A boss at an eikaiwa says to one of the English teachers, “File this report, please.”
“You file it, sir,” the teacher replies. “I’m an English teacher, not a woodworker.”
Here are the (only) search terms people have used to find this blog:
god dammit japan
and
teacher grabbed my breasts
I would like to state for the record that while the FORMER is a common enough utterance around GTA HQ, the latter is simply ridiculous. I have enough breasts for two people! Or eight Japanese infants. Either way, I can grab my own any time I like. Maybe I’m doing it now. YOU DON’T KNOW. It is a secret.
P.S. I’m not, sorry.
P.P.S. Hahahah, just did!
I was gonna do NaNoWriMo and bang out 50K words about My Tokyo Experience, but I got distracted. Here’s what I came up with. Note that this completely unedited, and that names have been changed:
We are sitting, absolutely rapt, listening to his story.
“So I put my hand down there…” My friend Lee is telling the story, and as he says this, he gestures towards an invisible crotch, “…and there’s something I didn’t expect.”
“Tiny penis,” I say knowingly.
“Vagina?” asks my friend Drew.
Lee doesn’t even blink. He has committed to telling this tale of woe. “No, I went to take down his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and there’s…a pad.”
We don’t react. Finally, my friend Gemma asks, “a maxi pad?”
“Yeah.”
We don’t react again for a few seconds, before breaking into cruel, helpless laughter.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know,” Lee admits sheepishly. “I was really drunk, so I just…I don’t know, I gave him a handjob and went home. And now I can’t go back to that bar again. Which sucks, ’cause it was a really nice bar.”
Welcome to love in Tokyo. The women are conniving and infantilized, the men have hugely overinflated senses of both entitlement and inferiority, and those who are looking for a meaningful connection often are left texting in tears on the subway platform. This is the kind of thing that we are now used to.
When I left Canada for Tokyo, I had never had a one-night stand, had never made the first move in my life, and didn’t know how to do so. The usual yellow fever infecting most Asian transplants was not an issue for me; Japanese men looked like asexual vampires who had stuck their fingers in light sockets- a maximum weight of one hundred pounds, hair that rose in magnificent waves about a foot above their heads, and a fondness for plaid lumberjack shirts that had died elsewhere in the world about the time that Kurt Cobain embodied the phrase “nice shot.” I was beyond awkward.
It changed, and the first date process would often go something like this:
Shibuya is one of those places in Tokyo that is synonymous with, well, Tokyo. You can go down there any time and see hordes of people: street performers, drunk chicks, yamamba, salarymen, droves and droves of gap-jawed tourists- why on earth can’t white people close their mouths when they walk around?- housewives, homeless people, gothic lolitas like eroticized cupcakes, and everything in between. It is a confusing hodge-podge of neon and voices and curry smells, where you can buy just about anything, drink in any kind of establishment (including, but not limited to, bars where they lock you in a jail cell and force you to stir your drink with cheerful glistening vibrators), and make passionate love in a dungeon, or a Hello Kitty nightmare, for a mere five thousand yen an hour.
I fucking hate Shibuya.
First of all, you can’t walk anywhere. There are too many people. Try to take a man-sized step in any direction and you’ll run up against some knob with a camera and likely bump your nose. If you’re wearing high heels, it’s almost a certainty that you’ll get the heel stuck in the wheels of some businessman’s rolling suitcase, or stub your toes against a crossdresser’s cape. It might sound exciting to you, but trust me, it’s a nuisance, and after a year in Tokyo I’ve completely lost my joy of context.
The second bad thing about Shibuya is looking at the other white people. Whenever I see a closely-huddled knot of lumpy, camera-toting people in “LOOKING FOR A JAPANESE GIRLFRIEND” t-shirts, I get this uncontrollable urge to vomit. Or cry. I try to avoid walking anywhere near them so that people don’t assume I’m part of their group. I’m convinced that half of them don’t even leave the station; they stand in front and snap pictures for hours whilst catching flies in their yawning, cavernous traps. Not that there are flies in Shibuya; it’s too inorganic. They take pictures of the SHIBUYA 109 sign, the video billboards, and I’m sure they do their best to get a shot of Hachiko. Of course, Hachiko can never be seen for the piles of soused homeless people and bored-looking Japanese girls in three-inch skirts waiting for their emotionally-detached boyfriends with Flock of Seagulls hairdos that surround it. But the tourists try, they do.
The third thing I hate about Shibuya is that every time I go there, I get drunk, and then I go to Don Quijote and go shopping and buy loads of incredibly stupid things that I don’t even half need. For example, my last intoxicated retail adventure netted me a twenty-dollar bottle of green nail polish (I already own six bottles of a similar shade), a packet of coconut incense (bad choice) and an oversized hot pink gangsta hoodie made of a fabric halfway between “towel” and “Muppet.” Not that it isn’t a great little hoodie- warm as fuck!- but come on, self. Was that really necessary?
Therefore, I wasn’t happy to be in Shibuya that Sunday night. I was stuffed into my First Date Jeans and my First Date Top- black, plunging neckline, long enough to hide my thighs- and a pair of First Date Shoes that were giving me a pair of wicked First Date Blisters. I had checked my makeup four times and even attempted to blow-dry my hair before giving up in abject, frustrated apathy. Despite these all being the same First Date Accoutrements that I had employed on the past eight unpleasant first dates I’d had this year, I had some inkling that they might work this time. Wishful thinking, I know.
His face was average, his body was average, he made the same amount of money I did, and within about three minutes I realized that we had the typical things in common: a fondness for shows like Family Guy, an enjoyment of Judd Apatow productions, and the stagnant commonality of all Tokyo denizens, a hatred for riding the trains. He took me to a typical bar: 300 yen per draft beer, stuffed to the gills with foreigners, that he bragged he had “discovered” months before and that I had been to no less than six times already.
Two beers down, he pops the typical question: “So…are you seeing anyone else?”
I eyed him suspiciously over the rim of my beer glass. “Well,” I said, praying that I wouldn’t lose the bet I’d had with myself, “Not really, no. Why? Are you?”
He shuffled and smiled and his Adam’s apple bobbed, and I mouthed the words into my beer as he said them out loud: “Um…kind of.”
Which kind of?
It came out, as many of these stoies do, in a semi-patronizing, dismissive tone, and it’s difficult for me to remember which iteration of the tale was offered to me by this iteration of the man, so I offer you the following in lieu. Circle the options you find juiciest. “Yeah, she’s Japanese. We’ve been together/ engaged/ sleeping together and seeing other people- well, I see other people, she doesn’t/ married for (choose whatever length of time you like; I’ve heard them all). I mean, it’s not a big deal or anything.”
Stupid me, I have to ask the question they expect. It’s part of the dance. “Um, does she know?”
“Well…”
The women never know.
At this point in the conversation, I usually light a cigarette. If the guy doesn’t smoke, it might drive him away. If he does, his wife or girlfriend or love slave probably doesn’t, and he’ll disapprove of me. All foreign men who date Japanese women develop a Madonna/Whore complex towards foreign women, with the gaijinettes making up ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the “whore” category. We’re too difficult, too demanding, too selfish, too independent, and thoroughly too good at communicating our actual feelings.
I stubbed out my cigarette and looked into his mild, bland eyes. “So what are you doing here, exactly, then?”
There is no answer to this question. The best of the lot will shrug and say something like “I like you,” or “you’re pretty,” or “I don’t know, I just feel trapped”. These are the men who you can charmingly bid goodnight. A few will apologize later and you can be friends with them.
The worst of the lot, however, will immediately begin bitching and moaning about how their Japanese love interest wants commitment. Babies babies wedding babies wedding babies. Or “she’s too busy and I never see her.” Or both.
(My favorite response, “fuck off, none of your business,” I got only once. I kissed him on the forehead before storming off. It was the most honest reply I had or still have ever received.)
So which one was this guy? “Well, you know, she works a lot…and sometimes it’s hard because…like…she has all these expectations…but I’m just not ready for a commitment.”
It is here that I smiled prettily, made up a kindergarten teaching appointment for early the next morning, and left him standing at the train station after dodging an awkward attempt to take my hand.
On my way home, I don’t read. My entertainment of choice is staring out the windows of the Yamanote while my iPod blasts Ani Difranco and death metal in equal quantities.
This is the Gaijin Love Connection. You want them. They want you. Somewhere along the line, though, normal behavior and typical connections from person to person get lost in a sea of neon and false eyelashes and crushing work schedules and inconvenient train lines. So we drift, a group of educated, fairly ballsy individuals, from chance to chance to fleeting hope. Usually, we fall.
Firts of all, I am stunned down to the bottoms of my 700 yen Seiyu zebra-print pajama bottoms that apparently that post is one of the top results for googling “I Hate Japan.”
http://greatteacherannazuka.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-i-hate-japan-right-now.html
I just googled the phrase myself, and it does not appear on the first page of search results, so who knows?
Anyways, the post has apparently been adopted as a source of catharsis for some and a source of contention for others. I mean, sort of…but let’s be honest, not that many people read this blog and five comments is well a big fuckin’ deal for me.
I feel the need to do some damage control. Surprisingly, I understand, given the amount of bitching and hatred that seeps through my posts, but I feel like I need to make something clear once and for all:
I DO NOT HATE JAPAN.
I do not hate Japan I do not hate Japan I do I do I do believe in spooks, kind of.
Since the post is dividing the massive amout of internet readership I get (read: three of my friends IRL and the occasional Facebook sraggler), I have listed ten things I love and ten things I despise about this country. All of the forthcoming are 100% what I adore and what I dislike; you are welcome to draw your own goddamn conclusions based on what you consider to be depth and levity in the following:
THINGS I LOVE ABOUT JAPAN:
1. The scenery in Ishikawa prefecture.
2. Umeboshi
3. The fact that when you buy tampons, the drugstore employee wraps the box in a protective paper bag and then bungs it in a larger plastic sack, thereby preventing you from public shame and general uncomfortableness.
4. The Christmas lights.
5. My shower is a clothes dryer!
6. The inexplicable, yet very welcome popularity of otherwise largely-defunct iconic ’60s designer Mary Quant.
7. Vending machines and conbini.
8. Kimono
9. 24 beer sources.
10. I bought a 3d T-Rex puzzle at Muji!
THINGS I CAN’T STAND ABOUT JAPAN:
1. Train people.
2. Being shoved for no reason and with no forthcoming apology.
3. Mayonnaise
4. Indirectness (I am blunt to a fault, you fat ugly stupid crotch pig).
5. Inflexibility
6. The inconsistency of how ones pays on public buses.
7. Going on a date with a foreign guy who is married to a Japanese girl, and NEVER TELLS YOU…well, not soon enough.
8. Every time I buy shoes, they die in about a week.
9. Japanese beer all tastes the same after a while.
10. Too many smokers.
As an anonymous (MAN THE FUCK UP PEOPLE; sign your goddamn names, eh?) commenter pointed out on the post in question, no country is perfect.
Japan is not my favourite country of residence, but it’s the only one I got. So while I hate it sometimes, I also enjoy it sometimes. Keep that in mind in the future.
A brief trip to the Omotesando Softbank yesterday inspired the following.
AN OPEN LETTER TO JAPANESE PEOPLE:
Congratulations! You are known worldwide for your fashion sense. The
innovative nature of Japanese sartorialism is globally lauded, often
copied by Western designers (only to ring particularly hollow), lusted
after by legions of fashionistas everywhere, and may have caused Gwen
Stefani to completely lose her fucking mind. This really is something
that you should be proud of, and, in my opinion, it is something you
rightly deserve.
For example, I went into a boutique in Shinjuku station a couple of
months ago and there was a woman with a tree on her head. Just an
ordinary saleswoman, walking around casually adjusting things and
yelling “IRASSHAIMASEEEEEEE” at inanimate objects, but she had a tree
on her head. A fairly large one. And I think it was made of Tinker
Toys. My point being, she actually looked GOOD. If I put a tree on my
head, I would look like a fluffypagan at Burning Man. (That would be
“not so good.”)
Despite this, I think you need a few pointers. Bear with me, and think
about heeding the following advice:
1. If it it 95 degrees out (close to 40, that is), then you should not
be wearing a sweatshirt and Doc Martens.
2. Pockets hanging out from the legs of your hotpants do not look
good. Also- and I’m not sure- but I think it must make it really hard
to put shit in your pockets.
3. Those snap-closure elbow-to-wrist gauntlets do nothing for your
arms. Moreover, if you MUST, pick a fabric that does not look like
upholstery. Unless you are a superhero with couch powers or your name
is Ottoman Chesterfield, upholstery gauntlets are strange.
4. If you cannot lift your bag without your boyfriend lending you a
hand, you need a smaller bag. Possibly with fewer keychains on it.
5. You have a choice: either you can wear foot-tall spike heels, or
you can walk like a geisha. Doing both will result in a symptom I like
to call Velociraptor Legs, in which your knees lock and your thighs
eventually grow a horrible frontal curve. I am not kidding about this.
6. YOU ARE NOT FOUR YEARS OLD STOP DRESSING LIKE IT.
7. Attention J-trannies! If you weigh 300 pounds and cannot remove
your 5 o’clock shadow, please do not dress Gothic Lolita! You make
Sailor Bubba look demure and feminine.
8. Actually, if you weigh 300 pounds, don’t dress gothloli regardless of gender.
9. WEAR SHOES THAT FUCKING FIT, YOU IDIOTS.
10. If you wear false eyelashes (and I would, if I didn’t wear
glasses), please try not to glue them several millimeters above your
actual eyelashes. It is creepy.
11. You may not be a yamamba. Ever.
11a. No, I’m not kidding. For the love of christ, stop.
12. Another issue with hotpants: please don’t wear them if your
individual thighs are three times wider that your torso. I am not
kidding. You look like that kangaroo chick from Titan A.E.
I seriously just made a Titan A.E. reference? I quit.
Great Teacher Annazuka 