So It Starts. Again.

After my long and involved summer of insanity you would think that I would welcome the start of another semester with open arms.  You would be very mistaken.  

While everyone I've talked with (and unintentionally eavesdropped on) go on and on about how they are so happy to be going back to class and seeing all their friends and opening up brand new books and having their horizons expanded yet another mile in every direction, all I can think about is how much I want to bury my head under a pile of sand and never have to come up again for air.  It's not just the tests or the papers or the having to sit in a classroom with 69 other people for hours listening to a professor talk about how he is the greatest and smartest person I will ever meet.  It's also the fact that I know 49 of the 69 people in that classroom and none of them are really willing to talk to me or sit next to me or acknowledge me at all.  It's the fact that I go weeks without speaking to anyone outside my home despite my best efforts to appear "approachable" (I even started leaving my iPod at home!) and make arrangements with people myself.  

I'd be lying if I i said that loneliness was the only reason why I'm so entirely dreading the next 8 months of my life because the stress of having to have the perfect tests and the stand-out papers every time.   My memory is exceptionally bad when it comes to facts and dates and theories so my tests are never perfect -- I always miss that one crucial point and kick myself as soon as it's over.  My brain is scattered and I can never write in a strait line, so I'm always being docked on my oh-so-awkward sentences (awk, awk, awk).  

These are just excuses.  Maybe I'm just lazy.  

I sometimes look at getting a masters degree at some prestigious school abroad.  The things I would learn would be amazing (I think), and I would probably get some nice fancy job (I would hope).  But when I think of another year (or two) of school I cringe and revert back to wanting to either crawl into a cave and hide in the dark, or burry my head in the sand until this horrible idea blows over like a bad storm.  

I probably should have been an electrician.  

Rina, Aya, Takuya, and Hiryu

I didn't want to forget my other four housemates before I wrote anything else.

Rina is Yoshito's older sister and it showed more and more every day.  Not just because they both look very alike, but because they fought and bickered and then made up and then beat each other up like only siblings could.  Needless to say, I got to be quite good at anticipating a fight, listening for crying and then restraining both of them at the same time.  Thanks to these two, I got to work on my strict disciplinarian skills this past month too!

Aya is an 11 year old girl who tagged along on this trip for reasons no one is entirely sure of.  Weighing all of 65 lbs, Aya was prone to fits of tears and breakdowns when it came time to train karate because she saw that she was (by far) the smallest of all the students (not to mention the fact that the men and boys all looked like they wanted to take off eachother's heads whenever they were together.  In a friendly way of course...).  I feel quite bad for Aya (and also ashamed of myself) because after the first week of their stay, she still spoke no English words to anyone and even when I spoke to her in Japanese she would only stare at me blankly and then run off giggling, so I started to think that maybe she was a little bit... slow.  I'm thinking now that she was just overwhelmed by everything being so incredibly opposite of her life in Tokyo.  

Takuya is probably the sweetest and most bashful little 13 year old I've ever met.  By far his most endearing quality was that he tried so hard to speak to me and to keep everything clean and together for the whole group.  

Finally there was Hiryu who could be a little bit of a bully and a little bit of a kill-joy.  This only child was the only one out of the group, who, when asked if they were excited to go back home to Japan, fervently said yes. 

Yoshito: He is Very Small

Yosh is the youngest person in the house at 9 years old, and out of all my Japanese housemates, he is by far the quickest when it comes to learning and speaking English.  Like all the kids at the house he loves video games, unlike the other kids though, he uses the language he hears in the games all the time and is able to apply it to anything.  Unfortunately, being the youngest, he's also the complainer and the whiner of the group.  

Yoshito's Hilarious English Moment #1:

If ever confused or asked to try a new food, Yosh will quickly wave his hand in front of his face and say in a deep Mufasa-ish voice, "no no no no".  

Yoshito's Hilarious English Moment #2: 

After a long hike on a trail through the woods when all the kids were thoroughly exhausted, I said to Yosh, "Now we're gonna do it one more time!"  He stared at me like I hit him over the head with a log and replied, "I do not understand" with a look of mild horror.  When I repeated myself, his eyes got huge and he said with great vehemence, "return home now please!".  

Yoshito's Hilarious English Moment #3: 

My brother likes a lot of wasabi in his soy sauce when he eats sushi.  When Yosh saw that Jake's soy was a murky green instead of the pale brown of most normal people's sauce, his eyes got crazy wide (again) and exclaimed that Jake didn't have soy sauce, he had "Crazy Danger Sauce!".  

This may not seem like much, but this kid came here two weeks ago and spoke not a single word of English and now he's translating for all the older kids.  I think it's fantastic!

Koji: Loving Grandfather or Raging Loony?

Koji is the oldest of my Japanese guests.  Oldest by about 50 years (actually 53 years, but who's counting?!), the kids are all terrified of him and enamored with him at the same time.  In Tokyo, he was a chef for a few decades and owned his own restaurant until recently when he decided, on a whim apparently, to move to the countryside where he became the Harbor Master for a little town.  Here with his two grandchildren, Rina (12) and Yoshito (9), as well as three of his karate students, he is adamant that they all speak English all the time and that they clean the house from top to bottom every second day because they are "here to learn about life".

Weird Koji Moment #1: 

Was not at all worried when he first landed (completely gunned) at the Calgary Airport and was missing two children.  Seriously.  He had no idea where they were and we spent two hours looking for them.  

Weird Koji Moment #2:

I took the clan to a theme park on the 4th day.  While there, both of his grandchildren got bitten by wasps and both times he bit the skin around the wasp bite and tried to suck out the poison.  The poor little girl looked like she had a hickey on her neck for days, while the little boy (who was bit just under his eye!!) had bite marks on his cheek.  It's rare that you see strangers stop in their steps to just gape open mouthed at a scene before them...

Weird Koji Moment #3:

Unsatisfied with our dull kitchen knives, he grabbed a rock from our garden, sat on the back steps, and proceeded to sharpen our (serrated) knives with a rock.  I don't really have much to add to that one.

Weird Koji Moment #4: 

While we were on a hike, he picked several mushrooms and told me they would be very delicious.  All I know about mushrooms is not to touch them and that many of them are poisonous.  After I told him this, he ate one and said that they tasted like a very expensive type of mushroom (in Japan they're supposedly worth about $80.00/kg) and that if he did not die we should collect these mushrooms and become rich.  He didn't die, but I'm not going to go picking dubious mushrooms.

First Day of the Third Week

Today, for the first time in probably five or six years, I donned my fancy purple lace-up roller blades.  I don't do this sort of thing for just anybody (I usually spent just as much time on the ground nursing an injury as I did actually skating), so when the five little Japanese children looked up at me with their pleading puppy dog eyes I could only give in.  So, cameras in hand and feet wobbling only slightly in their newly bought skates, I led on my six Japanese guests in a lap around the block.  

By the time all the dust and cobwebs had blown off my skates I had gained back a bit of confidence.  I knew how to do this!  And so, to the applause of my Japanese housemates, I was skating forwards and backwards and helping them to do the same.  

Of course once I was ready for round two (three blocks to the 7-Eleven), four were tired and done and one was already asleep on the deck.  My six eager and determined students had turned into one.  Still wanting slurpees, the others all put on their sneakers and ran to catch up as I left with my new skating buddy at top speed (well, not quite top speed).  

It was of course on the way home that I tripped on my own feet and slammed into the pavement.  My moment of glory though, came right after I stood up and somehow managed to fall again, this time in front of a gaggle of spectators.  I think there were photos taken.  

Thus began the third week of my month with the Japanese here in Canada: with bloodshed and tears.  

A Scramble for the Puck!

I went and saw my favorite hockey club, the Flames, practice the other day after my little brother's hockey practice was over. The skating was fantastic, the shooting and passing and nifty little tricks were mesmerizing. But the men... hot damn.
I'm not usually the kind of girl who likes to oggle good looking men every time I see one, but standing six feet away from them as they were playing and laughing and moving... wow. I mean, wow.

After the practice was over a crowd of little boys, probably ages 7-12, clustered in the lobby outside the change rooms waiting for their heroes to come out and sign their jerseys or their own hockey sticks. The interesting thing was that behind the huge cluster of short people in red was the cluster of the dads who wanted an autograph too. Of course, behind these full grown boys stood me. Because my brother had to leave for a party right after his practice, I was told to stay behind and get some autographs for him.
I thought this would be easy.
Just a bunch of little kids.
Maybe one of those beautiful men would notice me and...
Anyway!
Let me just say that these little boys knew how to work this system (whatever this system was). The 'cute face' was applied along with the 'stuttering shy kid' bit and more often than not there was the awed silence that came with tilting their necks back so far that their little hats kept falling off. How could I possibly compete with this?? I thought maybe I had a bit of a chance early on because of my uniqueness factor (being the only woman there who wasn't a hockey mom) and that probably would have worked if it wasn't for the obsessed hockey dads who liked to push in front and compete with each other after their weasely little spawn had finished with the poor hockey star and he was trying to escape.

All in all I ended up only getting three signatures for my brother and only one of them was of a player I really admired (the other two are fairly new to the team and the only reason I got them was because I don't think the midgets recognized them). The truly unfortunate part about this wasn't the lack of autographs or marriage proposals, it was that all the other adults there, including the players, thought I was 14 years old. When one hockey mom saw me get pushed back by a throng of crazed little boys and their equally crazed (but way more annoying) dads, she said to me in the kindest voice, "hey sweetie, who are you lookin' for? Awwww well you know, my husband could get in there for you and get a couple nice signatures if you want? It would be OK, I'm sure he would love to!" and so on.
It was then that I decided to leave. Hanging around was pointless when the only thing I was getting was bruised toes and drowning ego.

Have to say though, man they were somethin' else to watch up close!

construction site

There is a man with a jackhammer
who thinks he is making improvements to the base of my skull.
It's hard to convince him
that my head is fragile and I like it just the way it is.

There are two men with shovels
trying to dig their way out through my eyes.
They don't believe me
when I tell them that now I can't even see.

Between my eyes there is just one man
who stands hammering a nail through bone.
Begging never works to get him to stop
he is determined to completely reconstruct my face.

And finally the two men with axes
who deforest the brain matter around my ears.
They don't even hear me when I beg
or notice when I shut out the light.
More determined than all the rest,
they refuse refuse to leave.