The floodgates open

Stereotypes are a nasty business. Potentially very offensive, not to mention hugely limiting, when we do revert to using them it is usually as a result of sheer laziness more than anything else. This type of shorthand is particularly tempting in Japan, where stereotypes allow us to pretend we have at least a basic level of comprehension of a society and culture that is seemingly so alien from our own.

While many stereotypes are quickly revealed for the nonsense they are upon arrival here, others are perhaps shown to have at least a small element of truth to them, while, regrettably, yet more new ones tend to develop in our minds. (Much as I have resisted it, I am gradually, and largely unconsciously, coming round to the theory that Japanese people can’t whistle properly. More on this no doubt casually racist topic at a later date).

One stereotype that, up until recently, I have been able to cling on to fairly comfortably, is that of the people of Japan being an emotionally repressed and generally quite buttoned-up breed. I have rarely encountered the type of great public displays of affection or anger that you would expect to find on the streets of most city centres on a Saturday night back home. This is by no means a bad thing in my book. What it does mean, however, is that when you do come across an unexpected outburst or outpouring, it tends to knock you for six.

We are fast approaching the end of the school year here, and the students (although criminally, not I) will soon be off on their spring holidays, to return in early April. As such, we have recently had another formal ceremony at school, the graduation of the third year students, who will be going off to high school next term.

On the surface, this was as stately and earnest as all the other major ceremonies we have had throughout the year, be it for the first day of term, culture day, or coming of age day. There is always a lot of protocol involved and everything is done in total seriousness. This time, the graduating class paraded in, almost military style, to the orchestra’s stirring music, and took their seats. As usual, they were segregated by gender. Everybody else was seated at different points around them, and applauded their entrance, before all standing to sing the national anthem. The principal said a few words, lots more standing and bowing took place, and the dishing out of the diplomas began.

Students’ names were called out and they went up to collect their deeds, approaching the principal, accepting the piece of paper and withdrawing, all in a highly stylised and formal manner. I began to drift off slightly, wishing I had had that second cup of coffee beforehand. My gaze drifted along the banks of graduating students, their faces largely blank and serious, the girls’ hands clasped firmly in their laps and the boys’ on their legs, sitting stiffly upright. I came across one body however, who was struggling to remain quite so composed.

His face was screwed up, he was shifting in his seat and generally looked in some distress. Having run into him at karaoke that weekend (where his greeting of “Hello Tom! You like karaoke?” constituted the most English I had ever heard any of my students use outside of the classroom) I assumed he had been celebrating heavily and put his discomfort down to the aftereffects of such a display of youthful exuberance.

The true nature of his situation was soon revealed however, when his name was called out and he could only respond with a pitifully strangled and muted cry of “Hai!”. My ears pricked up and I looked over again to see him in floods of tears. Oh dear. This was all very unexpected and rather unfortunate, I felt. The poor lad was sure to suffer the consequences from his classmates for his emotional outpouring. I imagined what our response would have been if one of our peers had let his defences down quite so absolutely at that age. It was just as well he was leaving.

As things progressed however, the weeping spread. A particularly large and imposing lad, judo star of the school, was one of the next to go, and was quickly joined by another half a dozen or so of the boys. Strangely enough, the girls at this stage remained largely composed.

When it came time for the class representative to make a speech however, the floodgates truly opened. It was no doubt a moving eulogy to junior high school days, as the girls’ resistance was finally defeated and the majority of the boys were either blinking back tears or openly bawling. These were fifteen year old terrors who, to a greater or lesser degree, had given me grief in every class I had had with them, whose posturing and posing had quickly worn on my patience and who had previously demonstrated the emotional depth of a puddle. Yet they were not the only ones affected. The parents chimed in, as did the teachers, and even some of the first year students got going. From the balcony above, where the unseen orchestra were sat, gentle sobbing and sniffing could be heard. The speaker himself frequently had to stop talking to compose himself and stifle his sobs.

I had to make a conscious effort not to stare open mouthed at the Greek chorus surrounding me. This was not the Japan that my comfortable preconceptions had painted for me. Where in evidence was the stiff upper lip that I had hitherto thought better suited to an association with the Japanese character than to its more common association with that of my own countrymen? I searched around desperately for some sense of normality, some constant that would allow me to correct the equilibrium of the world as I had previously understood it.

I found it and grinned. A lump of a student I had always silently cursed for his utter lack of enthusiasm and propensity to spend the majority of my class with his head on his desk, gently dozing. He was my constant, my rock, my grip on reality. He alone was unaffected by the hysteria that had enveloped those around him. Leaning back in his chair he was, unashamedly and magnificently, yawning.