.

The Okinawans that surrounded me had a remarkable ability to separate their dislike of the US military presence on the island from their feelings towards Americans. Maybe they understand that their real beef is with the Japanese and American Governments who allow the situation with the bases to continue. Maybe it is partly a sense of helplessness or resignation to the status quo. What I do know is this: most Okinawans love Americans. I think more than they love the mainland Japanese who come down in the summer to play tourists.

As an example of this remarkable gift of tolerance, I can’t help thinking of my Japanese teacher, Izumi. She lives in the town of Chatan-cho, wedged in between Kadena Air base and the two halves of Camp Foster. She speaks fluent English and taught me conversational Japanese. She teaches a lot of Okinawans English and many more Americans Japanese. She commonly befriends her students and goes out with them socially to restaurants, karaoke. She took me and another American friend yukata (Japanese casual summer kimono) shopping when we both separately expressed an interest. How generous to start relationships with people who with rare exception are going to leave in a year or two or three? I think she keeps a Facebook presence just so she can keep track of all her friends who have left the island and are now overseas.

My personal return to America was sadly marked by illness, reverse culture shock and a strong desire not to leave this second home of mine. Most Americans, unless they have been to Japan, can’t pinpoint the islands of Okinawa on a map. I always feel they don’t understand why I didn’t want to come back. Oddly enough the people who do understand, who I share this sense of displaced geographic location with, 90% have some connection to the US military: The counselor in a State of Vermont office building who has a pair of shisa sitting on her desk. She knew the word and didn’t try to call them Chinese fu dogs or some such. They had been given to her by a friend in the armed forces. The retired military spouse I met at a convention who laughed hysterically when I recalled the pluses and minuses of salsa dancing with US Marines in Ginowan: the plus, not having to do the limbo in order to dance with a male partner, and minus being how bad the Marines’ pick-up lines were.

Some things don’t change; I’m still a pacifist and my heart is still with the protesters at the Henoko construction site. If I had to say something on behalf of the Okinawan people it would be the following:

If there is resentment, of past violence, of history shaped less by self-determination than victimization, there are far more friendly island smiles and “Mensore!” (Welcome).

If there is envy of wide green lawns, employment or economic opportunity, there is far more generosity, “Douzou,” (Help yourself).