In June, I spent 15 wonderful days in Japan. I was head chaperone of a group of 46 fifth grade students who had completed their sixth year in a partial immersion Japanese program.
The work that led up to the trip was daunting. Raising that much money was stressful on our class community. The complex logistics made tremendous demands on the trip planning committee (of which I was a member). We ran face first into a bus capacity issue which meant cutting a chaperone. As the head chaperone, I was the heavy. And it was a miserable position to be in.
Using all of my diplomatic skills, I worked with all of the parties and made the call. And immediately cutting a chaperone, I received a uniquely ill-timed withdrawal, followed by another withdrawal in protest of the decision to cut a chaperone (even though our hands were tied).
On the last day of my first year of teaching, I took my son, Jack, to the doctor with a sore stomach and emerged 14 hours later from an emergency appendectomy. He would, of course, miss the flight. (A wonderful family friend brought him a week later.)
I tell you all of this to let you know how high the debit ledger had risen on this trip. It needed to be an amazing trip.
And it was.
...
You join the trip now on about day 12. We are in Kobe.
After a partial day at the host school, I did not realize we were on a marathon trajectory. The parents in my host family took us to a Denny's-like restaurant under the shadow of the Kobe freeway. I had a surprisingly good yakisoba. At the table next to us a sprawling group of young gents joked and played cards.
Afterwards, our hosts took us shopping at an impressive Kobe department store, Daimaru. It was everything you might expect in a Japanese shopping experience: clean, friendly, and well ordered. Goods ranged well into the high end with expensive jewelry and dinnerware. The tea ceremony shop had cups and kettles of exquisite beauty.
My host family very graciously purchased a lovely deep blue noren with a traditional flower pattern on it for me. It hangs in the doorway behind me as I type this.
An elderly gentleman stopped my fellow chaperone and room mate. "American? American?"
Yamamoto-san translated for us. It turns out that this man served for many years in the Japanese Navy (or the Merchant Marines, we couldn't tell which). When we told him that we were from Portland, we learned that he had traveled to our port many times over his career at sea. He quickly volunteered a careworn but carefully preserved sepia-toned image from his wallet:
I was deeply moved by this spontaneous outreach and we thanked him many times for sharing his story with us.
My room mate, Brandy, is something of a kendo freak. He has traversed the Portland metro area many times to attend his dojo. Brandy brought all of his considerable gear, and needless to say, he was anxious to make use of it here in the birthplace of his sport.
His persistence paid off. A Kobe dojo was located and we made straight for it from Daimaru. The trip took us into a slightly seedy side of Kobe on this sultry summer evening. We climbed four floors on the external stairway. Brandy introduced himself to the sensei of the dojo. He shared the name of his dojo and the name of his sensei. And that was it. He was welcome.
We waited on the rooftop with this curiously satisfying view of Kobe.
And a short time later, Brandy emerged.
In the dojo, the sensei presided over his students and called out commands, sometimes punctuated by a taiko-like drum.
I spent the next 3 hours mostly riveted by the action. The dojo is honor-bound to whack the crap out of Brandy. To do any less would be disrespecting him.
And I would say that he acquitted himself rather well. There is much to commend kendo. The padded armor and intense mask. The bamboo swords called shinai clacking and cracking as they connect in a flurry of lightning strokes. The battle cries springing forth in fury from the chests of the youngest boy to the oldest woman.
Here, Brandy and his opponent let their momentum carry them past each other after they exchange blows.
The varnish of the floor of the dojo has been completely worn away by the feet of countless generations of duelists.
Respect. Discipline. Aesthetics. And a deep appreciation for tradition.
The evening at the kendo dojo in Kobe left a lasting impression on me. Brandy lost about 10 pounds in sweat but left with a beatific smile.
December 01, 2004
there is a grain of truth in it
08:49 PM
| Comments (0)
A student: "I give credit to Mr. Naze for being the best teacher ever."
A veteran substitute teacher assisting in my classroom this morning: "I really enjoyed your math lesson."
