Give Up the Ghost

Aside from attending my JTE's father's wake, there has been one other emotional ceremony here: graduation. And I'm not talking high school graduation when you're 18 and ready to get the hell out of your parents house and go to college. Japan makes a huge deal out of ALL graduations. I have a school with five children in it. One girl was graduating 6th grade and moving into junior high... upstairs. She had a 45 minute ceremony... Just. For. Her.

Don't mind the bitterness seeping out of my face. That's just the recollection of hours of sitting in the school gym watching the kids march around the stage, sing the same songs, and basically slaughter any sentiment that a graduation ceremony could have by practicing it to death.

Or, that's how I felt before.

When graduation day came, I couldn't have expected it to be the torrential wave of melancholy that it was. I thought: they've been practicing this for weeks; this won't be that emotional. Case in point: during rehearsal, when the graduating students turned to the students they would be leaving and sang an emotional song, I was almost outraged that they would practice it that way. REALLY? I thought. They're going to practice this emotional song the exact way it's going to be at the ceremony just because Japan is obsessed with formal ceremonies?! That takes ALL the feeling out of it! It's not going to mean anything come graduation!


Silly me. The younger students could hardly contain themselves the day of. Even more sadistic, they had to sing a song back to the graduating students, red-faced and blubbering. "Wasurenaide, sayounara to iou~"

Really, really sad. Way to drive it home, whoever picked that song.

If you don't already know, high school is not considered mandatory education in Japan. After middle school, you are free to become a fisherman without the country considering your parents child laborers. You'd probably be lost at sea when a fish three times your body weight pulled you into the water, but you could be a fisherman if you really wanted to.

Kids usually go away for high school, as Westerners go away for college. The underachievers in my village stay close to home, but hey, at least they're not doomed fishermen. One of my students was accepted into a university in Tokyo. Luckily, her grandmother lives there and can board her. Another of my students went to Aomori City and is living with a host family for the duration of her high school years. I asked her if she knew the people she would be living with. She said no; she had just met them a week before I asked-- about a month before graduation. Wow. Talk about a culture difference. Kids who don't have family in the area in which they want to attend high school or don't secure a host family live in school housing: dorms. Remember, we're talking about kids who just graduated middle school living away from home. But anyway, I digress...

Graduation was heart-wrenching. I'd only known the kids for 7 months (some of their teachers had known them for all three years), so I wasn't expecting anyone to really feel that broken up about saying goodbye to me. But could you blame me for being a little sad? I don't proclaim to be a great lover of children, but I do try to make the most of my time here in Japan. Well, as much as my ability permits. Sometimes I just don't have the right words to say. I think my kids understand that I like them though. Hopefully.

Back on topic, I couldn't believe how sad everyone was. Even the mayor's son, who's like the cool, young-ish, snarky teacher had his head bowed, tears plopping straight down to his chest from his eyes. He didn't look at a single kid as their procession finally filed out of the gym. It was a very humanizing scene, something I felt was extremely powerful and telling. I could honestly say I'd never experienced anything quite like graduation.

But the ceremony wasn't the end. After the marching, the songs, and the seemingly endless speeches, the mood shifted. Honestly, it was like suddenly the sun pierced the rainclouds and filtered into the school. The floor-to-wall length window in the assembly hall probably had something to do with it.

One by one, the graduating students walked down the stairs to great applause. Then, like the final scene of a movie, everyone sang a song. The crying had abated for now. Everyone sang and smiled. When the song was over, it was time for the students to go home. I stood awkwardly in the assembly hall as the kids said goodbye and hugged their favorite teachers. I actually almost cried. At that moment, I felt like a true outcast.  It was a profoundly poignant thought, that seven months of my life could have had no affect on anyone.

That's when Kazusa came up to me with a large, pink envelope. Inside was a decorated card with a picture of all of the students and a goodbye note from each of them. She looked at me with a thousand words split between her eyes and tongue. It's hard for middle schoolers to express themselves in English. I've been lucky that I speak the amount of Japanese that I do. I don't know how I'd connect with the kids otherwise sometimes. Kazusa gave me a big hug and thanked me sincerely. She started to cry, which made me cry, and we both cried and hugged each other until we were sufficiently certain that we were being silly. I told her good luck, that she was a wonderful student, and that I know for a fact that she is very smart. She told me that she didn't like English very much before I got there but that now she was going to really try. I haven't heard anything as rewarding since. She was the only one to write her goodbye note completely in English. It wasn't perfect, but from the student whose first words to me were, "I don't speak English," I considered it a mission accomplished. It is one of the most rewarding feelings I've ever experienced. She truly validated all seven months of my time there.

We drew nearer to the door. None of the boys came to say goodbye. They were out the door as fast as possible. Only a few stragglers remained. I was delighted that Kazusa had said goodbye to me, but my heart still ached a little that nobody else cared. And then Mizuho saw me. She was still in the genkan, putting on her shoes when she turned around and saw me standing there. It was another scene ripped straight off of a reel of film. She flung herself on me, tears renewed, sobbing onto my shoulder. I held her for at least five minutes, her alternating between looking at me and burying her eyes into my shirt. I'd never had that experience before, of a child heartbroken to leave me. Needless to say, I was emotional. I cupped her face and told her that I was so proud of her for getting into the high school she had wanted. I didn't want to say goodbye to her. Before graduation, I had handwritten all 14 of them goodbye letters (in Japanese) with an e-mail address with which they could reach me. I told them if they ever planned to go to America, had any questions about English, etc., they could always contact me.

I hope she hasn't lost it.

The sadness of parting fades as all sadness does. I still have great kids to teach even though the others are gone. What is really daunting is that since I re-contracted for another year, I have to attend ANOTHER graduation. I really don't know what to expect next year. I'll be saying goodbye to kids I'll have known for a year and a half. If that weren't enough, when I leave that July, I'll have to say goodbye to all four schools-- to children I've known for two years.

It's difficult to think about, but I keep telling myself that my life isn't here in Japan. It isn't in Aomori. But it's not as if I yearn to stay. The pull of familiarity tugs hard from both directions, but I need to go back to the US. I know my life is there; it's just that leaving a life I've worked hard to cultivate for two years will be no great joy. I know once I'm back in the States, however, I'll realize that everything is as it should be, and Sai can change someone else's life now.