My wife and an old friend were recently discussing via email what fluency is. (Bet you’re disappointed you weren’t cc’d on that exchange.) Their mutual conclusion was that you are never truly fluent in a non-native language. The more you learn the more you realize there is to learn. This may sound a bit like the glass is half empty, but consider these two scenarios from last week.
We get papers from the yochien nearly everyday telling us something we desperately need to know. Because of the dire importance of these announcements we call them the Yochien Life papers. Sensei places the Yochien Life paper in the predetermined location in our daughter’s school issued blue bag. This location as you may well imagine was explained in a Yochien Life paper. When we get home, her blue bag is emptied, with any Yochien Life papers being extracted from their designated holding spot and handedovert to me. The Yochien Life Paper is then placed in a safe place and is handed to my wife upon her entrance at the end of the day. She puts the Yochien Life Papers in her briefcase. She will take it to work the next day and in her spare time (HA!) translate it. And then she will come home and proudly say,
“Brian, I translated this, and I think it says….”
STOP! HOLD ON RIGHT THERE!
My wife: the attorney at law. My wife: Esquire. My wife: “I have been studying Japanese for 15 years and I want to go live and work in Japan to fulfill my lifelong dream.” This is the person that “thinks” this is what it “might” say?
Is this the same woman I married? Are you telling me this language can cause my wife to doubt herself?
(By the way, I have just crawled under a rock. This will serve two purposes. The first is that under a rock I will have no need to try to tackle this language, because it really, really frightens me. And secondly, being under a rock offers temporary protection from said wife once she reads this.)
Moving along:
“Brian I translated this today, and I think it means that we need to do something or, it could mean me need to something else.”
“Well, your Japanese is better than mine, why don’t you just tell me what to do. I will go do it. And then I will watch to see how hard people laugh after I do it. You know, when they think I am not looking anymore.”
This scenario literally happens at least twice a week with the Yochien Life papers. Being a foreigner in Japan, I am allowed to not know what is going on and do stupid things. If I do these things and am polite, I get a bonus point. If I appear to be trying to do the right thing and am polite, I get two bonus points. Fortunately I have grown comfortable going forth boldly in this life, making the frequent goof of myself, smiling and moving along.
There are the Yochien Life papers and then there are the yochien phone calls. One day last week I had just walked in the door, having been out longer than I had expected getting things for our trip up to Nagano. I had no more walked in the door than the phone rang. It was the yochien. It appeared that something was wrong, so pulling together all the Japanese I could muster, I told them to call my wife at work and gave them the number. (This is a classic example of, “I can read the piece of paper taped to the wall by the phone, but I don’t actually have any clue what it says.”)
I unpacked the stuff I had gotten and after five minutes still had not gotten a call. This meant:
A. They had gotten hold of my wife and she had taken care of whatever the problem was, or
B. They had gotten hold of Omura and she had taken care of whatever the problem was, or
C. They had gotten one of the secretaries who think they know how put people through to voice mail, but really don’t, subsequently leaving you in bad classical Muzak limbo.
Unable to wait any longer, I called, and ended up in “C:” bad classical Muzak limbo. I usually count to ten and then hang up, but around eight, my wife picked up, “I am on the line with the yochien.”
“I told them to call you. It sounded like something was wrong.”
“They want to know if Samantha can go to a funeral today.”
(Hi, I’m just sitting here waiting for you to re-read the last line a few times. Let me know when you are ready and I will continue.)
“I think that’s what they said. I am really not sure. I have Omura on the phone with them now. I will let you know when I understand.”
(You ever get the idea when you are reading these that Omura might be a Nobel Peace Prize winner in Quantum Mechanics? I can’t believe she doesn’t work as a negotiator for Prime Minister Koizumi. I mean is she amazing or what?)
History lesson: Hatsune yochien, the pre-school our daughter attends, was started by the grandfather of the current head of curriculum/assistant head master, and father-in-law of the current Head Mistress. It was with these two lovely people that we initially interviewed (with Omura there to help) when looking for a pre-school. Sadly it turns out that the wife of the founder of the school had passed away. We had seen this lady at the Opening Ceremony. When I worked in the hospital we would have described her as “frail.” She walks, talks, and has her routine, but is just one bad bug away from having it all collapse. I mean watching her up front at the opening ceremony had made me feel sorrier for her than the kids screaming for their moms.
Anyway, she had passed. There was to be a wake that evening at six. The funeral was the next day. They were calling all of the parents to let them know and to get an idea of how many would be coming.
My wife left work early so we could go to what was in essence a wake. We went, we saw, we were seen, we left. My wife though was somewhat upset; but not about the funeral. While understanding during the phone conversation that someone had died and there was to be a funeral, she had no idea what this meant regarding custom or practice, and specifically what we were to do or why they would have “invited” our daughter.
The world of speaking and not understanding runs both ways mind you. While Omura was on the phone, the secretary admitted that she had called because she was under the impression that my wife spoke Japanese. According to the report I received later, this comment sent Omura deep into Polite Mode (this will have to be a future Tale) and deep into Protector Mode. I would have paid money to have witnessed this, even though I would not have understood the words. Omura politely ripped into this poor unsuspecting secretary telling her that my wife DID speak Japanese, but didn’t understand the cultural implications of the invitation to the funeral. Omura apparently went on to further ask the secretary if she would know what to do if she was invited to a funeral in another country – there was apparently no response. So Omura having politely dissected this young lady, hung up, and then took off and folded her superhero protector cape.
Changing gears, Omura went into Super Helper mode and explained what needed to be done. They immediately left work and went to the envelope store to get a Funeral envelope. Back at the office, Omura-san gave instructions on how much money was to go into the funeral envelope; told her how to wrinkle it and how to put it in the envelope (it is rude to use new bills for a funeral; rude to use wrinkled bills for a wedding – to be put in a wedding envelope). While out, Omura had also assisted in the purchase of the right kind of brush to buy to use when writting the proper message (also supplied by Omura) in her neatest script on the proper part of the envelope. Omura then explained what would happen, what we should wear, what we should do and what we should say.
(Shouldn’t Omura be a university professor? Is there no end to the woman’s intellect and skill? Does Kofi Annan need an assistant?)
Things weren’t exactly like Omura had described. Omura was expecting your typical small Buddhist temple wake, like we often see in the neighborhood (there are three small temples between our house and the closest metro station.) There is usually a small black tent. People go to the open faced tent, hand the death envelope to the person in the chair and then go to view the body. People stand around looking sad for a short time and then leave.
When we got to the yochien, which shares a compound with a Buddhist temple, promptly at six as we had been told, there were three black open faced tents set up on the paved compound that lies between the yochien and the temple. All of the teachers, aids, and secretaries had volunteered (been volunteered?) to serve as the people sitting in the tent. They sat behind tables, two rows deep. In Japan, when you go to a wake, you literally “pay” your respects. The first line of teachers were receiving the envelopes and recording everyone’s name. When they got a pile of envelopes they would pass the pile back to the second row of tables. They would open the envelope; record the name and the amount of money.
As I mentioned, there were three tents. Depending on how you knew the person determined which line you stood in. We were in the yochien line; there was a temple line, a community line, a quilting bee line, etc. There were substantial lines for these tents. We waited. We “paid” our respects. We were going to see the body, but the line wound around the compound (not to be crude, but kind of like waiting in line at an amusement park) out the gate, and down the street for a little more than a block.
It was getting late, so when we went out the gate, casually crossed the street and went home; leaving the sound of chanting monks being piped through Bose speakers behind us.
So we know what to do the next time we get invited to a funeral.
Now, if we could just translate this week’s yochien paper….
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