About 10 years ago, I walked out of Oakland airport late one evening. It was dark, I was carrying a bag in each hand, and I wanted to rush across to my car in the big car park across from the terminal. As I walked through the car park, a large muscular man hailed me and began walking with me. He told me he had just got out of San Quentin State Prison that day and had suffered racial abuse all day long.
At first, I just chatted to him as we walked, and he seemed interested in my accent – I suspect it impressed him a little that I wasn’t American. By the time we were in the middle of the car park, I had begun to feel a little vulnerable, but I didn’t actually feel as intimidated as he clearly hoped. When he eventually asked for money “for a meal”, we were a long way from the terminal and help and enough warning bells were going off that I gave him some. I actually gave him $20 but he demanded more, so I gave him another $30 and told him I needed the rest to pay for the car park. He said thank you and went off back to the airport.
Later, I was quite rattled by the experience but mostly because I’d handed over so much. He prolly didn’t tell me a single true fact about himself, although I still clearly remember the size of his biceps, the white t-shirt, and the leather jacket slung over his left shoulder (which, come to think of it, could have concealed anything). For months I thought of it as an interesting encounter and it was much later that I realised I was perhaps in some danger.
Last Sunday, Wilkie and I went to the kindergarten for the parent child interview to try and get him a place four next year. I was quite annoyed that W hadn’t even got up to wish him luck on what was supposed to be an important milestone for W, but it turned out she was just doing what half of most other families did too. Not wanting to be rejected, I even put on a proper shirt & jacket.
In the end, though, I had nothing to worry about. We turned up (bang on time at 8am but we were still number 40), signed in, discovered I was the only father (I saw 2 more among the 100 or so women) and the only parent who hadn’t brought slippers, discovered W was the only child without plimsoles, went to the first room, paid my triple fee (application fee, interview fee, documentation fee) of ¥114,000 about $1,100, watched as a young teacher took the 10 kids in my section through a couple of songs (W didn’t understand most of it, but he sat and smiled and took part which is more than a couple of the kids did), and, after about 15 minutes at the school was given a certificate confirming W’s acceptance for next year.
We then had to go to the next floor and try on hats, smocks, and sports gear that he has to have and submit an order for the gear. I’m strongly opposed to uniforms (and unnecessary name badges) but not so opposed that we’d switch to another school that would mean a 45 min journey at 8am every morning. But this is a particularly ridiculous uniform. It basically consists of a smock and a hat, one each for summer and winter. The kids only wear it to and from school and the winter one is just a dirty brown cotton sheet, so I assume there’s a need to wear something underneath too. Some might think the kids look cute, but the educational value is far outweighed by the commercial value to the school. The full cost is about ¥26,000, and although it could be a lot worse, this is kindergarten! W enjoyed trying on the hats so he’ll prolly want to wear the things once we get them!
It was only on the short walk home that I realised I felt just as I did after that incident at Oakland Airport. I think I know what I paid for this time round, but it still felt like I’d been mugged. The pretense (tatemae in Japanese, outright lie in practical terms) that there were entrance and selection criteria other than handing over a chunk of cash is prolly far from unique to Japan. Here, though, I’m certain it makes the school managers feel some form of pride that they are running such an “elite” school. Unfortunately, the official pamphlet makes it sound like a school from the 1930s in terms of some totally archaic “educational principles”. Luckily, it’s clear from W’s nursery class that the pamphlet is also pretty much tatemae too! Pretty pathetic really.
Oh well. If W is happy, has fun, and learns more than the school says it teaches – and I don’t have to be the only one who takes him every morning and picks him up every afternoon, I’ll be happy too.
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