"In Japanese school, we only play ball."
"Throw. Catch. Throw. Catch." The boy makes mundane hand gestures. "Ball. Ball. Ball."
Ren is eight years old. His mother is from China, and his father from Japan. I am currently tutoring the child in English. It's his third language and the boy is rather proficient in it, having gone to an international school for some time.
I've asked him to describe to me what he thinks the main difference is between school in Japan and school in China. His response: "Ball."
"In China we can play all different games at recess, like tag and swings and stuff," he continues when I prompt him to elaborate, "but in Japanese school, there is just ball. That is all anyone does at recess. We don't even move around. We just stand in one place throwing and catching a ball."
"Baaall is sooooo boooring!" he throws his head back emphatically, in a way that eight-year-old boys do best the world over.
"Do you think you get enough exercise at Japanese school?" I pick his brain further, due more to my own curiosity than to anything else. To be fair, the simple geography of China allows far more space for recreation than a compact city like Tokyo could ever provide.
"Oh we do exercises," he stands up to demonstrate with a hint of sarcasm," first we all stand in our lines. We go like this," he stretches his arms above his head, "and like this," he bends his body to one side, "and like this," then reaches towards the other side.
"Our exercises are all the same. Every day. And then we play ball." he scoffs.
I really enjoy talking to Ren. The kid has more cultural perspective than he knows what to do with. I am truly the one who is learning the most in this situation.
As I think I am finishing up this post, I hear the sound of construction workers down the block .
"Gambarou! Gambarou! Gambarou!" Someone is chanting.
This is the volitional form of the verb "gambaru" which means to "give it your all". I take it to mean that the workers are currently concentrating all of their effort to either break something or build something. Or perhaps both.
"Will the construction ever stop?" I ask whiteboy-T, who is in bed.
"This country's entire economy is built upon unnecessary construction" he reminds me, then rolls over.
"Oh yeah."
"Gambarou!"
I poke my head out of our fifth story window. I cannot spot the construction site from the angle I have, but the chanting has become outright eerie.
"Do you think that is a recording?" I ask T, "or someone's actual voice. I honestly can't tell."
Over in this part of the world, we are rather used to state-sanctioned noise pollution, be it in the form of the singing garbage truck, the howling sweet potato vendor, or the political campaign van that is unfortunately equip with very effective sound system. So when you hear a very loud voice in the distance, it's hard to say whether it's human or not.
"I would say it's a recording," T observes, "because the tone of voice is suspiciously consistent."
But around here, what isn't? I wonder to myself.
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