Since returning home from this year’s IEJ program, I’ve re-dedicated myself to studying Japanese. And so when I came across an award-winning Japanese book, written in Japanese by an American, I thought that it would be a quality piece of Japanese literature that would be readable (given my proficient, but limited reading skills), but also enriching and challenging. In this book, translated into English and published under the title “Lost Japan”, the author Alex Kerr writes that in his travels to the Iya Valley in Shikoku he finally found the answer to the question of whether Japan was the kind of country where he would like to live. In returning to Japan for the first time in 15 years, I too found myself having this exact experience.
For me to say that I would like to live in Japan is a huge deal. I was born and raised in the United States. Including a year abroad in Japan when I was in high school, I probably visited Japan six or seven times through the course of my childhood. My first job right out of college was in international business, and so as a businessman I further visited Japan three times. But never through all of my memorable experiences in Japan had I ever thought that this was the kind of country in which I would like to live. As a foreign student in Japan I witnessed the stresses and rigidity of the Japanese college entrance exam system. As an adult I could only shake my head at the excessive and wasteful overtime hours Japanese business people were expected to endure as part of their professional lives. In many ways, I felt sorry for the Japanese people. On top of all this, today I am married with two small children, and so I don’t have the luxury of being able to run off on any old adventure that comes to mind.
Like the Iya Valley for Kerr, however, what changed me was my experience in the small town of Ikaruga. Whereas Kerr was moved primarily by the stunning natural beauty of Iya, in my case, it was the people of Ikaruga that changed my perspective. Everywhere I went, in so many conversations I had with the townsfolk of Ikaruga, I came across evidence of a community that was self-assured, dare I even say, individualistic in relation to its place within Japanese society. At a lunchtime event at Ikaruga Elementary School, I sat next to a sixth grade boy who told me that no, he didn’t go to an after school tutoring program (as is the norm all across Japan). Instead, he took swimming lessons. The principal of this same school was noticeably embarrassed to concede in response to a question posed to him that children of Ikaruga attended after school tutoring programs at a dramatically lower rate than did children in other parts of the country.
A mother of two young children whom I had met at a welcoming party in Ikaruga expressed her thoughts in this way: “I would like to see my children grow up, coming home muddy from playing in the rice fields, and learning to live like kids. In my opinion, swimming or music lessons would be much more valuable than extra tutoring.” And finally, in spending two days with my homestay family, the Abes, I saw a family that lived in harmony with their environment, that was exceedingly human, and that lived with a richness of heart far out of proportion to their modest home, situated on a narrow road. In all these interactions, it wasn’t just the message that struck me--it was the consistency and re-occurrence of the message. Once I realized that there might be pockets of livable communities in Japan like Ikaruga, it freed my mind to conceive of bringing my family to Japan, to experience Japanese life, even if for a short period of time.
I knew from the outset, even as I applied for the IEJ experience, that my Japanese background would make me different from the “typical” participant in this program. But through the course of the ten days as I assisted various colleagues in absorbing Japanese culture and society, I found myself re-connecting with the power and uniqueness of my own identity. I say “re-connect” because there certainly was a time in my earlier years when I was living my potential as a kind of bridge between Japanese and American culture. This was especially true during my professional years in international business. However, somewhere along the way, as my heart moved away from business and towards public education, and as I started my own family and shifted my focus on my children’s potential, I settled into a comfortable life as a “finished product.” But this experience with the IEJ program has caused me to realize that there is still much room for my own personal growth, and that I could yet have an exciting role to play in life, beyond the boundaries of my family or classroom. When I think of my own family, my wife who is Chinese, and my two children who already speak the three languages of English, Japanese, and Chinese, my dreams and my sense of the possibilities expand even more.
On the IIST website I read of the hope that “Japan and the world will find increasing peace and will prosper with an abundance of heart.” Every country of the world embraces its own unique history, traditions, and national identity. Yet in so many ways we share the very same struggles. In the face of modernity, how do we maintain the connections to our past? How do we resist the corrosive influences of materialism? Can we embrace technology without losing our sense of community? How do we protect the environment? Are we in control of our own destiny? These are all problems every country faces, yet they are also problems every individual faces at the level of their day-to-day living. This is why programs such as IEJ’s are so necessary and invaluable - they attempt to solve these problems in the only way they can be, through the connection of people who were formerly strangers, one person at a time. In the 34 years of this program’s existence over a thousand people have journeyed to Japan. One thousand - such a large number, and yet in other ways such a tiny one. Whatever the context, I am so grateful to now be counted among this number, and proud to share in your mission.
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