The hardest thing I would ever love was the Elementary Japanese 101 class that I enrolled in—at Cleveland State University as a “Project 60-something” student. I wanted only to be one of those audit-students sitting on the sidelines, but with Sensei-Lena, there are no sidelines.
Gathered in the hallway outside of the locked classroom on the very first day of class, a young student scurried past me . . . chanting, “Sensei, Sensei, Sensei” in a loud stage-whisper.
Sensei was approaching . . . striding briskly down the narrow hallway . . . rolling a carry-on bag behind her. Who was Sensei?
Filled with doubt about my ability, but reassured by the safety net of my “Project 60 audit status,” I figured I would certainly get something out of this class, and maybe even learn to speak some Japanese along the way. My plan was to sign up again the next time it was offered . . . and continue to learn at my own pace. I am a lifelong learner . . . and always want more.
One of the toughest teachers at CSU, Sensei Lena Vidahl commands respect. And she gets it.
The first comment Sensei made to the class was that we all must be able to write in cursive to master the stroke order. That I could do!
I went home that first day to master the first five vowel sounds in hiragana. Not too bad.
After the second class, I went home and gobbled a cupcake! And later that night, I hit the wine.
What was I thinking? Sensei was tough. Sensei was demanding. Sensei was absolutely certain that we all would be speed-reading hiragana and katakana . . .
Moving quickly, Sensei kept introducing another five symbols/sounds . . . and then another five . . . until we had more or less mastered the 46 hiragana . . . before moving on to the 46 katakana . . . and then . . . and then? Something about diacritical marks . . . called ten-ten and maru.
More cupcakes . . . more wine . . .
I was the most pathetic student in class, and the slowest, but I would not give up! Sensei assured me that if I followed her plan and if I could stick with it, I could be speed-reading and speaking what I had memorized.
No arguing with Sensei.
It was as if the class had fallen under the spell of a truly gifted teacher. Sensei demanded a lot, but did so in a spirit of trust and respect. And as a result, it seemed like her students would do anything for her. They were not merely her students—they were her fans!
I was totally stressing about how I had so much trouble memorizing the symbols . . . let alone even beginning to learn how to write them, when finally, husband Don planted his hands firmly on each of my shoulders and like a sergeant conferring an order upon a private, said, “What is going on with you? This is an audit class! This is Project Sixty. There is no grade!”
Like a drill instructor, Sensei-Lena could have barked out an order at any time to “DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY” . . . I was determined to make this class work because push-ups were real hell.
And my secret plan still was to take the class once more, before our trip to Okinawa in 2016 so that I could at least “speak like a gaijin.”
My flashcards went everywhere with me. As I drifted off to sleep each night, a hiragana symbol lingered in my head, and when I awoke in the morning, the first thing I did was reach for my deck of cards.
And when I awoke early one morning with hiragana in my head, and reached for my flashcards . . . I got it! I got it. I got it!
Of course! Sensei was right. We weren’t going to simply repeat phrases in a language we didn’t understand . . . we weren’t going to use rote memorization to learn this foreign language . . . chanting along as though we had learned how to say something and understood it . . . Sensei was taking us through a back door, into the heart of the language.
So if we were able to read the symbols, we would use the written language to speak Japanese “speedily” and effortlessly. I got it. I could only hope that I would catch up with the rest of the class. I was slow at memorizing, but I wouldn’t give up. I wanted to make these symbols part of me. I had to know them, not decipher them. I wanted to be able to speed-read them, but I couldn’t seem to keep up with my classmates.
It seemed like everyone else in class possessed some secret background in this mysterious language.
The Japanese art history class that I planned to take had been cancelled and that’s how I ended up in this class. Like the previous semester, I intended to take a class and then retreat to my corner on the third-floor of the Student Center and put in a few hours, writing on my ThinkPad.
Not now. I had made the commitment to this class. I would take these symbols one-by-one, hiragana-by-katakana, in an effort to conquer them—like noted author Anne Lamott would recommend in her book, “Bird-by-Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.”
If I could somehow master the symbols well enough to decipher and perhaps speak some Japanese, I would consider this class a personal success.
Class aide Brian Moran pulled me aside one day to help me with flashcard drill, and I couldn’t help but notice his technique as he held his mechanical pencil—it was clear that he knew what he was doing by his stroke order and style! Brian held his pencil upright, much like Asian brush artists hold their brushes when doing calligraphy. I was impressed . . .
Still I struggled. It seemed like I had essentially learned to recognize the 46 hiragana, but then began to mix up some of them. Oh, great. I thought I had it, but then had to really concentrate upon the ones that I continued to mix up. The class had already moved onto the diacritical marks and then came the day that Sensei announced that we should master katakana on our own.
She gave us one month to do it. She was right. There was no point in taking class time to drill one another on these 46 additional symbols. We knew what to do and could take them five at a time, like we did with the hiragana. Just do it! To quote Sensei: “Okie-dokie?”
Okidoki. There’s got to be some kana for that . . .
Sensei took ten minutes at the end of every class to answer questions. She called upon us randomly. I always had a question ready, but saved one in particular from Don for a day when the class needed a good laugh.
The day finally had arrived.
I had given Don a few books to peruse when we were making our plans to travel to Japan in the fall of 2011. One of those books was that “oh-so-silly” Dave Barry Does Japan.
All of a sudden one evening, Don demanded to know if what Mrs. Barry said was true. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I soon learned the details. While on a shopping expedition, Beth Barry returned to the hotel room and announced, “I heard two farts today. Out on the street, walking around.”
“Really?” said Dave.
“Really,” she said. “You’re allowed to fart in public here.”
I need to re-read that book . . . I assumed that Dave Barry was taking artistic license and injecting his trademark humor into some parts of his book.
But it was time for Don’s question. So I asked—on his behalf.
Only Sensei could confirm or deny. The class erupted.
Sensei laughed too and pointed out that while there were instances of public urination in Japan, farting probably was not encouraged. I felt like an idiot, but I was getting used to that. It could have been possible. The Japanese do slurp food noisily, to show that it is to their liking . . .
The consensus of opinion was that the Japanese are far too polite . . . to tolerate public farting . . . NO—definitely a NO!
It was a set-up. I blame Dave Barry . . . or really Beth.
Juku or “cram-school” is a phenomenon unique to Japan. Providing supplementary education to students whose parents are able to afford them, juku enables ambitious students with an option to study to improve their scores for entrance examinations for secondary school. Clearly, I needed some juku—pronto!
The class was zoom-zoom-zooming, and I was going down, down, down, falling farther behind. I was having trouble with the basic stroke order for writing the symbols. I needed to practice over and over, writing the hiragana strokes from left to right and then top to bottom. I seemed always to be behind the others, but I figured if I could manage to read the symbols—would I ever really need to write them?
Apparently Sensei thought the package wasn’t complete without mastering writing. After class one day, she confronted me and said that she knew what my problem was: that I simply didn’t think I could do this, but she was positive that I could!
Darn. She was using some serious “teacher-psychology-strategy” here. I couldn’t take the easy way out. She was right. If she had faith in my ability, how could I let her down? I went home and returned to my basic writing practice . . . once again.
A holiday approached—NO CLASS! The university would be closed for Veterans Day, but I had a sinking feeling that if I logged onto the CSU Japanese Facebook page, Brian would be posting directions to a secret study-bunker in a previously undisclosed location, encouraging us to meet him there . . . I never looked.
I stumbled along, and I came up with a few mnemonic clues to help me recognize hiragana and katakana and kanji. But that little “stick-man on the parallel bars” never did stand out to me as being the kanji for the word “home.” And of course, in true confusing kanji fashion, there are two symbols to express “home.” The other one resembles a pig, with a roof over it . . .
I had a few personal favorites, like the little Christmas tree kanji that meant kasa, which translated into umbrella. I thought it was cute. And if you put a kanji for sun in front of the little Christmas tree, it means higasa, or sun parasol!
I promised to wear out my flashcards throughout the summer months and clear my calendar for next fall semester when the class appeared on the schedule again.
I listened to Japanese language CDs as I drove back and forth to Cleveland State, hoping to pick up some key vocabulary and pronunciation tips. I came across a signature sentence that I decided to claim for my own:
私は毎日飲む Watashi wa mainichi nomu*
*“I drink every day.”