Recently I saw the British film 'The Queen'. It was well-acted, an accurate portrayal, perhaps, of the Royal Family, but I was left wondering how happy the Queen would be with the subject matter of the film. I am guessing that she would prefer it if other movies about her are made at some stage, and that the only cinematic representation of her life did not revolve around her relationship with a dead bimbo.
While she was alive I more or less held Princess Diana in contempt, and her sudden death did little to change my opinion. To me, she had always been a symbol of undeserved wealth and fame, a triumph of both the vacuous cult of celebrity and the hereditary cult of royal privilege. I mistakenly thought that other people shared my view, and I have a vivid memory of walking into my class of Vietnamese and Lebanese migrants and raising my arms in trimph as I announced 'The Stupid Cow is dead!' The students' reactions made it clear that I had completely misjudged people's reactions- I get the feeling the Queen made the same mistake.
It is still very difficult for me to rationalise public respect for Diana, let alone adoration.
Notoriously thick from an early age, she failed her O-levels twice. Born not so much with a silver spoon in her mouth so much as a whole goddamn cutlery set, she auctioned off her virginity, Jane Austen-style, to the highest bidder, and was lucky enough to score the jackpot, Prince Charles himself, a man with whom she had almost nothing in common. She allowed herself to be portrayed as a victim in this marriage, the young and foolish girl married off to a man with a lover on the side and in-laws from hell. But if she had any real reservations, walking into a life of world-wide fame and perpetual wealth and glamour, she didn't voice them. She deserves no pity regard ing her marriage; it didn't look to me as if she was being dragged down the aisle.
If she was hard done by in the sense that her husband was seeing Camilla, she soon got her revenge by sleeping with every man in England except Lord Nelson at Trafalgar Square. The list of men identified as her lovers include Barry Mannakee, David Waterhouse, James Gilbey, Oliver Hoare, Dr Hasnet Khan, Bryan Adams, Will Carling and Dodi Fayed. Apparently they buried her in a Y-shaped coffin.
Despite all this and her divorce (or perhaps because of), she was unfailingly popular with the public. Apparently much of her reputation rests with her charity work, a very curious phenomenon indeed. In 1987 she was photographed- shock of shocks and horror of horrors-
holding hand with an AIDS patient,
which some people at the time seemed to think rather honourable or admirable. Her motives were so obviously selfless that future secret and unannounced visits to AIDS hospices invariably were widely covered in the media. Meanwhile her work for the banning of landmines was similarly self-serving and manipulative. There were pictures of her touring a minefield wearing a flak jacket and helmet, long after, of course, the mine had actually been cleared by professional mine-clearers. Even the most fervent supporter of Diana admits that she had almost zero influence in the campaign against the use of landmines until after her death! At which time, supposedly, Britain and several other countries signed a treaty banning landmines. Those who trumpet this fact usually forget to note that the largest users and producers of landmines (the USA, China, Pakistan, North Korea etc) have failed completely to ratify the treaty.
In the last few years of her life however, Diana devoted herself wholeheartedly to those activities for which she had a natural talent: bad mouthing her ex-husband on TV, being glamorous, and sucking cocks on multi-million dollar yachts. Her senseless death was nothing more than the natural conclusion, the culmination of a wasted, senseless life.
I find it incredible that a thinking person could view her death as a tragedy. The silly cow was cavorting with her playboy billionnaire boyfriend in the back seat of a sportscar, swilling champers, seatbeltless and unthinking, while the driver, pissed as a newt and tripping off his dial, careless of speed limits and disdainful of safe driving, steered into a pylon and did all of us a favour.
In this context it is painfully obvious that public response to her death was not a response to Diana the person, the dull silly bimbo, or even to her life, a misled and gruesome joke. Something else is happening here. Something weird and perhaps inexplicable.
It has always been clear to me that any thinking person, anybody truly concerned with the betterment of the humanity's lot, could not support the existence of the royal family. How could they exist? What sad, parasitic culmination of the mindless and useless class system could this be? The ultimate pinnacle of hereditary privilege, responsible for countless and justified revolutions in hundreds of political systems in global history.
The royal family is both protection for and culmination of the iniquitous and pernicious class system which, to this day, permeates Bristish, and, to a lesser extent, all Anglo-Saxon society like a cancer. Take away the royals, and the whole sorry system will collapse. No more public schools, hereditary privilege, snobby accents, kinky repressed Tory MPs whipping each others' botties with bit of wet lettuce. All that will slowly decay if you take away the royals, which is of course what should be done. The French had it right after all: Off With Their Heads, the whole sorry bloody lot of them.
The absurdity and abhorrence of the royal family is understood, if only unconsciously, by every British person. The working classes feel it the most, because they are the largest victims of the class sytem; and in a seeming paradox, it was the lesser-educated, the unthinking, the shallow, who loved Diana the most and reacted with such inane panic at her death.
The conclusion is obvious. Diana's sacrificial death represents, at some deeper level, not only the sacrifice that the royal family makes in being royal (and do you think Prince William is due for a happy life?), but the sacrifice the public makes in supporting this parasitic atavistic snobbery in the first place. Those who wept for Diana wept for themselves, she was the sacrificial lamb for the absurdities inherent in the monarchical system. The tears were selfish tears. They wept for themselves, for the poor, pitiful, deluded and exploited fools that they must know, on some level, that they are.
Diana's failure is our own. Her failure is the failure of those who loved her most. Her weakness was theirs. The poorer, the more blighted, the more atavistic, the shallower, the more banal you are, the more likely you were to identify with and join the demented millions who wept at her funeral.
She also falls into that large category of 'more successful in death than in life' celebrities. She is the Jimmy Hendrix, the Kurt Kobain of the royal family. Her death provides infinitely more significance and satisfaction to history than her life. It has made her glorious and has given her purity and abilities she never had in life.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
I like gays
Homos. Queers. Fags.
I like them. I can hardly say a word against them. Unlike heteros.
Gays don't bash people. They don't bully kids at high school.
They don't get drunk at cricket matches and hurl racial abuse at my Japanese girlfriend.
They don't have fights on trains after football matches and molest young women.
They don't start riots at Cronulla beaches.
They don't start wars, bomb countries or send troops to Iraq.
I suspect, without evidence apart from the anecdotal, that gays are better educated, more sophisticated, and more socially skilled than the average hetero.
It's even true to say I've hardly met a gay man I haven't liked. Only once was I the acquaintance of a gay man who was unpopular, the widely-despised bully at Uniworld. As there were several gay men in the office, one woman observed 'There are three gay guys here, and they are all so different.'
Which caused Justin to sardonically remark, 'Just like normal people.'
Meanwhile the number of gay men who have positively influenced my life is substantial. I cannot shake the idea that they are friendlier, funnier and more reliable than straights.
I cannot become gay, but if the world were free of homophobia I would wish it. Fergus and others have urged me to try, but I do not believe what is sometimes said, that everybody can be gay or bisexual. My attraction to women is monumental, compulsive, irresistable, even if it is sometimes destructive. But if I could become gay, I would consider it. Gay sex is a candy shop.
I'm not sure how I feel about lesbians. Bisexual women I have known and loved, but women who are solely attracted to women seem to me, at times, dismissive of men. Disdainful. I wonder if they would like a world without men. I think it remarkable that while many gay men have heterosexual female friends, faghags, lesbians seem to have few male heterosexual friends. I have wondered about that, thinking that something is there that needs explaining. Just what is going on there? Can you imagine a group of lesbians welcoming a masculine, ocker man into their circle of warmth and friendship, in the same way that gay men welcome feminine women, Sex in the City style?
But I still like gays.
I like them. I can hardly say a word against them. Unlike heteros.
Gays don't bash people. They don't bully kids at high school.
They don't get drunk at cricket matches and hurl racial abuse at my Japanese girlfriend.
They don't have fights on trains after football matches and molest young women.
They don't start riots at Cronulla beaches.
They don't start wars, bomb countries or send troops to Iraq.
I suspect, without evidence apart from the anecdotal, that gays are better educated, more sophisticated, and more socially skilled than the average hetero.
It's even true to say I've hardly met a gay man I haven't liked. Only once was I the acquaintance of a gay man who was unpopular, the widely-despised bully at Uniworld. As there were several gay men in the office, one woman observed 'There are three gay guys here, and they are all so different.'
Which caused Justin to sardonically remark, 'Just like normal people.'
Meanwhile the number of gay men who have positively influenced my life is substantial. I cannot shake the idea that they are friendlier, funnier and more reliable than straights.
I cannot become gay, but if the world were free of homophobia I would wish it. Fergus and others have urged me to try, but I do not believe what is sometimes said, that everybody can be gay or bisexual. My attraction to women is monumental, compulsive, irresistable, even if it is sometimes destructive. But if I could become gay, I would consider it. Gay sex is a candy shop.
I'm not sure how I feel about lesbians. Bisexual women I have known and loved, but women who are solely attracted to women seem to me, at times, dismissive of men. Disdainful. I wonder if they would like a world without men. I think it remarkable that while many gay men have heterosexual female friends, faghags, lesbians seem to have few male heterosexual friends. I have wondered about that, thinking that something is there that needs explaining. Just what is going on there? Can you imagine a group of lesbians welcoming a masculine, ocker man into their circle of warmth and friendship, in the same way that gay men welcome feminine women, Sex in the City style?
But I still like gays.
Monday, January 01, 2007
The Hard Truth: Japan is Dying
Japan is doomed. It's partly a problem that other develped countries are facing, but partly a consequence of decades of inflexibility, racism and formality.
The agent of Japan's death is simple: depopulation.
The fertility rate in Japan is 1.29. That is 1.29 children per woman, whereas demographers consider replacement fertility to be about 2.1. All developed countries have lowering fertility rates, and its a problem of varying degrees. The liberation of women, higher age of marriage, the cost of raising and educating children, all contribute towards low fertility. Japan suffers more than most (only Italy's fertility rate is lower) but it's a country-killer especially in Japan because
Japan refuses to take immigrants.
Immigration is the lifeblood of America, Canada, Australia and Europe. It keeps the economy, culture and pension systems alive in those countries. It provides young people (who have babies) and workers that both produce goods and consume them. Immigration causes some problems and the process is rarely completely smooth. But the target cultures are immeasurably enriched. New ideas, languages, cultures, food, all serve to enliven and stimulate the host country.
Japan is desperately in need of new ideas, culture, and languages, not to mention babies.
It is ironic that the need for immigration in Japan is in almost direct reverse proportion to its likelihood of getting it.
Japan's government, police and bureacracy are all deeply racist and xenophobic. Restrictions on foreigners are extreme; foreigners (labelled 'aliens') have to carry foreign identification cards at all times, and are routinely discrinated against in employment, housing and the law. The process of obtaining permanent residency (e.g. for spouses of Japanese citizens) is fiendishly and purposefully complex. Public conservatism and reluctance to accept foreigners is exacerbated by sensationalist and one-sided media reports of "foreign gangs". Foreign workers find it increasingly difficult to stay on as years go by, and even Westerners, who hold a certain charm and fascination for the Japanese, are expected to leave after a few years. Meanwhile Japanese hold the Chinese and other Asian people in open contempt. Many Japanese do not consider themselves Asian, but rather 'Japanese'.
This (partly imaginary) homogeneity is partly the root cause of the problem. Only Japanese are (or can be) Japanese. And Japan is only for the Japanese. The idea, more or less accepted in countries like Canada or Australia, that you can become Australian or Canadian by living there for a long time or at least by being born there, is alien to Japan. If you don't have Japanese blood, you can't be Japanese. That simple. They also expect other nationalities to be similiar. All Americans are blond and blue eyed, for example. Many Japanese were confused, for example, when I told them many Australians are Asians. For the Japanese, even living there for many generations will not make you one of them. Koreans, whose ancestors were kidnapped and brought to Japan centuries ago, who look like and sound like Japanese, who no longer speak Korean, must carry Korean identification cards.
If excluding foreigners from the country was not dangerous enough, Japanese culture and government policy make it unlikely that the demographic crisis will be solved from the inside. The fertility is set to decline even further. Fewer women choose to marry, fewer couples have children, fewer children are being born to those couples who decide to have them. For Japan's powerful, professional and independent women, a life as a housewife is increasingly unattractive; and women are rarely expected to work after marriage.
And who wants to marry anyway? Japanese people are about as romantic as cement, sex is so unpopular that sex rates are the lowest in the developed world, and the typical marriage has about as much passion as a bank account. Sex within marriage is reportedly so rare that it must be planned around yearly holidays, while men typically (and, from my experience, without much objection from their wives) go outside the marriage for sex, to host bars and 'soaplands', where their money can buy what their personality can't otherwise obtain for them. Meanwhile women learn the lessson that only men want sex, and women are paid for it in one way or another. My girlfriend seemed honestly surprised that I expected her to enjoy sex, apparently 'women don't enjoy sex', and the idea that women in the West can enjoy it and even seek it out took her by suprise.
This is the background for kaso, rural depopulation. Combined with the natural drift of population from the country to the city, the result is demographic disaster in the countryside. Some prefectures have upwards of 70% of residents over 70. The Japanese countryside is rapidly becoming a collection of nursing homes with attached nursing residence and collections of rice farms being farmed by over 70 year old couples.
This leaves many areas completely overserviced in terms of, for example, education. There are primary schools in Minami Osumi Cho, where I was living, with 6 or 7 students. I attended a beggining of year opening ceremony with two students entering the first grade. Meanwhile, the 6th grade had 8. A rapidly shrinking school with more staff than students.
Things are hardly likely to change. The government recently exhorted Japanese women to "pay attention to their duties and not be so selfish". Couples can't hold hands in public, and many men remain so sexually immature they are virgins in their thirties and forties. Both men and women lack flirting skills, while the costs of marrying and raising children are extreme ($350 for a school backpack, anyone?)
The end result is not good. The latest statistics suggest that the population peaked last year; it will decline slightly this year, and will go down steadily...forever.
Unless they take migrants.
The agent of Japan's death is simple: depopulation.
The fertility rate in Japan is 1.29. That is 1.29 children per woman, whereas demographers consider replacement fertility to be about 2.1. All developed countries have lowering fertility rates, and its a problem of varying degrees. The liberation of women, higher age of marriage, the cost of raising and educating children, all contribute towards low fertility. Japan suffers more than most (only Italy's fertility rate is lower) but it's a country-killer especially in Japan because
Japan refuses to take immigrants.
Immigration is the lifeblood of America, Canada, Australia and Europe. It keeps the economy, culture and pension systems alive in those countries. It provides young people (who have babies) and workers that both produce goods and consume them. Immigration causes some problems and the process is rarely completely smooth. But the target cultures are immeasurably enriched. New ideas, languages, cultures, food, all serve to enliven and stimulate the host country.
Japan is desperately in need of new ideas, culture, and languages, not to mention babies.
It is ironic that the need for immigration in Japan is in almost direct reverse proportion to its likelihood of getting it.
Japan's government, police and bureacracy are all deeply racist and xenophobic. Restrictions on foreigners are extreme; foreigners (labelled 'aliens') have to carry foreign identification cards at all times, and are routinely discrinated against in employment, housing and the law. The process of obtaining permanent residency (e.g. for spouses of Japanese citizens) is fiendishly and purposefully complex. Public conservatism and reluctance to accept foreigners is exacerbated by sensationalist and one-sided media reports of "foreign gangs". Foreign workers find it increasingly difficult to stay on as years go by, and even Westerners, who hold a certain charm and fascination for the Japanese, are expected to leave after a few years. Meanwhile Japanese hold the Chinese and other Asian people in open contempt. Many Japanese do not consider themselves Asian, but rather 'Japanese'.
This (partly imaginary) homogeneity is partly the root cause of the problem. Only Japanese are (or can be) Japanese. And Japan is only for the Japanese. The idea, more or less accepted in countries like Canada or Australia, that you can become Australian or Canadian by living there for a long time or at least by being born there, is alien to Japan. If you don't have Japanese blood, you can't be Japanese. That simple. They also expect other nationalities to be similiar. All Americans are blond and blue eyed, for example. Many Japanese were confused, for example, when I told them many Australians are Asians. For the Japanese, even living there for many generations will not make you one of them. Koreans, whose ancestors were kidnapped and brought to Japan centuries ago, who look like and sound like Japanese, who no longer speak Korean, must carry Korean identification cards.
If excluding foreigners from the country was not dangerous enough, Japanese culture and government policy make it unlikely that the demographic crisis will be solved from the inside. The fertility is set to decline even further. Fewer women choose to marry, fewer couples have children, fewer children are being born to those couples who decide to have them. For Japan's powerful, professional and independent women, a life as a housewife is increasingly unattractive; and women are rarely expected to work after marriage.
And who wants to marry anyway? Japanese people are about as romantic as cement, sex is so unpopular that sex rates are the lowest in the developed world, and the typical marriage has about as much passion as a bank account. Sex within marriage is reportedly so rare that it must be planned around yearly holidays, while men typically (and, from my experience, without much objection from their wives) go outside the marriage for sex, to host bars and 'soaplands', where their money can buy what their personality can't otherwise obtain for them. Meanwhile women learn the lessson that only men want sex, and women are paid for it in one way or another. My girlfriend seemed honestly surprised that I expected her to enjoy sex, apparently 'women don't enjoy sex', and the idea that women in the West can enjoy it and even seek it out took her by suprise.
This is the background for kaso, rural depopulation. Combined with the natural drift of population from the country to the city, the result is demographic disaster in the countryside. Some prefectures have upwards of 70% of residents over 70. The Japanese countryside is rapidly becoming a collection of nursing homes with attached nursing residence and collections of rice farms being farmed by over 70 year old couples.
This leaves many areas completely overserviced in terms of, for example, education. There are primary schools in Minami Osumi Cho, where I was living, with 6 or 7 students. I attended a beggining of year opening ceremony with two students entering the first grade. Meanwhile, the 6th grade had 8. A rapidly shrinking school with more staff than students.
Things are hardly likely to change. The government recently exhorted Japanese women to "pay attention to their duties and not be so selfish". Couples can't hold hands in public, and many men remain so sexually immature they are virgins in their thirties and forties. Both men and women lack flirting skills, while the costs of marrying and raising children are extreme ($350 for a school backpack, anyone?)
The end result is not good. The latest statistics suggest that the population peaked last year; it will decline slightly this year, and will go down steadily...forever.
Unless they take migrants.
Battlestar Galactica is Crap
It was with great anticipation that I finally got hold of the first season DVD and whacked it into my player, relishing the thought of hours of enjoyment.
But, let's be honest: It's complete crapola. It could be one underlying theme or approach that makes it crap, but I can't quite put my finger on this 'unifying crapness', so I'll just list my complaints and see how that goes.
1. My biggest complaint, the game killer, is that there are no Cylons. That's right. Battlestar Galactica has no Cylons. Oh, individual CG Cylons turn up every second episode for about 3.5 seconds. But that's it. No laser fights. No interrogations by terrifying androids. No Terminator-style battle scenes.
2. What they do have is human cylons. That's right, robots that look like humans, even think they are humans. There is one particularly irritating human cylon woman who may or may not be real, who may or may not be helpful, who may or may not be getting it on with this human scientist. Like some cheap Fatal Attraction situation, deliberately designed to be vague and frustrating. She ain't that pretty either. These human cylons are supposed to take the place of the real thing, but all I hear is blah blah blah, blah blah blah, we couldn't afford cylons. And if you have no cylons, you have no contest.
3. There are no battles. You will watch 3 episodes before you see spacecraft do anything. You can watch five hours in vain to see a cylon spacecraft destroyed. There are no dogfights, heroic last stands, grim fightbacks, or victories of any kind. Instead you get endless anxiety without resolution.
4. It's not about anything. The classic angst and fear that is tapped into so successfully by the original series or Terminator, or even the Cybermen of Doctor Who, the idea of man versus robot, is entirely absent. The theme of good versus evil, done so well by, say, Star Wars, is not even attempted. Instead you get human drama and politics. Like some kind of West Wing combined with Futurama. But without the future, because...
5. It's not even science fiction. If it's set in the future, the future must look like Washington about the time of the Watergate scandal. Apart from an occasional CG scene, it's about as futuristic as Top Gun. There are no automatic doors, food dispensers, transport beams, personal communicators, holo decks, androids, not even any robots or aliens! Instead it all looks depressingly late-2oth century. Empty coffee cups on tables. Paper everywhere. Communication by radio. Books! The human president appears to work in an aircraft cabin, everybody else sits in the passenger seats! Where is the shiny out-0f-worldness of Star Trek, the cool metallica and technology of Alien?
6. It's barely fiction. Plots inspired by modern life. Terrorism, who can we trust? How much democracy should we have? How can we find the traitors in our midst? Society versus the individual. The needs of the many versus the needs of the few. An entire episode was spent dealing with prisoner's rights! Not a cylon within lightyears! God, what is this crap? I don't need to see this in science fiction, it's like a BBC documentary!
7. It could have been so good. It could have been a new V. Now that was science fiction. Good versus evil. Heroism, glory, guts, sacrifce, freaky aliens. Or it could have been like Starship Troopers. Now there was a movie. Hot chicks with nice boobies and shining eyes who take showers with the troops and make frantic love to them in between battles. Huge battle scenes with lots of death and victory. The heroic quest, against a backdrop of an epic clash of Good and Evil.
Instead it's Crap.
But, let's be honest: It's complete crapola. It could be one underlying theme or approach that makes it crap, but I can't quite put my finger on this 'unifying crapness', so I'll just list my complaints and see how that goes.
1. My biggest complaint, the game killer, is that there are no Cylons. That's right. Battlestar Galactica has no Cylons. Oh, individual CG Cylons turn up every second episode for about 3.5 seconds. But that's it. No laser fights. No interrogations by terrifying androids. No Terminator-style battle scenes.
2. What they do have is human cylons. That's right, robots that look like humans, even think they are humans. There is one particularly irritating human cylon woman who may or may not be real, who may or may not be helpful, who may or may not be getting it on with this human scientist. Like some cheap Fatal Attraction situation, deliberately designed to be vague and frustrating. She ain't that pretty either. These human cylons are supposed to take the place of the real thing, but all I hear is blah blah blah, blah blah blah, we couldn't afford cylons. And if you have no cylons, you have no contest.
3. There are no battles. You will watch 3 episodes before you see spacecraft do anything. You can watch five hours in vain to see a cylon spacecraft destroyed. There are no dogfights, heroic last stands, grim fightbacks, or victories of any kind. Instead you get endless anxiety without resolution.
4. It's not about anything. The classic angst and fear that is tapped into so successfully by the original series or Terminator, or even the Cybermen of Doctor Who, the idea of man versus robot, is entirely absent. The theme of good versus evil, done so well by, say, Star Wars, is not even attempted. Instead you get human drama and politics. Like some kind of West Wing combined with Futurama. But without the future, because...
5. It's not even science fiction. If it's set in the future, the future must look like Washington about the time of the Watergate scandal. Apart from an occasional CG scene, it's about as futuristic as Top Gun. There are no automatic doors, food dispensers, transport beams, personal communicators, holo decks, androids, not even any robots or aliens! Instead it all looks depressingly late-2oth century. Empty coffee cups on tables. Paper everywhere. Communication by radio. Books! The human president appears to work in an aircraft cabin, everybody else sits in the passenger seats! Where is the shiny out-0f-worldness of Star Trek, the cool metallica and technology of Alien?
6. It's barely fiction. Plots inspired by modern life. Terrorism, who can we trust? How much democracy should we have? How can we find the traitors in our midst? Society versus the individual. The needs of the many versus the needs of the few. An entire episode was spent dealing with prisoner's rights! Not a cylon within lightyears! God, what is this crap? I don't need to see this in science fiction, it's like a BBC documentary!
7. It could have been so good. It could have been a new V. Now that was science fiction. Good versus evil. Heroism, glory, guts, sacrifce, freaky aliens. Or it could have been like Starship Troopers. Now there was a movie. Hot chicks with nice boobies and shining eyes who take showers with the troops and make frantic love to them in between battles. Huge battle scenes with lots of death and victory. The heroic quest, against a backdrop of an epic clash of Good and Evil.
Instead it's Crap.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Working at the Board of Education
The Nejime Town Hall is a squat ugly troll beside the river. Three stories tall, it is a concrete Soviet-style office block.
It is a microcosm of all that is wrong with Japan.
Inside, dozens of public servants work hard at appearing busy. Sixty percent of the people do nothing but doodle on their desks or stare at computer screens, grimly shuffling paper when another person comes near. The bulk of the work that does go on is devoted to those projects that directly harm or detract from the life of Nejime: the terrifying garbage system, the thought police of the Local Neighbourhood Association, the agricultural subsidies and construction boondoggling that keep the economy alive. Massive time and energy is devoted to special projects that can waste time and money even more effectively: I will never forget the large department set aside on the ground floor dedicated to gappei, the merger with the neighbouring town of Sata. I would walk past this huge room every morning to see all 12 public servants
playing solitaire on their pc.
This 'gappei preparation project' took six months.
On the second floor you will come to the Nejime Board of Education, the kyouikuinkai, the source of all evil, despair and intellectual failure in Nejime.
Here there are about 13 people in various positions of real or imaginary authority.
The key point of the BOE is that the 'pretense at working', predominant in the rest of the Town Hall, has evolved to its highest expression here. I admit that I myself was among the worst offenders. No, I don't admit that, I grind the statement out through gritted teeth, because I spent hundreds of hours doodling in kanji practice books and drinking coffee while 2 kilometres away an entire school of kids was listening to their teacher drone on in Japanese about English grammar points.
At first I fought my fate, but the system is implacable. There was no thought anywhere that change was needed, that the current system wasn't working, that I was here to teach English, that the kids were to learn English. Instead, when problems arose, they were my problems. I wanted to change something and inconvenience people, I couldn't work with the system, I couldn't speak Japanese.
To affect change is such a system is simply not possible. I was physically prevented, refused entry into class. The next step would have been expulsion from my job and from the country. In Japan, you play ball or you don't play.
That's why so many JETs leave after a year. The job is ridiculous.
But I liked the primary school, and I loved my outside life, sushi and sex and onsens and getting drunk with Fergus.
It is no exaggeration to say that for three years the Nejime BOE worked hard at preventing anybody from learning English. So I accepted the inevitable.
I became an active observer of its rhythms and its contradictions. And being at once part of it and outside of it, I could observe from a perspective, impossible, I believe, for a Japanese person.
Every morning there was morning meeting, conducted at 8.30 and lasting anywhere between 1 minute and 10. For the first few weeks of my job, when I knew little or no Japanese, I was literally completely unaware that I was in the middle of a Japanese meeting. There were none of the signs that you might expect in the West: people sitting around a table or at least sitting at attention; a person of authority talking to the others; other people contributing or asking questions; eye contact being made by listeners to speakers. Instead what I at first took to be a homeless man, or on second thought a senile man from another floor, would wander into the room, collapse on a couch, and drool and mumble to himself for five minutes. The other people in the office would, it seemed to me, completely ignore him. People took calls, worked on their computers, chatted to each other. However in time I realised that this was the meeting. It was a watershed in my understanding of Japan, not only that I hadn't known it was a meeting, that nobody had told me, that it had been assumed that I had known. That meant that this kind of meeting was the norm. This obviously senile old git was the Head of the Board of Education. He was in a positon of authority.
Even when my Japanese became good enough to understand the gist of the meetings, I was not endeared to the Japanese office. A Japanese meeting consists of one guy standing up and saying something along the lines of...
"I hearby open the daily meeting of such and such a date. I urge everybody to do their best and improve the education in Nejime. Thank you very much."
After which the next guy in line would say...
"Thank you very much, honourable such and such. The teaching section has nothing special to report."
Then the next guy would say "Thank you very much. Honourable such and such has gone to his weekly business meeting in Kanoya"
Then the next guy would say "Thank you very much. I have nothing to report"
And this would go on until the last guy says "The meeting is now closed. Thank you very much."
After that the hard work would continue until long after the time to go home had passed. Useful time-filling operations include: paper shuffling, looking at the computer, opening drawers, drinking green tea and shredding paper. Advanced level time killing techniques include, but are not limited to: picking wax out of the ears; putting papers into envelopes before taking them out and shredding them; clipping of fingernails, playing with the tea leaves in the bottom of the cup, joking with co-workers; and when worse comes to worse talking to the gaijin in the corner.
Only the office girl does any work, and she has a hard time of it- telling her seniors where things are, constantly taking phone calls, faxing, organising meetings, schedules and stationery, and then making tea at 10.30 and 3! For her troubles she gets chocolate once a year on White Day and the privilegeof being sexually harrassed on other days. Finally, her career reaches its peak when she is married off to some corrupt construction official in her 26th year. Whether her new fate is better or worse than her previous is hard to judge.
And that is the Nejime Board of Education
It is a microcosm of all that is wrong with Japan.
Inside, dozens of public servants work hard at appearing busy. Sixty percent of the people do nothing but doodle on their desks or stare at computer screens, grimly shuffling paper when another person comes near. The bulk of the work that does go on is devoted to those projects that directly harm or detract from the life of Nejime: the terrifying garbage system, the thought police of the Local Neighbourhood Association, the agricultural subsidies and construction boondoggling that keep the economy alive. Massive time and energy is devoted to special projects that can waste time and money even more effectively: I will never forget the large department set aside on the ground floor dedicated to gappei, the merger with the neighbouring town of Sata. I would walk past this huge room every morning to see all 12 public servants
playing solitaire on their pc.
This 'gappei preparation project' took six months.
On the second floor you will come to the Nejime Board of Education, the kyouikuinkai, the source of all evil, despair and intellectual failure in Nejime.
Here there are about 13 people in various positions of real or imaginary authority.
The key point of the BOE is that the 'pretense at working', predominant in the rest of the Town Hall, has evolved to its highest expression here. I admit that I myself was among the worst offenders. No, I don't admit that, I grind the statement out through gritted teeth, because I spent hundreds of hours doodling in kanji practice books and drinking coffee while 2 kilometres away an entire school of kids was listening to their teacher drone on in Japanese about English grammar points.
At first I fought my fate, but the system is implacable. There was no thought anywhere that change was needed, that the current system wasn't working, that I was here to teach English, that the kids were to learn English. Instead, when problems arose, they were my problems. I wanted to change something and inconvenience people, I couldn't work with the system, I couldn't speak Japanese.
To affect change is such a system is simply not possible. I was physically prevented, refused entry into class. The next step would have been expulsion from my job and from the country. In Japan, you play ball or you don't play.
That's why so many JETs leave after a year. The job is ridiculous.
But I liked the primary school, and I loved my outside life, sushi and sex and onsens and getting drunk with Fergus.
It is no exaggeration to say that for three years the Nejime BOE worked hard at preventing anybody from learning English. So I accepted the inevitable.
I became an active observer of its rhythms and its contradictions. And being at once part of it and outside of it, I could observe from a perspective, impossible, I believe, for a Japanese person.
Every morning there was morning meeting, conducted at 8.30 and lasting anywhere between 1 minute and 10. For the first few weeks of my job, when I knew little or no Japanese, I was literally completely unaware that I was in the middle of a Japanese meeting. There were none of the signs that you might expect in the West: people sitting around a table or at least sitting at attention; a person of authority talking to the others; other people contributing or asking questions; eye contact being made by listeners to speakers. Instead what I at first took to be a homeless man, or on second thought a senile man from another floor, would wander into the room, collapse on a couch, and drool and mumble to himself for five minutes. The other people in the office would, it seemed to me, completely ignore him. People took calls, worked on their computers, chatted to each other. However in time I realised that this was the meeting. It was a watershed in my understanding of Japan, not only that I hadn't known it was a meeting, that nobody had told me, that it had been assumed that I had known. That meant that this kind of meeting was the norm. This obviously senile old git was the Head of the Board of Education. He was in a positon of authority.
Even when my Japanese became good enough to understand the gist of the meetings, I was not endeared to the Japanese office. A Japanese meeting consists of one guy standing up and saying something along the lines of...
"I hearby open the daily meeting of such and such a date. I urge everybody to do their best and improve the education in Nejime. Thank you very much."
After which the next guy in line would say...
"Thank you very much, honourable such and such. The teaching section has nothing special to report."
Then the next guy would say "Thank you very much. Honourable such and such has gone to his weekly business meeting in Kanoya"
Then the next guy would say "Thank you very much. I have nothing to report"
And this would go on until the last guy says "The meeting is now closed. Thank you very much."
After that the hard work would continue until long after the time to go home had passed. Useful time-filling operations include: paper shuffling, looking at the computer, opening drawers, drinking green tea and shredding paper. Advanced level time killing techniques include, but are not limited to: picking wax out of the ears; putting papers into envelopes before taking them out and shredding them; clipping of fingernails, playing with the tea leaves in the bottom of the cup, joking with co-workers; and when worse comes to worse talking to the gaijin in the corner.
Only the office girl does any work, and she has a hard time of it- telling her seniors where things are, constantly taking phone calls, faxing, organising meetings, schedules and stationery, and then making tea at 10.30 and 3! For her troubles she gets chocolate once a year on White Day and the privilegeof being sexually harrassed on other days. Finally, her career reaches its peak when she is married off to some corrupt construction official in her 26th year. Whether her new fate is better or worse than her previous is hard to judge.
And that is the Nejime Board of Education
Monday, July 03, 2006
Today's thought: the problem with English in Japan
The problem with English in Japan is that it's taught by Japanese to Japanese in Japanese from books written by Japanese for entry to Japanese schools.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Not Sorry To Leave Japan
There are certain things I will miss about Nejime:
The scenery at Ohama as you look over Kinko Bay.
My long runs over the mountain.
The sound of the cicadas in the summer evening.
The hot water of the onsen, Neppi-kan, in the midst of Winter.
A cold beer with the neighbours, the Torigoes.
The laughter of the most innocent children in the world at the smaller shougakkous. If I could live my childhood again, I would take Namerigawa or Noborio Shougakkou over anywhere else. To misquote George Orwell,
'If there is any hope for Japan, it lies in the children'
But I am under no illusions here. My position in Nejime is untenable, temporary, and essentially, ridiculous. I have not been 'welcomed' in any but the most superficial way. Japanese inaka society is so insular, racist and and ignorant that I could never be at home here even were it financially or legally viable.
For a while I was convinced that it was only the yakuba that was the source of evil, that outside its parasitical and unnecessary bureacracy some kind of real culture marched on, separate and somehow opposed to the absurdity of the paperwork and tatamae that the town hall generates. I thought I could catch glimpses of this in the chanting of the omikoshi priests, the shochu comraderie, the kindness of the obasans, the timelessness of the fishing boats. But I don't believe that anymore. The local people put up with and perpertuate the gomi system, the insidious neighbourhood meeting network, the absurd PTA meetings, the Orwellian public announcements and chimes. They are happy to send their kids to the soul destroying junior high school, bow to people in the town hall, lie to me constantly, bribe the mayor to join the public service, and stay off the beach in the hottest weeks of the year because 'swimming season' has officially closed.
I cannot live in such a morally bankrupt, hypocritical society and stay true to myself.
So I have no regrets in leaving Nejime. I will take on the rudeness, filth and lies of Sydney one more time.
The scenery at Ohama as you look over Kinko Bay.
My long runs over the mountain.
The sound of the cicadas in the summer evening.
The hot water of the onsen, Neppi-kan, in the midst of Winter.
A cold beer with the neighbours, the Torigoes.
The laughter of the most innocent children in the world at the smaller shougakkous. If I could live my childhood again, I would take Namerigawa or Noborio Shougakkou over anywhere else. To misquote George Orwell,
'If there is any hope for Japan, it lies in the children'
But I am under no illusions here. My position in Nejime is untenable, temporary, and essentially, ridiculous. I have not been 'welcomed' in any but the most superficial way. Japanese inaka society is so insular, racist and and ignorant that I could never be at home here even were it financially or legally viable.
For a while I was convinced that it was only the yakuba that was the source of evil, that outside its parasitical and unnecessary bureacracy some kind of real culture marched on, separate and somehow opposed to the absurdity of the paperwork and tatamae that the town hall generates. I thought I could catch glimpses of this in the chanting of the omikoshi priests, the shochu comraderie, the kindness of the obasans, the timelessness of the fishing boats. But I don't believe that anymore. The local people put up with and perpertuate the gomi system, the insidious neighbourhood meeting network, the absurd PTA meetings, the Orwellian public announcements and chimes. They are happy to send their kids to the soul destroying junior high school, bow to people in the town hall, lie to me constantly, bribe the mayor to join the public service, and stay off the beach in the hottest weeks of the year because 'swimming season' has officially closed.
I cannot live in such a morally bankrupt, hypocritical society and stay true to myself.
So I have no regrets in leaving Nejime. I will take on the rudeness, filth and lies of Sydney one more time.
Monday, June 05, 2006
My Job is Stupid Part Two: the English Teacher Who Couldn't Speak English
After the calamity of trying to teach with Baka Sensei, I waited in some trepidation to find out who I would be 'team teaching' with in the new term. I was sick of the waste, humiliation and frustration of trying to work with somebody who refused to let anyone speak a word of English in 'English class'.
Naturally I had no say in who would be the new Japanese Teacher of English. I was not even informed about who would be making such a decision. Attempts to discover the chain of command were ignored (sometimes people in my office will literally not acknowledge that I have spoken).
So finally I met the new sensei. Seemed like a nice guy, in his thirties, a typical smoking pachinko-loving Japanese guy.
I decided to test the waters after introductions were made in Japanese.
'How long have you been teaching?'
Nothing. No response
'How long have you been teaching?' More slowly this time.
No reply except a puzzled look.
I tried something a bit simpler. 'It is nice to meet you.'
Nothing. A look of mild panic.
'Hello?'
'Ah, konnichwa.' A smile spreads across his face.
So I continued in Japanese...
'How long have you been teaching English?'
'Ah, this is my first job.'
'Okay...what were you doing before this?'
'I was studying at university'
'Right...and before university?'
'Um, high school'
This guy was definitely in his thirties...
'Okay, how long were you in university?'
'Nine years'
'Nine years??'
'That's right.'
'Well, what did you study at university?'
'Um...English...'
'I just don't get it, mate'
There followed a long complex explanation about what he was doing at university which I could not follow because my Japanese was not good enough.
I never found out exactly what he did at university because I never asked again and he never offered. Nor did I ever attempt to speak any English with him again.
In class he gave explanations in Japanese of grammar points presented in the textbook. In Japanese, of course.
I want to get one thing straight right away. No Speak English Sensei was a vast, monumental improvement on Baka Sensei because he let me do stuff in class. That's right. I could make and implement games and activities that were communicative in nature. As a result the second years became infinitely more interested in and proficient with English. I began to enjoy coming to the Junior High School. No Speak English Sensei was so much better than Baka Sensei that I signed up to do a third year of JET. I even formed a good working relationship with him though I did wonder how he got to be teacher...which is a large topic in itself.
Naturally the fundamental problems with English Education at the Nejime Junior High School were not solved even though I was now speaking in class.
For example, I was not going to first year classes as I wasn't invited by the music teacher who was teaching them, nor was I going to third year classes, because third years were doing tests. These tests were happening every day I was there. No Speak English Sensei would photocopy a very long list of grammar or vocabulary questions, take the handouts to the class room and distribute them. The students would take out their pens and do the tests, mark their neighbour's, and, if time allowed, listen to the grammar translation that would follow. This went on, to my knowledge, for the entire term.
Next: Dream Sensei
Naturally I had no say in who would be the new Japanese Teacher of English. I was not even informed about who would be making such a decision. Attempts to discover the chain of command were ignored (sometimes people in my office will literally not acknowledge that I have spoken).
So finally I met the new sensei. Seemed like a nice guy, in his thirties, a typical smoking pachinko-loving Japanese guy.
I decided to test the waters after introductions were made in Japanese.
'How long have you been teaching?'
Nothing. No response
'How long have you been teaching?' More slowly this time.
No reply except a puzzled look.
I tried something a bit simpler. 'It is nice to meet you.'
Nothing. A look of mild panic.
'Hello?'
'Ah, konnichwa.' A smile spreads across his face.
So I continued in Japanese...
'How long have you been teaching English?'
'Ah, this is my first job.'
'Okay...what were you doing before this?'
'I was studying at university'
'Right...and before university?'
'Um, high school'
This guy was definitely in his thirties...
'Okay, how long were you in university?'
'Nine years'
'Nine years??'
'That's right.'
'Well, what did you study at university?'
'Um...English...'
'I just don't get it, mate'
There followed a long complex explanation about what he was doing at university which I could not follow because my Japanese was not good enough.
I never found out exactly what he did at university because I never asked again and he never offered. Nor did I ever attempt to speak any English with him again.
In class he gave explanations in Japanese of grammar points presented in the textbook. In Japanese, of course.
I want to get one thing straight right away. No Speak English Sensei was a vast, monumental improvement on Baka Sensei because he let me do stuff in class. That's right. I could make and implement games and activities that were communicative in nature. As a result the second years became infinitely more interested in and proficient with English. I began to enjoy coming to the Junior High School. No Speak English Sensei was so much better than Baka Sensei that I signed up to do a third year of JET. I even formed a good working relationship with him though I did wonder how he got to be teacher...which is a large topic in itself.
Naturally the fundamental problems with English Education at the Nejime Junior High School were not solved even though I was now speaking in class.
For example, I was not going to first year classes as I wasn't invited by the music teacher who was teaching them, nor was I going to third year classes, because third years were doing tests. These tests were happening every day I was there. No Speak English Sensei would photocopy a very long list of grammar or vocabulary questions, take the handouts to the class room and distribute them. The students would take out their pens and do the tests, mark their neighbour's, and, if time allowed, listen to the grammar translation that would follow. This went on, to my knowledge, for the entire term.
Next: Dream Sensei
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Incident in the Mud
On Saturday I drove all the way up to Saruganjo, searching for this art exhibition Gari and Daniella were putting on. Of course it was raining, and I, houkou onchi that I am, took the wrong turning at the last fork, went up a small concrete back road, had a split second to think 'this doesn't look so promising' then I drove hyakuchan right over the lip of the road and deposited her left front wheel in a rice paddy.
I cursed the mini-skirted trollops working at the no-pants shabu shabu whose hypnotic pussies and longlegs had worked to convince the corrupt politicians who were being wined dined and sixty-nined by construction company reps that approving budgets to concrete the whole of bloody Taramizu to within 1 milimetre of each rice field was not the complete and terminal wastage of money that it patently was. When reversing did not work I got out and spent the next 90 minutes, in the pouring rain, up to my knees in mud, mukade and bilharzia, trying to wedge pieces of wood and rocks under the wheel to get some traction. Finally, Mai chan and a dozen ALTs, unbeknownst to me, 200 metres away and appreciating the joys of fine art, good wine and light-hearted sexual flirtation, deigned to turn their attention to the car they had been vaguely aware of laying over thefields (Mai chan: 'I thought that white car looked a little familiar. I wondered why it wasn't moving.') In the end it just took a couple of people to push while I swore to myself that I Would Never LeaveNejime Again Except To Go To The Airport To Leave.
The art exhibition was attended by well-dressed cliqueish types who looked askance at this barefoot, mud covered madman who flicked rice field slime over paintings. Several attractive women sneered and moved away to practise fellatio on someone else. Later we went to sushi which wasn't as enjoyable as usual because many had never seen me eat before and kept talking about it which served merely to confirm my freak status. I responded to their scrutiny by going home and picking the leeches off my balls.
Just another day in paradise.
I cursed the mini-skirted trollops working at the no-pants shabu shabu whose hypnotic pussies and longlegs had worked to convince the corrupt politicians who were being wined dined and sixty-nined by construction company reps that approving budgets to concrete the whole of bloody Taramizu to within 1 milimetre of each rice field was not the complete and terminal wastage of money that it patently was. When reversing did not work I got out and spent the next 90 minutes, in the pouring rain, up to my knees in mud, mukade and bilharzia, trying to wedge pieces of wood and rocks under the wheel to get some traction. Finally, Mai chan and a dozen ALTs, unbeknownst to me, 200 metres away and appreciating the joys of fine art, good wine and light-hearted sexual flirtation, deigned to turn their attention to the car they had been vaguely aware of laying over thefields (Mai chan: 'I thought that white car looked a little familiar. I wondered why it wasn't moving.') In the end it just took a couple of people to push while I swore to myself that I Would Never LeaveNejime Again Except To Go To The Airport To Leave.
The art exhibition was attended by well-dressed cliqueish types who looked askance at this barefoot, mud covered madman who flicked rice field slime over paintings. Several attractive women sneered and moved away to practise fellatio on someone else. Later we went to sushi which wasn't as enjoyable as usual because many had never seen me eat before and kept talking about it which served merely to confirm my freak status. I responded to their scrutiny by going home and picking the leeches off my balls.
Just another day in paradise.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
My section chief is an idiot
Just now my section chief (kachou) at the Board of Education deigned to talk to me.
He talked to me, as he usually does, about what I will do when I go back to Australia.
As he is idiot, he is unable to speak to me in Japanese or English. He has always refused to acknowledge that I have conversational Japanese. On the other hand, he speaks almost no English. This is a rough transcript of our conversation,
'Oh Michael sensei, what do coming back to Australia?'
He has asked me this question at least four times over the last year.
'Mada kimetemasen kedo...tabun Eigo oshierukoto tsuzsuketieru' (I haven't really decided yet but I'll probably continue teaching English)
There is a look of disbelief on his face, as if he couldn't believe I could actually teach. On the other hand, I would have a look of disbelief on my face if I ever saw him do anything apart from read the newspaper and drink coffee.
'Oh really? Doko...where...shigoto...work...school?'
'Tandai de kamo shiremasen' (Maybe in a college)
'Doko...? Ah... Nani?
'Tandai'
'Tandai wa nani?'
Then the office girl informed him that I was speaking Japanese and repeated the word. At which point the dirty old treacherous bastard expressed surprise.
'Nihongo ja nai to omouta' (I didn't think it was Japanese)
I have been sitting at the same bank of desks as this chump for 2 and a half years.
He talked to me, as he usually does, about what I will do when I go back to Australia.
As he is idiot, he is unable to speak to me in Japanese or English. He has always refused to acknowledge that I have conversational Japanese. On the other hand, he speaks almost no English. This is a rough transcript of our conversation,
'Oh Michael sensei, what do coming back to Australia?'
He has asked me this question at least four times over the last year.
'Mada kimetemasen kedo...tabun Eigo oshierukoto tsuzsuketieru' (I haven't really decided yet but I'll probably continue teaching English)
There is a look of disbelief on his face, as if he couldn't believe I could actually teach. On the other hand, I would have a look of disbelief on my face if I ever saw him do anything apart from read the newspaper and drink coffee.
'Oh really? Doko...where...shigoto...work...school?'
'Tandai de kamo shiremasen' (Maybe in a college)
'Doko...? Ah... Nani?
'Tandai'
'Tandai wa nani?'
Then the office girl informed him that I was speaking Japanese and repeated the word. At which point the dirty old treacherous bastard expressed surprise.
'Nihongo ja nai to omouta' (I didn't think it was Japanese)
I have been sitting at the same bank of desks as this chump for 2 and a half years.
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