Silent Night

For the first time in a couple of weeks, I find myself home at a “decent hour”, ready to sleep and trying to unwind before work tomorrow. It’s a silent night, and the first one among many that I don’t mind. In fact, I think I am adjusting. 

Now that the whirlwind of holidays has passed, and the calm of January begins to set it, I can reflect on the holiday season and what it means to me. When it comes to Christmas, I respect how various people express their faith and love during the holiday. I believe in rejoicing for love, rejoicing for life, whether it be on Christmas, today, yesterday, tomorrow, or everyday. Therefore, it gladdens me to see families and friends come together for dinner, parties, or other celebrations. I even like how Christmas has evolved to be more inclusive – I've met many people who celebrate Christmas for the unity in family and not for the religious aspect, and I see the beauty in that.

One thing I cannot stand during the holidays is silence. Two years ago, when I stayed in Japan for Christmas, I felt a silence so deep it left me chilled. I judged by the calendar and decorations around me that the holiday was approaching, but Christmas in Japan was deceiving. Instead of feeling happy in the unity of family or friends, people sulked because they were alone and not in a relationship. You see, Christmas in Japan – for non-Christians – is a couple's holiday, a Valentine's Day of a sort. And this negativity is contagious at most, and dampens spirits at least. Coming from a Western country where Christmas is about family and generosity, and being raised in a family where it's about reflecting and divinity, I felt a cloud over my head and a breeze of homesickness on Christmas Day.

Luckily, the days leading to Christmas in 2010 had a touch of magic. A couple of weeks before Christmas, I went to Universal Studios with my Japanese family, and I felt the love of Christmas in their unity, kindness, and generosity. That night, we watched a Christmas show full of lights and traditional songs of the season. It was cold that night, but I felt the warmth of the season. On Christmas Eve, some friends and I got together to celebrate the holiday, and I felt the warmth in everyone's desire to share a home cooked meal. If it hadn't been for those people, Christmas would have passed right by my door.

Last Christmas, I came home for the holidays. I couldn't bear to pass another Christmas without some of the things or people I value the most. On Christmas Eve, we went to my aunt's house. For the first time in 30 years, my grandmother spent Christmas with all of her children. That night, after dinner, we all felt compelled to share our thoughts on the holiday and give recognition to everyone who was present for supporting us, encouraging us and loving us. It was spontaneous. It was sincere, and it was heartfelt. There was no silence that night around me, and I felt uplifted.

This year, we had a smaller reunion, and the unity and gratitude was still there. This year, too, I wasn't subject to the deafening silence of Christmas in Japan. After dinner, we gathered around to talk about the season, and some of my family members spoke about the changes they want to make in the upcoming year. This time, though, when I tried to speak, I couldn't formulate my thoughts. I couldn't think of anything non-generic to say. The dreaded silence was coming from within me. For the first time in a long time, I lost my voice. Instead of the silence being forced onto me from exterior forces, the silence was coming from within.

I haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact cause, but circumstantially, I've been gradually pushed into silence these past two and a half years. Though people want to hear about my experiences in Japan, I feel influenced by others' reactions to stay quiet. Though people are understanding and caring, the fact is that most can't relate when they've never lived through a similar experience. And the bottom line is, people can grow tired of hearing about the same subject over and over again. It’s been four months, for crying out loud! I understand this, yet I find it hard to close a chapter in my life when I can't speak about it. But mostly, I recognize that I’m being too hard on myself. I don’t want to be “that girl” who’s stuck in the past, so I don’t say much. My time abroad changed me tremendously and I am unable to fully share it. At the end of the day, it also hurts to be too nostalgic. I need closure and I have a feeling it won't be coming easily.

You're going to go through many changes, they said, and people might not understand. Relationships have changed, they warned. You might not fit in, they teased. They said it would all be a normal part of reintegration, but nothing anyone said prepared me for this echo inside of me. My voice has been extinguished and I don't know where to find a single match. That is the most frustrating component.

The truth is, my time away has had a curious effect on me. In terms of relationships, they have changed, and I feel that I am not entitled to complain, to be confused or to be hurt by it. I'm the one who left, after all. But just like everyone else, I was chasing my dreams, and mine inspired me to chase the sun far, far away. I don’t want to have to justify my happiness, my sadness, nor my confusion. Maybe one day we can understand each other, but for now I’m just trying to understand myself and the ways in which I’ve grown.

One thing I hope others can understand is how I've learned to deal with simple and complex problems. I was used to living alone, so I internalized issues, and mostly dealt with them myself. One day I woke up and didn't need everyone's opinion on everything, as valuable as it might have been.

The aspects of living in Japan that took a lot of getting used to became my comfort. Being anonymous – despite standing out – in a crowd full of people that couldn't fully understand me, became my comfort. It explained why I felt confused at times, why I stood out, why I was different. But returning to a place where I look like everyone else, where I speak the same language, doesn’t explain why people still can’t understand me nor why I can’t understand them.

I've lost my voice, and she needs to be found. As you may have noticed, I also disappeared from this blog. I am facing major writer’s block, when writing used to be something relaxing.

I’m learning that no matter how hard you look and think you’ve found the better and stronger version of yourself, you can't fully find yourself in one experience. Challenges present you with puzzles and lots of mysteries along the way, and many of us like to constantly challenge ourselves, so we must endure the transition periods. Every new adventure is a time to rediscover the things you enjoy, to find your motivation and your muse in a foreign place, and to be comfortable with change. It's a lot more difficult to do this when you return to a place you’ve previously been in, a place with history, a place where you've formed friendships, fallen in love, spent your childhood. When you return and want to start anew, you feel as if you're taking two steps back before you can move one forward. That’s how I feel right now, and I hope it's true when they say the harder the struggle, the more you learn.

Until then, until I can move with ease in this city, I will have to persevere.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, my mind drifts off to a far away city. It recalls a train system so complex you might end up at your starting point. It begins to sparkle with an image of hundreds of lit-up windows on massive buildings. It feels the density of cities, and the serenity of the countryside and its evergreen mountains and clear water. I can feel cold, and instantly switch to humidity. I remember faces that I used to see regularly, some of which I’ll never see again. I think of my students and the joys and challenges of teaching them. I think of my friends and how much I miss them. In this process, I begin to find my voice. I begin to feel inspired to describe, to write, to share, to dream, to chase. As usual, I am optimistic and confident in my ability to be fierce again.

I can’t revisit my two years in Japan, nor would I want to relive them if I could. For one, I have experienced enough delight and wonder to last a lifetime. And then, some of the lessons I learned were earned at a high price. I wouldn’t want to relive those moments. I have my memories, my moon watching over me, and the connections I’ve made with people. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for those, Japan.

I am reaching the end of this blog post, and with it the end of this blog. I find myself stalling, without an effortless way to end this entry, reading back and noticing a lot of fragmented thoughts. Looking back and counting the stories I left untold. That’s the thing about life – there are many unsmooth transitions and unfulfilled promises. Sometimes, we just have to admit that we’re stuck, and go forward as best as we can. I started this journey (and blog) in tears, full of things to say and emotions that I could express clearly. I continued this journey with enthusiasm, critique and optimism. I end this journey feeling grateful, touched, but at a loss for words. Don’t you worry though, it was all worth it. I’d do it all again. Even though I feel the impact of these silent nights, I’d do it all again. I’m happy.

Thank you for sharing my adventures (or mishaps!) in Japan with me. I'm a grateful bunny. I’ll be back before you know it, with a new adventure to share.

Forever Yours,

Kelly Sensei

ケリー先生

9.0

As I sit here listening to Adele’s “Hometown Glory”, I can’t help but feel such pride for the dynamic, and even dull cities in the Los Angeles area that I call home. I can’t phrase this sentiment any better than with Adele’s lyrics about visiting home, “Round my hometown, memories are fresh. Round my hometown, ooh, the people I've met are the wonders of my world...” Yes, the wonders of my world. “The wonders of this world.” No matter where you go, no matter who you meet, you will carry some people forever. And they will captivate, amaze and enamor you more than anything else you'll ever come to know. So, when I look at the images of the destroyed coastal villages in the aftermath of the terrible Tohoku earthquake, I can’t help but think that someone’s hometown glory has been tarnished. What’s worse, many people, many “wonders of [someone’s] world” have been lost to the fury of the sea. What a terrible and deep loss.

For us here in the Kansai region of Japan, it’s almost unbelievable that a little more than 500 kilometers away, villages have been destroyed down to wooden planks, ashes, and belongings, all scattered away from their owners and proper places. Yet, whether it's hard to believe or not, it is a reality in numerous prefectures in Northern Japan.

When the earthquake hit, I was sitting at my desk in the school staffroom. I didn’t feel the earthquake. If I remember correctly, my area felt the earthquake at a magnitude of 3 on the Richter Scale. But as I said, I didn't feel anything. The only indication that something was wrong was from the messages I received from people back home. They were coming in quickly, as people wanted reassurance that I was fine and out of harm's way. I didn’t realize the extent of the disaster, until I saw the devastating images later that evening. The same images that had shocked viewers around the globe, and had prompted my family and friends to write to me. I received so many messages from family, friends and acquaintances inquiring about my well-being. It was heartwarming to see how many people cared, and took the time to write a message.

I won't deny it though, the constant messaging made me worry, because some messages I received were alarming, and asked me to come home, while others made me feel that the problem was more grave than the actual situation (regarding the nuclear plant in Fukushima). Because of all of the fear swimming around me, I was a mild case of nerves in the week following the earthquake, and it was hard to fall asleep at night. I didn’t want to admit it to anyone at home, because I felt that only the people here could understand my emotions. Sure enough, many ALTs were able to relate, and I found comfort in talking to them. I also did some research on radiation and the current state of the nuclear plant. It is true that the nuclear plant in Fukushima presents a danger, but I have faith in the men currently risking their lives to repair the damage. I can’t predict what will happen, but I have taken precautions to be as prepared as possible. Prepare for the worse, hope for the best.

Other foreigners have not approached the situation in such a cool-headed manner. So many people have left the country in an anxious flurry to escape the radiation. I don’t blame those around the nuclear plant for panicking, not at all. I probably would have done the same. However, I know of some people near me that have been forced by sponsors or parents to go home. I think this fear stems from sensationalist headlines abroad. There has been a scramble to acquire iodine pills, in order to combat radiation. People as far as the United States and Canada are panicking about the radiation. It is a small world, after all, but there is no reason for panicking. None. And yet, according to an article in The Economist, a packet of iodine pills that usually costs $10 was priced at more than $500 dollars online. Ugly panic. On the other end of that equation, it’s sickening to think that some people take advantage of people’s fears in order to make quick cash. Furthermore, it creates a low supply for those that are near the plant and might need to take them in the future. Here, in my area, I’ve noticed empty shelves in the water aisles in supermarkets. People are storing bottled water in their homes. Now that, I don’t blame the people of Japan for doing. This is directly affecting their nation.

Risk. I mentioned that the workers in Fukushima are risking overexposure to radiation. Risk is associated with solutions and discoveries. So, some people fear that I risk my health by staying here. I beg to differ, but there is some truth in their words. Anytime you leave home, you tamper a bit with uncertainty. Some people never go abroad, because of the fear of the unknown. Yet, I think that the pros of traveling and living abroad outweigh the possibility of disaster (which can happen in our own hometowns anyway.) Yesterday, I read a well-written article from The New York Times about why we travel. I find that the opening paragraph gives a good enough argument in itself, without disposing of reality. It is as follows:

“In the bungling and bellicosity that constitute the back and forth of history, worsened by natural disasters and unprovoked cruelty,  humble citizens pay the highest price. To be a traveler in such circumstances can be inconvenient at best, fatal at worst. But if the traveler manages to breeze past such unpleasantness on tiny feet, he or she is able to return home to report: 'I was there. I saw it all.' The traveler’s boast, sometimes couched as a complaint, is that of having been an eyewitness, and invariably this experience — shocking though it may seem at the time — is an enrichment, even a blessing, one of the life-altering trophies of the road.”

Indeed, in this recent disaster, ordinary people have paid the highest price. And true to this article, for some travelers, the tsunami was a fatal occurrence. An American woman, a fellow JET, passed away in the aftermath of the earthquake. I wish she could have left Japan enriched, and blessed with a new experience after being adventurous enough to leave home. Instead, we are left with a heavy heart as we long for an alternate ending. I know I speak on behalf of ALTs here, that our thoughts and prayers go out to her family and friends.

In times like this, it’s necessary to look at stories of survival, and to capture and radiate the smallest rays of hope. There’s no use in letting sorrow make us numb and weak. There are ways to channel that energy in order to help, with the end of restoring hope in the people who have been affected firsthand. First, we can donate money and materials, in order to ease the suffering of those in northeast Japan. Secondly, we must not forget about the disaster. I worry that months from now the victims will be forgotten and the ongoing needs will be regarded as a thing of the past. Let’s not allow that to happen.

There's no place in the world where we can be one-hundred percent safe from risk and danger. You take chances, in order to be rewarded with experiences and knowledge. In the end, if you don’t overcome your fears, they will overcome you. I don’t know about you, but that’s NOT a risk I’m willing to take.


Here are some of the articles I referenced, and a couple of others that I found interesting:

The Economist: Herd Behaviour

The New York Times: Why We Travel

The Washington Post: In Ishinomaki, Japan, stories of survival and loss

BBC News: Q&A: Health effects of radiation exposure

Links and ways to help Japan (if you have more, please add them as a comment! Thanks!):

American Red Cross

Japanese Red Cross