Today marks the completion of six months here in Japan. It's been a wild ride.
I've learned a brain-ton (2,000 know-pounds to the brain ton, for those of you who aren't aquainted with units of knowledge). I've learned about being a teacher. I've learned about being a husband. I've learned some Japanese. I've learned how to drive on the opposite side of the road.
The pressures and difficulties of living abroad either temper you or break you, I think. Thankfully, I feel like I'm being tempered (he-he-he. Wheeee. Wahoo...Oh, maybe I snapped).
If someone asked me to recommend living abroad, my recommendation would take the form of a TV commercial for a prescription drug. It would open with beautiful scenes of rice fields, and cherry blossoms. Scenes of castles, zen gardens, and temples would play in the background while the narrator speaks.
"Do you suffer from mundania? Is the humdrum of daily life getting you down? Then maybe Living Abroad is right for you. Living Abroad will awaken that dormant sense of wonder. Living Abroad will infuse life with new energy. If you've been longing for something new, Living Abroad might be what you need. Ask your doctor about Living Abroad. Probable side effects include frustration, loneliness, isolation, confusion, stress induced premature baldness, discombobulation, bewilderment, indigestion, diarrhea, and/or constipation."
So, if your thinking about living abroad, 3 out of 4 gaijin (foreigners) recommend it.
Showing posts with label growth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growth. Show all posts
Monday, October 4, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Humanity
I was pondering (as philosophy majors are prone to do) a conversation Kelli and I had with a Greek man back in November. We did our TEFL training in Hania, Crete. We often would go down to the harbor at night and eat dinner under the shadow of the old Venetian buildings. Our favorite restaurant was run by George. We met George on our first day in Hania, when he accosted us in front of his restaurant, inviting us in so fervently that we couldn't say "no." Soon, we learned how to say "no." Anyway, a few weeks later we sat at Georges restaurant, eating souvlaki and sipping raki. We had noticed some time before that all the street dogs were sleek and healthy, often being fed right in front of restaurants by the staff.
"George," we asked, "why does everyone take care of the dogs?"
He thought for a second, puffing on his cigarette, sipping his raki and gazing over the harbor. In his good, but somewhat broken English he replied, "It's humanity."
That conversation left the most indelible mark on my memory of all my time in Greece. Later that week were were eating at a taverna when a beggar came in. The proprietor--drunk to the point of lurching--talked to the man in Greek, then stumbled back to the kitchen. In a few moments he returned with a bag containing two cucumbers and a tomato. He offered it to the rather well dressed beggar. The beggar declined, pointing at a customers bowl of soup. Agitated, the owner of the restaurant offered the vegetables again. The beggar began to yell, pointing at the soup. Yelling back, the owner threw the beggar out. Muttering, the owner eased his way back to the kitchen. Everyone was a little surprised by the exchange. Obviously the beggar wasn't too hungry if he was willing to turn down hospitality.
Even businessmen in Greece take care of people in need. It is part of the culture.
I've thought an awful lot the past few months about George's words: "It's humanity."
It wasn't until I was in the genkan (entryway) the other day that I finally understood why George's grammatically incorrect statement had hit me so hard. I had thought he meant "It's humanitarian." But to me it meant "It's my humanity."
It is my humanity that makes me care for beggars and street dogs. Mercy and compassion are part of being truly human. Never in my experience has a language barrier led to more conviction.
My heart is a lot softer now after those two Greek restaurants. I don't have to give people exactly what they ask for nor am I supposed to cynically believe they are trying to take advantage of my generosity. I just need to give of what I have to meet their need. It's humanity.
"George," we asked, "why does everyone take care of the dogs?"
He thought for a second, puffing on his cigarette, sipping his raki and gazing over the harbor. In his good, but somewhat broken English he replied, "It's humanity."
That conversation left the most indelible mark on my memory of all my time in Greece. Later that week were were eating at a taverna when a beggar came in. The proprietor--drunk to the point of lurching--talked to the man in Greek, then stumbled back to the kitchen. In a few moments he returned with a bag containing two cucumbers and a tomato. He offered it to the rather well dressed beggar. The beggar declined, pointing at a customers bowl of soup. Agitated, the owner of the restaurant offered the vegetables again. The beggar began to yell, pointing at the soup. Yelling back, the owner threw the beggar out. Muttering, the owner eased his way back to the kitchen. Everyone was a little surprised by the exchange. Obviously the beggar wasn't too hungry if he was willing to turn down hospitality.
Even businessmen in Greece take care of people in need. It is part of the culture.
I've thought an awful lot the past few months about George's words: "It's humanity."
It wasn't until I was in the genkan (entryway) the other day that I finally understood why George's grammatically incorrect statement had hit me so hard. I had thought he meant "It's humanitarian." But to me it meant "It's my humanity."
It is my humanity that makes me care for beggars and street dogs. Mercy and compassion are part of being truly human. Never in my experience has a language barrier led to more conviction.
My heart is a lot softer now after those two Greek restaurants. I don't have to give people exactly what they ask for nor am I supposed to cynically believe they are trying to take advantage of my generosity. I just need to give of what I have to meet their need. It's humanity.
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