Category Archives: Personal

Appy-Panic-Polly Logicals

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An incident at work today has me thinking about apologies.

Today was the year end exam for one of our high school grades. As the technical staff played the CD for the listening portion of the test, it was obvious that there was something horribly wrong with the CD. Words disappeared, portions suddenly lost volume, and questions started in the middle. After the first minute, test proctors were sending reports to the office that there were problems and other people were on the phone with the main office explaining the situation. Because I was responsible for writing the test, editing the listening and burning the CDs, everyone was looking at me. I apparently had an impressive look of panic and guilt and now have passed at least three birthdays and am officially 50. (That said, my heart is apparently a lot stronger than I thought it was as no heart-attack ensued.)

I had checked the CD at home and found no problems but no one else had checked it before I turned it in, which made me even more guilty. In the end, we went to each testing room and reread the questionable portions and I said lots of apologies to every test proctor. I also tried to remember if I had a clean suit as I would need it for the lengthy apologies I would eventually have to do.

We sent someone to fetch the extra copy and, mysteriously, he never returned. It turned out that a couple late students were using the extra CD to take the test. When they finished, they said there were no problems. I then struggled to remember if I’d actually checked the copy and had accidentally marked the one I’d checked as the copy.

After testing both CDs, it turned out that there was nothing wrong with either. Instead, there was something wrong with the CD player that had been used.  (The school I work at is about to move into a new building, and rather than a spiffy sound system, they’ve been using CD players for high school listening tests.)

Now in the West, the matter would pretty much be done and we’d probably get sloppy drunk and have a sledgehammer party where we destroyed the old CD player. (And that’s just during school hours.) However, this is Japan, and I kept apologizing, as did teachers who had nothing to do with making the CD.

In my case, even though I wasn’t at fault, and hadn’t even chosen that CD player, I was responsible because it was my CD and I’m in charge of that grade and all their tests this year.

Understand, though, I wasn’t apologizing for causing the problem, I was apologizing for the trouble. The difference is subtle, but important.

Half of the problems some foreign teachers encounter in Japan can be solved with an apology. The most popular are “apologizing for the trouble” and “apologizing for the misunderstanding”. (For politicians it’s “apologizing for the misunderstanding” or “I’m sorry that you misunderstood”.)

However, being from the West, where we have a strong sense of personal justice and where our words can be held against us in a court of law, apologizing for something we didn’t do is difficult. In Japan, though, it’s often necessary.

Many years ago, the submarine the USS Greenville was joyriding for a bunch of civilians and sank the Ehime Maru, a high school fishing trainer from Japan. Nine people, including four high school students were killed. Japan freaked out, especially as no one could understand why the submarine’s CO, Commander Scott Waddle, didn’t immediately take responsibility and apologize. The apologies from President Bush and Ambassador Foley weren’t enough.

Finally, a high ranking Admiral came to Japan and apologized directly to the families and the situation calmed down, at least in Japan. Eventually Commander Waddle came to Japan and apologized.

I’ve heard of many, much smaller incidents, especially those caused by miscommunication being resolved by apologies. It’s almost a way of saying “I appreciate that this is a stressful time and I’m sorry I played a part in making it that way.” I’ve also seen people lose their jobs because they refused to apologize, even for the trouble. They would go on and on about how right the were and how wrong they weren’t, but it didn’t help. (Hell, I’ve been that person, albeit in another country.) However, when in Japan, if you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you, apologize, just in case, even if you know you’re not wrong.

As for me, I need to think of some suitable sweets to take to the office tomorrow as one last apology. (I also need to start marking those tests I got today…)

One Decent Moment in Athletics

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Although in the past few years I’ve managed to achieve some exceedingly minor success in one sport, my athletic career and athletic abilities have always been very dodgy. This is the progeny of a lethal combination of tall, skinny, slight swayback, lack of patience and disproportionately large feet.

Oh, and there’s that lack of natural talent thing.

As a result of all that, I was not only the last person picked for any team, but there was usually some serious wheeling and dealing about who had to take me. “You take Spaceman.””No, you take him.” “Okay, we’ll take Spaceman but you have to take all our girls and give us Matt.” “You can have Danny or Wayne, but we’re keeping Matt.” Etcetera.

(NB: I went through a number of nicknames while I was growing up: Spaceman, because I like science fiction; Livery, because some semi-literate moron misread my name over the intercom when I won a free book from the library; and Deadly, because my name is Lively. Only in a small town could that latter name be an insult and a sign of weakness.)

On one occasion we were playing “Some Form of Football” (not its real name). Because there was a lack of violence and fear involved, it must have been during physical education class. As a rule, I was usually in the part of the field where little action was taking place or, more specifically, the action usually avoided my part of the field.

However, on that day, the play swung toward me. A pass was thrown and either the intended receiver or the defender tipped it but couldn’t control it and it deflected toward me. I stepped forward, caught the ball a couple feet off the ground and ran into the end zone.

I was really happy in my moment of triumph and success but I was the only one celebrating. My exhortations that “I scored. I scored.” were met by puzzled looks as everyone tried to remember whose team I was on.

I finally convinced Joel Williams, my team’s captain, that I was on his team and suitable congratulations and praise were delivered. I didn’t score again, probably ever, but knowing me I talked about that score for a quite a while.

My sports career didn’t improve much after that. I ran track in junior high school. At one point I was almost an average miler. I also played basketball in junior high school and for a year in high school. I never mastered the lay up. The more open I was, the worse it got. I eventually gave up being a player to become the junior varsity manager.

That I have a letterman’s jacket with a letter is one of the greatest jokes I’ve ever been able to pull off.

 

Cross Counter Cultural Costco

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One of the quirks of living and working overseas is that the newness of being overseas eventually wears off. At first you’re seeking out exotic foods (whoa, they totally don’t cook their fish here; they eat their rice PLAIN; rotting beans are totally a breakfast staple) and you make “you know you’ve been in ______ to long when” lists along the lines of “you know you’ve been in Japan too long when you apologize to the ATM for having to disturb it” or “you know you’ve been in Japan too long when the thought of eating cooked fish makes you sick to your stomach”.

After a few months, that joy of the exotic wears off and you begin eating at places you wouldn’t eat back home (McDonald’s and Starbucks) and Old El Paso Taco Kits and Red Vines become as valuable as gold. I’m convinced that if Yum! Brands (it’s real name) ever opens a Taco Bell in Tokyo, there will be blood as foreigners scramble for Doritos Locos Taco Supremes and Gorditas.

After having lived in Japan way too long I find I can now spot fresh foreigners as easily as I used to spot fresh students at university. When I worked as a trainer for my company I would usually announce lunch by explaining where the different options were. I’d add that I was going to Denny’s and it was certain that any trainee that joined me had lived in Japan for at least a year.

A few years back the Lively clan headed down to Chiba to raid a Costco for cookies, cookie mix, pancake mix, flour tortillas and coffee, lots of coffee. After conspicuously consuming, we were waiting for the shuttle bus back to the station when I overheard a couple foreign men talking about working for Fluor, a management contractor my father had worked for in the 80’s.

After the usual round of “small worlds” with the appropriate nods and “yep, sure is, sure iss” the older of the gentlemen, radiating the diaphanous glow of the exotic and the new, asked me where we ate when we came down “this way”. I said that we usually ate the pizza, hot dogs and chicken wraps at Costco. He looked at me, wide-eyed and confused, as if that concept were alien to him or had never occurred to him. He muttered something about how they’d found a little noodle place and that’s where they were heading.

To be courteous, I lied and said we’d have to check it out next time we came down “this way” but his brain was clearly still trying to process and grasp the notion of eating pizza in Japan at an American big-box store. (Shopping at an American big-box store in Japan was apparently normal, though.)

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, even before I married a Japanese woman, I’d had my fill of soba, udon, somen, and ramen, cooked in ways varying from fried, to deep fried, to boiled, and had eaten more rice than I’d ever imagined I’d ever want. Sushi was basically fast food and could be had at any grocery store (including, it should be mentioned, Costco) for only a few dollars.

I eventually coaxed out that he’d been in Japan only a couple months and was going to be there for another year. I wished him the best of luck while secretly thinking “your time is coming. Your time is coming.”

I never saw him again, but I’m sure if I’d seen him a few months later he’d have been stuffing his face with pizza, hot dogs and chicken wraps while saving his Red Vines for dessert.

Here Be Dragons

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Inspired by an old friend of mine–Steve Brisendine–and in desperate need of a more consistent writing habit, I’ve decided to 1) finally get a website with my name on it and 2) write something on it everyday for a year.

I’ve always been dubious of the notion of blogging as it starts with a loud and throaty “Look at me!” followed by “This is IMPORTANT STUFF and STUFF LIKE THAT!” (something like that) and that’s typically followed by “Why is no one reading me?” and hours spent studying site analytics and tinkering with SEO tricks. (A friend of mine assures me that “Britney Spears” and “thong” are useful keywords to include for SEO, although that was many years ago.)

It also assumes that I have enough to say. Unfortunately, I typically have no problems talking and talking and talking about things–and no problems swearing (you have been warned)–which has led to a number of problems I’ll probably write about some day. Writing about stuff, though, that’s different. And a bit more permanent.

What’s got my attention now are odd coincidences. A while back, a colleague of mine who is a vocal fundamentalist atheist, made a snarky comment about Mormons–I work at a company that was once owned by Japanese Mormons–and this made me think of the Mormon family that used to live across the street from me in Hayden, Colorado. That made me think of the sisters who used to live farther up the street and who used to go to church and Sunday school with me at the First Baptist Church in Hayden.

Although I had a crush on both of them at one time or another, and they had stayed at our house in Kansas for a night as they were moving across country, I couldn’t remember their names. I could only remember an incident involving a country song. The Sunday school teacher, who’s name I also don’t remember, was explaining the evils of popular music and was using, as his text, sort of, a country song about a woman getting drunk on tequila and waking up next to a man “presumably after having having slept with him” (well, duh, but he meant “slept with him” as in “knew him in a Biblical way you’re not supposed to say in church.”) although he may have actually said “after having had sex with him” with the fourth word half-whispered, half-choked on.

He couldn’t remember the name of the tequila and neither could I, a fact which, me being 16 and not fully in control of my wits–still waiting for that to happen, by the way–I announced with a repeated “Yeah, what is that?” The youngest of the two sisters looked at me and mouthed “Jose Cuervo“. I started nodding and stifling laughter and fell madly in love again, at least for a while, with her.

That scene, by the way, pretty much explains all you need to know about my religious upbringing.

Well, there was also the swing your Bible like it’s a sword until your arm gets tired so you can see how hard soldiers had to work to kill people back in the day moment, and the young man calling Vietnam veterans babies for complaining about the conflict, and the aftermath of a  scandal that pretty much drove me away from churches, but those are stories for another day.

First, there are those odd coincidences:

I kept trying to remember the sister’s names, and although I could pretty much picture them as they were, I couldn’t remember anything else about them. Then, a couple nights ago, I was chatting with my sister about an old acquaintance from Hayden who’d just died. That led to a rush of memories and she suddenly mentioned the names of those sisters and their last names and I finally could put names and faces together. (I didn’t remember there was a third sister, though, and wish to apologize to her profusely.)

That’s led to a rush of other memories and several bouts of “At the time, it seemed like a good idea” and “In God’s name and under the stars what for?” embarrassment, which in the final colossal coincidence, is basically the theme of the song being discussed in Sunday school that day.  The difference is I remember shooting out the lights and starting fights, so to speak. There were also, oddly enough, a couple kissed cowboys.