Learning to Bow

by Bruce Feiler

  “This is Mimura-sensei. He teaches science.

  “Mogi-shid. He is a student adviser.

  “Nanmoku-kach. He is the section head.”

  At first glance all the desks in this formation appeared equal, like beds in a hospital ward, but a closer look revealed a subtle order. Younger people sat at the bottom of each line, seniors higher along, and the section chief alone at the end. As a worker advanced along this route, he was allowed to keep more paper on his desk, more cushions on his chair, and perhaps even a pair of slippers underneath. In this office, one desk stood out. It was placed in the center of the room, separate and unequal from the rest, and its chair was draped in a sheepskin rug. Above the desk a lone sign dangled from a fluorescent light. It read, simply, shoch: Director.

  “Welcome to our office,” said Kato-sensei, now tucked into a blue polyester suit and looking less fat than he had in the bath. “Please have a seat.” He gestured toward a brown vinyl sofa and two easy chairs that were grouped together in front of his desk. Arai-san went dashing across the hall to a small kitchen and returned with two cups of tea and a basket of crackers, which she set on the knee-high coffee table between the sofa and the chairs.

  “Can you eat Japanese crackers?” she asked. “They are made of Japanese rice.”

  I assured her that I could.

  “Ahhhh,” she said, nodding her head up and down and resting her finger on her chin. “That’s amazing.”

  Kato-sensei and I chatted for a while. He asked about my new apartment and offered to buy me a rice cooker. Then he started to explain my duties. This would be my home office, he said, but after the start of the fall term the following week, I would come here only on Wednesdays and visit schools on all other days. Most of the time I would be teaching at Sano Junior High, although I would have to make short visits to many of the other schools in the area. Unlike Japanese teachers, I would have Saturdays off. “If you have a problem,” he said, “you can talk with Mr. Manager, Mr. Personnel Director, or Mr. Section Chief. They will be glad to help you.”

  In addition to reading desks in Japan, one must also be deft at hearing titles. All the men in the office were former teachers and were thus entitled to have the word sensei, teacher, attached to their names. But in this office, sensei was just the minimum. Mr. C was also a shid, adviser; Nanmoku was a kach, chief. When they addressed one another, the teachers dropped their names and used titles instead: “Mr. Section Chief, telephone for you.”

  Even the titles for the two secretaries showed rank. The older woman, Arai, earned the term san, and the younger only chan, a diminutive term used mostly for children and unmarried girls. Like the difference between a shi and a machi, the difference between a san and a chan is part of a cultural code that maintains order and assures that hierarchy is preserved.

  For most of my first days in Sano, I participated in introductions of this kind, known formally as aisatsu. In less than five days I was introduced to all the other government workers in my building, the mayor, the head librarian, the director of the Public Health Department, the manager of the train station, and—to cover all bets—the chief of police. At the end of my first week, Mr. C decided I was ready to meet my most important protector, the principal of my school.

  Sano Junior High School occupies a small plot of land on the west side of the city, at the foot of a large span of rice fields leading into the mountains of central Tochigi. Although the school was founded just after the Second World War, the building itself is new, standing three stories tall, with the same whitewashed stucco as the government office building across town. The front of the school faces an open parking lot and a covered courtyard where students leave their bicycles, and the back of the school overlooks an enclosed dirt field, bordered by two soccer goals, a swimming pool, and a gymnasium. With its thick walls, lack of landscaping, and concrete, sterile air, the building looked to me more like a prison than a schoolhouse.

  Once we were inside, Mr. C led me into a big, open room where several dozen people were working. Reading the desks, he quickly discerned the most prominent person in the room and asked him if the principal was in his office. Within seconds a large, broad-shouldered man dressed in a light gray suit, white shirt, and dark blue tie shuffled out to meet us. His face was square, with a flat, tense smile and thick black-rimmed glasses. His glistening gray hair had been stretched taut with a comb and matted to his head with a brand of hair tonic that smelled like distilled vinegar. Mr. C apologized for the inconvenience, bowed, and asked for permission to perform an introduction. Without objection, the principal excused himself before his colleagues and announced that a formal greeting was in order. All those at their desks dutifully rose and pulled on their coats from the backs of their chairs.

  With everyone in place, the principal addressed the office and introduced the go-between, Mr. C. We bowed. The go-between then introduced the guest of honor. Again a bow. I then introduced myself. Another bow, this time deeper. Finally the principal thanked all of us for our consideration, and life returned to normal. We bowed a final time.

  At this point we were shuffled into the host’s receiving room and invited to partake in a customary snack. The principal’s room was spacious and carpeted but had the same gray metal desk and brown vinyl furniture as every other office I had visited.

  “Please sit anywhere,” he said to me.

  When I first began my round of visits I accepted offers like this at face value and sat in any seat. After a while, however, Mr. C pulled me aside and told me that I should not sit just anywhere but should confine myself to the couch. The easy chairs are for the host, he said, and the couch is for the guests.

  “Hajimemashite,” the principal said. “We are meeting for the first time. My name is Sakamoto.” He held his business card with two hands above his head and bowed until both his head and the card dipped below his waist. I rose to accept his offering and bowed deeply in return.

  “I am the principal of this school,” he said. “Do you see those pictures on the wall?” He pointed to a series of tinted black and white photographs that hung against one of the paneled walls. “There have been twelve principals before me in the forty-year history of this school. You are the first foreign teacher ever to come here. We are honored to have you with us.”

  Soon an office lady appeared with three cups of green tea, three lacquer saucers, and a plate of sponge cakes, which were stuffed with purple bean paste, wrapped in plastic, taped, and placed in a box with a ribbon. For several minutes no one acknowledged the tea; then the principal gestured and said, “Please,” and we partook with a short apology and an expression of thanks.

  As the guest, I remained quiet through most of these meetings while the go-between spoke on my behalf. But this host was eager to speak with me.

  “I hear you come from Georgia,” he said to me. “I like Gone With the Wind very much.”

  Mr. C nodded and looked at me in surprise. He hadn’t known that this movie took place in my home state, he said.

  “Do you know what that is?” the principal asked, pointing to a small flowerpot on the floor. A bare trunk stuck out of the dirt and several naked branches protruded from the side.

  I told him I didn’t know.

  “It’s a cotton bush!” he cried. “Just like you have in Georgia.”

  “I didn’t know cotton grows in Japan,” I said.

  “It doesn’t,” he said. “We don’t have the right soil. Plus we don’t have any slaves…” He paused as if to consider his next line. Then slowly a smile crept across his face. “All we have is our wives.” The two men laughed uproariously at this comment: Mr. C, a wiry little pug with a chipper laugh; and Sakamoto-sensei, a Great Dane with a sturdy bass guffaw.

  I assured them we didn’t have slaves anymore either, but they didn’t seem to listen. After a moment Mr. C jumped up from the sofa and pulled me up beside him.

  “You see, Mr. Bruce, I’m sure Mr. Principal will take good care of you. He already knows you
r heart.”

  Aisatsu greeting ceremonies like this occurred in school and in my office no fewer than eight times in the course of a normal day—and more during busy seasons. That meant eight times a day everyone must rise and bow to the guest. Eight trays of tea that must be made, served, drunk, retrieved, and cleaned. Eight plates of sponge cakes stuffed with bean paste, fancy rice crackers, cookies, or plastic containers of jelly that must be eaten. It didn’t seem to matter what was said in these meetings. Their purpose was to establish the unofficial paths along which tacit deals and arrangements are made. As I was making my way around Sano, drinking tea and bowing to strangers, I was creating lines along which I could later walk, if need be. In Australia, the Aborigines called such paths “songlines.” In Japan, they are called ningen-kankei, the web of human relations.

  “Japanese culture runs on ningen-kankei,” Mr. C explained to me after our visits were done. “We Japanese like to work with people we know. Japan has one race, so we never had strong laws. The laws of human relations are our laws.”

  My initiation into Japanese laws was swift. Early in my stay, I developed the habit of speeding through town on my bicycle with some abandon. Darting in and out of streets, at times I startled local children, and at other times a storekeeper flagged me down in order to ask one of those questions—“What are doghouses like in America?” If during one of these journeys I happened to come to a red light, and if the hour was late and the roads were empty, I would ride through that red light and continue on my way. That was my own law, but the law of human relations worked differently.

  Sure enough, some citizen in town eventually witnessed my showing such wanton disrespect for the law, and she telephoned my office to express her disapproval. Like an insect flying unaware through the woods, I had been trapped in a web. As a distinguished foreign teacher at the Board of Education, I had gained special access to many people in town; thus I could hardly expect to excuse myself from various rules because they didn’t suit my needs.

  “You are a teacher,” Mr. C explained as he pulled me aside one day to explain that red means stop in Japan and green means go. “During school or after school you are always a teacher. You must obey the rules.”

  This was the primary lesson for a new teacher in Japan: the closer you get to the songlines, the stronger the pull of the web.

  3

  LEARNING THE WAY: THE FIRST DAY IN SCHOOL

  Students should be taught to maintain order in their environment, make effective use of time and space, lead regulated lives, and, at the same time, understand the significance of manners and etiquette, and be able to act in any situation.

  —Course of Study for Secondary Schools in Japan

  A SWEET POTATO SALESMAN reeled past my window at 7:15 in the morning, drawing me out of sleep with his winding refrain about roasted potatoes and his calls to everyone within earshot of his portable grill to have a bright and cheerful day. Yakii-imo. Oishii-imo. Soon the pad of students’ feet filled the street below and bicycles clanked past on their way to school. At precisely 8:00 the doorbell rang.

  “Are you Mr. Bruce?” asked the slightly stooped man at the door as he straightened his tie and eased his hand over his flat-top gray crew cut. “My name is Fuji from Sano Junior High. I am here to take you to school.”

  Downstairs, Mr. Fuji hurried to hold open the back door of his car like a nervous boy on his first date. I demurred with a slight bow and moved toward the front seat.

  “If it’s okay with Mr. Bruce, tomorrow you can ride your bicycle, but today I will show you the way. I hope you can fit into the car. It’s very small, I know.”

  The engine screeched as Mr. Fuji tried to push the gearshift into place. He giggled slightly, then gave it one last slap. The car lurched forward with a yelp.

  “I guess my car doesn’t like foreigners,” he said. “Please put on your seat belt.”

  We followed the chain of children down the main street of Sano and within several minutes could see the high black fence that surrounded the grounds of the school. As we approached, I noticed several dozen students standing in line along the side of the road. They stood quietly in the grass, waited for a car to drive past, and then, as if pulled by a giant rubber band, bowed together at the waist and screamed at the top of their lungs, “Ohay gozaimasu! Good morning!”

  “What are those students doing?” I asked Mr. Fuji.

  “They’re practicing their morning greeting,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “But they’re junior high school students. Haven’t they learned how to say good morning?”

  “Of course they have. But it’s the fall term now, so many of them may have forgotten how over summer vacation. They have to practice again to make their greetings bright and lively. This is the best way to learn.”

  The school year in Japan, like the business year, begins in April—an old custom that links the opening of the year to the flowering of the cherry blossoms in spring. The first term extends through July, the second term from late August through December, and the third term from January to mid-March. The longest break in the schedule is the three-week vacation in late summer, which many older teachers insist allows their students to forget what they know.

  At the door of the school Mr. Fuji dropped his shoes into a small locker and pulled out a pair of white padded bedroom slippers. He gestured for me to follow and offered me a pair of green plastic guest slippers, which pinched my toes and left almost two inches of my heel dragging on the ground. Feeling a bit foolish with green slippers and my first-day-on-the-job blue blazer and red tie, I made a mental note to bring my own indoor shoes tomorrow. At least they were black.

  Mr. Fuji ushered me into the teachers’ room—the large office where I had performed my formal greeting the previous week—and down a long row of desks to an empty place at the end. “This is Hamano-sensei” Mr. Fuji said as we arrived. “Please sit next to him. He will take care of you.”

  After Mr. Fuji disappeared, the young teacher turned toward me, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hello, I am a freshman English teacher. My name is Kenzo Hamano, but you can call me Denver.”

  “Denver?” I asked as we shook hands.

  “Yes, Denver. I once met an American in my university days. He said I looked like John Denver, so that became my nickname.”

  “Does everybody call you Denver?”

  “Oh no, John Denver is not very famous in Japan. But that doesn’t matter. You can call me Denver anyway.”

  Denver had the same rounded glasses and straight sweep of the hair as his famous namesake. He was slightly short by Japanese standards, but dressed smartly in gray flannel pants, a black blazer, and a pale green Polo tie. His slippers were blue with a slightly raised heel to give him a little more stature.

  “By the way,” he said, “do you like to sing?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because my students like music and they want to hear your voice.”

  Around the room other teachers scurried to prepare for the opening bell at 8:30 A.M. A total of thirty-eight teachers worked in this one room, and as in my office at the Board of Education, the desks were grouped together by assignment—all the homeroom teachers for one grade together, the four administrators perpendicular to the others in front. The teachers, ranging in age from twenty-five to sixty, chatted excitedly as they rummaged through their desks and skidded around the room in their slippers, most of them followed by small bands of students tugging at their coattails and asking questions rapidly. “sensei, sensei, what was the homework for today?” “What books do we need for class?” Every few minutes the principal emerged from his office to make an announcement, the photocopy machine started sneezing, or the telephone rang, sending another teacher scuttering across the tile floor.

  “Excuse me,” said a woman, tapping me on the shoulder. “I hear you like green tea. I made some for you to enjoy.”

  Mrs. Negishi, as she introduced herself, was a pudgy woman in her late thirties with round w
hite cheeks and black curly hair. As she talked, she bounced up and down on her pink terry-cloth slippers.

  “I went to California last year,” she said happily. “I visited Disneyland and Hollywood. I brought back pictures for my students. They are very anxious to learn about America from you. By the way, have you been to London? They want to know about that, too.”

  The opening bell sounded, and the teachers hurried out the door until the only ones left in the big room were Mrs. Negishi, Mr. Fuji, Denver, and I.

  “We are going to have a meeting,” Mrs. Negishi said. “We hope that you will join us.”

  Mr. Fuji, the head of the English department, conducted the opening meeting in Japanese. He explained that in my first week I would visit eighteen classes, host the English conversation club, and make model speaking tapes. When I was not teaching, I would make plans for my upcoming classes. Each of the three teachers was responsible for the English classes for one grade. Denver taught the seventh grade, Mr. Fuji the eighth, and Mrs. Negishi the ninth. In addition, each was responsible for a homeroom class.

  “My class won the volleyball tournament last summer,” Mrs. Negishi interjected. “They are the best in the school.”

  “As you know,” Mr. Fuji continued, “our goal is to teach ‘Living English.’ ” This term was invented by the Japanese government to describe the communication skills it wanted all students to learn. But after announcing this policy with great fanfare, the government realized that most of its teachers did not have these skills. As a result, the Ministry of Education decided to invite native speakers of English into the schools to add new “life” to the language. Under this plan, the foreign teachers would work alongside Japanese teachers in an arrangement the government termed “Team Teaching.” In our meeting, everyone agreed that Living English was important and that Team Teaching was the way to achieve it. But once we left the office and stepped in front of the students, we learned quickly what the government did not know: teaching is an awkward team sport.