life on a stratovolcano ^{oshima edition}

Well, it seems like all the coolest people on the island are leaving while I’m in London. You see, these islands are considered a really crappy placement that is given to rookie teachers because no-one else wants them. After they serve their three year sentence, they’re allowed to switch to a school on the mainland. People almost invariably choose this path, with a few exceptions.

One of these exceptions, and a seemingly permanent fixture of Oshima, Mr. Iwase, will be retiring at the end of the month. Mr. Iwase is a truly amazing man; he’s been teaching English at Oshima Minami and Oshima High School for thirty-seven years. He’s the most senior state-employed staff member on the island (even the principal addresses him as his superior), and also one of the most humble and understanding people that I’ve ever met. Oh, and his English is absolutely flawless.

Mr. Iwase is currently sixty-three years old. Last year, he ran the Boston Marathon, and next month he will run the Oshima Marathon. One of my first conversations with him went like this:

Me: “So you like to run?”
Iwase: “Yes. I love it. You should come running with me.”
Me: “Sure thing, we’ll go slow.” (I was thinking about him, here)
Iwase: “Yes. Always slow.”

One day and ten kilometers later, I’m starving for oxygen, barely keeping up, and he hasn’t even broken a sweat. Hunched over afterward, I had some questions for him.

Me: “So how often do you run, anyway?”
Iwase: “I have run more than 5k everyday for the past seven-hundred-forty-six days. Usually I’ll run 10k, and if I have a full day, I’ll run 42k (a marathon).”
Me: “What about when there’s a typhoon?”
Iwase: “I run faster so I can get out of the rain.”

Damn.

Since Mr. Iwase has been here since the first JET Program participant arrived in 1985, he has seen fourteen other JETs come and go. He still keeps in touch with every single one of them; he’s our Oshima father-figure.

When I first arrived on Oshima, he was the one that took me all the way around the island to get my things straightened out. He was the one to drive an hour out of his way in the morning to come get me on my first day, and then the hour round-trip back to my house because I forgot my hanko (personal seal/signature thingy). And he was the one that laughed at the “hilarious” prospect of returning when I had forgotten my keys back at the office after we made it all the way across the island (I did manage to ninja my way up my balcony, though).

When I had to go to Tokyo in order to pick up Julia, Mr. Iwase was the one who covered my classes and made it possible. When I told him last month that I was having difficulty with Japanese, he arranged a free teacher for me for two one-and-a-half hour classes each week. When I needed to get internet installed in my apartment, he drove the hour round-trip so that he could translate for the installers.

As far as I know — and this is the gospel truth — Mr. Iwase is utterly incapable of doing wrong. He is my guardian angel here. For some reason, he is the only one who understands the difficulties that I go through on a daily basis. He’s taken it upon himself to be as selfless as possible, and for that I’ll never be able to fully repay him. I know that he will still be on the island, but I will still sorely miss sitting next to him in the office every Tuesday and Thursday.

I am, however, very happy for him; he deserves his retirement more than anyone here. It will give him the needed time to focus on his wife (whom he treats with a devoted and loving kindness that is absent in most Japanese husbands), his running and his carpentry (did I mention that he built his beautiful house and all of his furniture by hand?).

I had the distinct honor of teaching his very last class with him, ending thirty seven years of distinguished service for the the Town of Oshima. During the final moments, every teacher and student in the school crammed into the classroom, and presented him with huge bouquets of flowers and gifts. Teachers made speeches, and everyone in the room except for Iwase was weeping. He is truly loved at Minami High School, and I can only hope that someday I’m half the man that he is.

Okay, so I’ve decided to take a different approach to writing here. You see, for every blog entry that you see, there’s two that you don’t. I have what you might call a rigorous quality control system here, and if I don’t like the way a blog turns out, I won’t post it. Because of this, there may be long periods where a post doesn’t see the light of day. This, of course, doesn’t do any good for anyone, so here’s my new system: anything I write, from here on out, no matter how short or bad, will be posted.

Anyway, back to Oshima!

Right now I’m on day 8 of my 12-day workweek. I scheduled all my days at the beginning of the month so that I can leave early for my father’s wedding in London. Unfortunately, I have a habit of forgoing sleep on the workweek and sleeping on weekends, so this week I’ve been in a twilight zone of sorts. As I type this, I’m nodding off a bit.

I was able to work on Saturday and Sunday because this past weekend was graduation. In America, the week or so around graduation is a jovial time; one filled with happiness, tears, and all around good times. Not to say that the ceremony itself isn’t a bit boring, but as far as parties and stuff go, it’s a lot of fun. However, f you’ve ever been to an American graduation ceremony, you know just how long-winded they can be. The whole time you just sort of want it to be over with.

At Oshima and Minami High School’s graduations, however, referring to it as “boring” is a bit like referring to murder as “socially unacceptable.” It’s true, of course, but the language doesn’t even begin to describe the gravity of the situation. It’s two hours of boring speakers, ceremony, and weeping. And oh yeah, all of it is in Japanese. I know you might be thinking, “duh,” but if you’ve ever had to watch a really boring foreign movie without subtitles, this is worse. If I was given a choice between a week of Japanese Graduations and a week of the intestinal flu, I’d be on the toilet smiling. This is because Japan’s graduations are strictly regimented. Every step, word, and bow is dictated by the federal government (there is a LOT of bowing), and the whole service is reminiscent of a Catholic mass. Everyone is solemn, there is much weeping, and absolutely no cheering or clapping is allowed.

Adding to the air of a church service is the oh-so-short-and-depressing Japanese National Anthem, Kimi ga Yo. Firstly, it sounds like a hymn. Honestly, who writes a national anthem in a minor key? Kimi ga Yo could very well be the key factor of the high Japanese suicide rate. Seriously, it’s a depressing song. As much as The Star Spangled Banner might rile you up and inspire patriotism, the Japanese national anthem makes you want to stick a sword in your gut. Around 90% of the nation despises it, because it was written in 1880 and reminds everyone of Japanese Militarism and Imperialism. Regardless, they require the playing of it at each public event, thereby rendering inert the happy feelings anyone might dare to have. The song is subject to so much controversy that Tokyo dispatched an employee to ensure that all of the teachers were standing during its playing.

The anti-foreplay of the ceremony actually set the mood quite well. The principal stood up, turned around, and bowed at the teachers. He then walked to the front of the gym, and bowed to the “honored guests.” Then he turned and bowed to the graduating students, then the parents, and then back at the teachers. He walked up the stairs onto the stage, bowed to the Japanese flag, walked over to the podium, and bowed to everyone once more. This happened with every guest. I calculated it out afterward, and if I had a yen for every time someone bowed, I could buy my 800 yen bento (boxed lunch) today.

Eventually, the actual graduation ceremonies began. I was in a black hole of time dilation — it was twenty minutes into the ceremony, but I was sure I had already been there for six hours. I am quite certain that the handing of the diplomas could not have been done in a more inefficient manner. First, the student’s name would be called. They would stand up, emulate all of the aforementioned bowing, and then walk to the front, where the principal would hold out the diploma and read the entire thing. Forget the fact that every single diploma was identical, save the name. The principal would then bow, hand it to the student, who would bow, take one step back, make a left turn, and walk off the stage, first bowing at the Japanese flag, and then to the different parts of the crowd. And then the next student’s name would be called. It took over an hour to graduate a class of twenty. Fortunately, however, a student made a bit of a faux pas (quite literally). She took her diploma, stepped back, bowed, and then took another step back. Normally, this would be perfectly okay, but unfortunately for her there wasn’t enough stage to do this. She stepped backwards off of the six-foot-high edge, flailed about momentarily, and then miraculously landed standing up. Much like cats, Japanese high school students always land on their feet. Everyone gasped, and then started nervously laughing, including the mayor. I thought that it was literally the funniest thing I’d ever seen and had to stifle my giggles for about fifteen minutes.

After everyone settled down, there were about five or six more equally boring, emotionless speakers. I was so glad when it ended that I actually did a mini-Mario jump when I finally stood up.

I headed back to the office, and was informed by Mr. Tanaka that the students were leaving the island in two hours, and that I should go to the port at the opposite end of the island to wish them off. Two hours? Talk about a whirlwind of emotions. At thirty minutes until the scheduled departure time, I remembered that I was supposed to be in Okata, so I jumped in my car and did about double the speed limit all the way to the port. I saw the ship before I saw the huge throng of students outside in full uniform, waving Minami High School flags, and holding colored ribbons that stretched to the ship. On the islands, it is a tradition to throw colored ribbon from the sides of a ship, or onto a ship, and to have your best friends or boyfriend/girlfriend hold onto it when you are leaving for the last time. There were no less than five hundred ribbons going to the ship. When the boat pulls away, the ribbon snaps, and the person’s ties to the island and the people there are severed. As I walked through the crowd, shouts of “ganbaru!” (do your best!) and vigorous waving contrasted hugely with students kneeling on the ground, sobbing. Boyfriends and girlfriends shared a final, teary embrace. Best friends laughed together one last time. If, in the course of my life, I have ever witnessed a true deluge of emotions, it was on that pier.

As the ship pulled away, and the ties began to snap, some students began wailing, and everyone, teachers in suits and myself included, chased the ship all the way to the end of the dock. I was afraid that students might start jumping in the water and swimming, a-la Ogasawara, but fortunately reason got the better of them. As we packed up the flags, and cleaned up the ribbon, there wasn’t a single dry eye in the group. I began pondering my own separation from the island. Oshima is a very special place. It’s a safe place, a fun placed, and a relaxed place. Without fail, everyone is exceptionally friendly and kind, and whenever you enter a store or restaurant, you’re greeted by name. It’s a heart wrenching realization that one day, I too will have to leave this place. My decision to spend another year here has been reaffirmed. As the shirt that I’m wearing right now loudly proclaims, “I ♥ Oshima.” I couldn’t say it better myself.