it's all your fault

I have been very frustrated with Japan lately. And it’s not the big things like blatant disregard for the environment, an education system that takes away childhoods, or racism.

It’s the granny who feels it is her right to dawdle down the middle of the sidewalk, blocking all other users from passing. It’s the mobs of school children who stare, yell “Haro,” and refuse to remove themselves from my path. It’s my Japanese style table in my Japanese style room, the usage of which requires me to sit on the floor and crane my neck in an uncomfortable position. It’s the apartment building across the street blocking my sunlight. It’s the change of the train schedules. It’s the five locks on the door of my house. It’s the woman who hears me speak two words of Japanese and declares me fluent. It’s the mountains.

Everyday I look out of my window and say to myself, “Only one more month. Just one more.”

I have become incredibly cynical towards Japan lately. I met someone who had just come to Japan and she was so enthusiastic about this bright, shiny new country. It only took ten minutes before I found myself trying to convince her that Japan wasn’t really that great. Look at all the bad things! I said. Just wait, you’ll see! I warned. It’s not all postcard perfect! I cried. Luckily, I think she ignored me.

I know that Japan is not all that bad. In fact, it’s really not bad at all. It’s probably one of the best places to live in the world. I am without a doubt overexaggerating on the criticisms. It is likely that I am reacting to one or all of these factors:

a) I am bored.
b) I am apprehensive of leaving.
c) My neck hurts terribly.
d) I lost four students to study abroad trips.

I know that it is not Japan or the Japanese people that I dislike at this time. It is a projection onto those around me. If I were in any other country, I’d be tired of those people. It is merely that the person in my way on the street happens to have a Japanese passport in their dresser drawer at home. And the tv stars on the variety shows blabber on incessantly in the Japanese language. And the white flag flying from the Post Office has a big red dot in the middle.

I’m sure that two days after returning to the States I’ll be wishing desperately to be back in Japan where the trains come on time, the shopkeepers are desperate to please, and the mountains give the land some definition. But for now, beware of my scowl and incessant angry mutterings.