41. Lotuses and Language Learners

Many years ago, I lived on Shodo Island in Japan’s Inland Sea and made ends meet by teaching part-time in a variety of institutions, including two local secondary schools (see blog entry 36) and a small juku, or cram school, with low desks planted on a tatami mat floor. In the juku, my students ranged from elementary school youngsters squealing and full of energy to bleary-eyed adults showing up after a long day at work for a weekly fix of English.

As my Australian friends say, my goal was to give “good value”. I wanted everyone to leave with a sense of accomplishment, as well as have a good time. In general, I believe the adults and children in these classes did make progress but sometimes I wasn’t really sure. The most challenging age group for me to work with was the junior high students.

My elementary school kids had few inhibitions and were willing to take chances, laughing at their mistakes as they learned, while the senior secondary students swaggered in with some language under their belts. The junior high kids were caught in the middle in a state of limbo. No longer small children, they were still not old enough to come across as savvy. They lacked confidence. No one volunteered; no one laughed without prodding. These students always seemed to be looking over their shoulders to confirm how others perceived attempts to speak. At times, teaching this age group was exhausting.

On the other hand, this is not to say that they did not make progress. In fact, one of my more stellar students, Nobuko, was in junior high. She was shy and one of the last people I would have pegged as a successful language learner; however, by the end of her first year in my classes, Nobuko’s listening comprehension had skyrocketed and, although she was reticent, when she did speak the language was comprehensible. How had she gone from a silent, shy girl to a surprisingly comfortable communicator in such a short time? One day after class, I asked Nobuko to tell me her secret.

Although introverted, Nobuko had a dream to see the world. Upon entering junior high school, she began studying English and concluded this language was a key component for making her dream come true. But how could a girl from a small island find a way to use the language she was learning in school? As things turned out, Nobuko stumbled upon the answer by accident.

Every Sunday, Nobuko would board a ferry and head to the big (well, relatively big) city of Takamatsu on Shikoku, one of Japan’s main islands. There she studied sketching and painting at another cram school. The trip was long, but Nobuko loved what she was learning.

One Sunday, Nobuko’s teacher took the group to Ritsurin, a traditional park located near the center of Takamatsu. The group settled in beside a small pond filled with lotuses and everyone was instructed to draw a single blooming flower. The locals say that, if you go early and sit quietly, you will hear the sound of the lotus blossoms bursting open in the morning sunlight, but Sunday is definitely not the day for this experience. Ritsurin is a major local attraction and every Sunday the place is swamped with noisy tourists!

On this particular Sunday, Nobuko set up her easel and quietly began to draw one bloom that had caught her artistic eye. She focused intently upon her painting, blocking out the chatter of passersby, lost in her own secret world. Suddenly Nobuko’s bubble was burst by a large group of foreign tourists speaking in English. Distracted, she looked up to discover about ten senior citizens hovering around her easel.

A little terrified, Nobuko shyly said, “Good morning.” The group reaction was a flurry of apologies for interrupting her concentration followed by effusive praise for her impressive drawing. Nobuko was thrilled by this praise but even more excited that she was able to communicate with the friendly group, answering questions about her name, age, school – all the simple things that make up a basic conversation. Soon Nobuko was being complimented on her English, as well as her painting ability.

As things turned out, Nobuko had stumbled upon the ideal way for someone shy to strike up a conversation – put yourself in a promising venue and maybe the other person will start talking first. Thus began a routine every Sunday after art class of heading to Ritsurin’s lotus pond, teahouse or bridge where tourists fed the carp. She would sketch or paint, waiting for someone to gaze over her shoulder and comment on that day’s masterpiece.

Some visitors would take a photo with Nobuko then send it to her along with a short letter or postcard. She would bring these messages to class, once pointing out the commemorative stamp some friendly stranger had taken the trouble to paste on the envelope. People really did seem to care about this young girl who made their visit to Takamatsu more memorable. And Nobuko’s ability to communicate in English blossomed along with her painting skills.

It amazes me how clumsy first encounters can be. I have had total strangers accost me on the street in Japan asking to “practice English”. I appreciate their eagerness to learn but this approach lacks finesse and can be off-putting. Small talk about the weather or commenting on one’s surroundings (“Aren’t the flowers beautiful this time of year?”) is a great way to slip into a conversation but such “ice breakers” are rarely taught in language classes, at least in the places where I have lived.

Many years ago while completing my Master’s degree in England I began to fear that my Japanese ability was deteriorating. One Sunday, I decided to get my nose out of the books and re-join the real world by heading to the National Portrait Gallery in London. My plan was to soak up some culture and, if I was lucky, meet a few unsuspecting Japanese tourists to talk with. As things turned out, I stumbled across an entire tour group from the Osaka area. Moving into position in front of the Chandos portrait of William Shakespeare, I waited for a break in their chatter then declared in a rapt tone of voice, “Omoshiroi desu ne...” (“Isn’t it interesting...”).

A few jaws dropped but before the group could turn and run I quickly interjected, “Where do you all come from?” The stage was set. Surrounded by ten native speakers, I began asking – and answering – questions. “Where did you learn Japanese?”, “Which part of England are you from?” “Why did you come to study in England instead of Canada?” After an hour of strolling through the museum with this entourage, I was reassured that my Japanese skills were still intact. I also thought of Nobuko. Maybe I didn’t paint but I could certainly identify which artwork would appeal to a tour group from Osaka and use it as bait for a brief but fruitful encounter.

There are many ways that we can access opportunities for developing our listening, speaking, reading and writing skills in another language. In my next blog entry, I will discuss some of my own ideas, including online approaches.

On the rare occasions when I get back to Takamatsu, I try to visit Ritsurin. Maybe I am hoping to run into a woman painting flowers by the lotus pond, quietly waiting for a passing visitor to praise her artwork and strike up a conversation. On the other hand, I know that clever girls usually grow into intelligent young women who move on with their lives, and I assume that Nobuko is one of them.

(If you are really a fool for language, check out my language learning website at http://en.sulantra.com/ with courses from and to English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Bulgarian, Thai, German, Korean and Italian!)

40. Confessions of a Tortured Soul

Today’s entry is Number 40 – and we have a guest blogger! Although my friend, Susan, hails from Massachusetts, she has lived in several countries and speaks the languages to prove it – five and a half at last count. Like me, she is a language freak who teaches, as well as learns, assorted tongues. But Susan has reached a crossroads in her life and now wonders whether the classroom is where she should really be. Read on…

Confessions of a Tortured Soul

by Susan

There is an embarrassing story I have heard a million times, often told by my mother in my presence, about my early language learning experiences. She becomes very involved telling it, more often than not to convince her listener of the anguish she went through raising me, and embellishes it with drama and angst each time she recounts it. “I spoke to my kids in Spanish until one day, when Susan was 3 years old...” (she will look at me sardonically at this point) “she said ‘Don’t talk to me that way, I don’t understand you!’. Naturally, I felt so guilty I stopped speaking to them in Spanish.”

She inevitably follows this story up with one about how a year later we moved to Puerto Rico and, since my 4-year-old self needed to speak Spanish in order to hold my own with a little boy at the hotel pool, I started speaking it again. In truth, this was the beginning of my personal love affair with language.

I have an issue with people who say they speak a language or say they are “bilingual”, but when it comes down to it, they can barely ask for a cup of coffee. Nothing bothers me more. At the tender age of 46, I “speak” five languages, English, Spanish, French, Russian and Japanese (five and a half if you count my dreadful German). I say “speak” with quotations because time and age have whittled away the vocabulary in my two “weaker” languages.

On the other hand, if I were stranded on a Russian island with no other language available to me, I wouldn’t starve to death. In fact, whenever she wants to encourage me regarding whatever crazy plan I’ve come up with, my mother always says, “Querida, de hambre nunca te morirás.” (“Honey, you will never die of hunger.”), which feels like a backhanded compliment given the size of my butt these days!

Why do I love language so much? Others may go on about culture, literature and assorted high-minded pursuits, but in my case the fact is that I don’t like being lead around by someone else. Call me American, but I value my independence. For example, the only reason I even started to learn German is because a guy tried to ask me out in Germany using German, of course, and I had to have someone else translate the request. “Forget that!” I said to myself and promptly began learning Deutsch.

There’s also a sadistic side to me that gets pure pleasure out of mortifying people when I turn around and speak to them in their own language, especially if they have just embarrassed themselves by assuming I don’t understand what they are saying. As a high school teacher, I have had the opportunity to do this many times with my students.


Once, while substitute teaching in an inner city school heavily populated by students from Mexico (my dream job!), a young man turned to his friend and said in Spanish, “Look out, she’s watching you. I think she wants you to be her girlfriend!” I turned to him, raised an eyebrow, and said in Spanish, “You really shouldn’t trust skin color when you are deciding whether someone speaks Spanish or not.” Naturally, he was embarrassed as I laughed hysterically. And just as naturally we began a friendship which continues to this day, eighteen years later. 

Being a language teacher has been a blessing and a curse. I have taught English as a second language, as well as Spanish, French, and Japanese as foreign languages. While doing so, I have also been called into service to teach other subjects, such as Geometry, Algebra (in English and Spanish), Computer Science, and Independent Studies. The blessing, especially in the foreign language classes, is that I can impart my love for all things global. I truly love to travel and speak other languages, and it comes through when I teach. My students all tell me (long after they’ve forgotten the pain of actually being in my classroom) how much they enjoy my stories and jokes. I have even had a parent tell me that I was certainly the reason her daughter was living in Europe at that moment (although I wasn’t actually sure how happy the woman was about it).

On the downside, I wonder about my efficacy as a language teacher because of the “accent thing”. Is it really better to have a teacher with an excellent accent who isn’t a good teacher? Will having a teacher with a native accent that you can’t replicate make you so frustrated you’ll want to quit? Could having a teacher who has a very strong accent but grammatically correct language skills help you to communicate better? At this point in my life, I still don’t have any answers.

This brings me to yet another internal debate (who knew I was so tortured). I find myself wondering what my students are really learning from me and whether it has any relevance to their present or future needs. As millions of high school students have asked, “When am I ever going to USE this?!” For example, realistically speaking, French is not a subject that is overwhelming in its usefulness, a point I am willing to concede. Globalization aside, what are my students getting out of my French classes?

In fact, this is one of the reasons I am on a “break” right now, doing massage therapy instead of teaching high school. It is a crossroads where I have to decide whether my career path to date has meaning. My workplace of choice has tended to be inner city schools with students from lower socio-economic backgrounds. To me, these are students who need someone with my experience to show them there is a big, wide world outside and that they can access it by learning languages. But how can I get them excited about the outside world when their own is a daily struggle?

One day, maybe I’ll find some answers to the debates going on in my head. In the meantime, if you have any insights into my predicament, I’d be happy to hear them. Contact Don and he will forward your advice – the price he must pay for inviting me to be a guest blogger!

(If you are really a fool for language, check out my language learning website at http://en.sulantra.com/ with courses from and to English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,Turkish, Bulgarian, Thai, German, Korean, Portuguese and Italian!)

39. Precarious Production

In my last blog entry, I talked about the surreptitious way I joined study groups to pick up the language they had to offer then moved on to other cultural fields to infiltrate and exploit. My calculating study approach was meant to expose me to as much new language as possible in order to improve my comprehension skills; however, the ultimate goal was to develop my speaking ability and join the “adult world” instead of sounding like a pre-schooler forever. Within a few years, I entered the aggressive production phase of my evolving Japanese.

Joining study groups was fine; however, I found myself repeating the same  phrases over and over after about six months in a cultural study context and realized that I needed to access more challenging linguistic experiences across more fields if I really wanted to become fluent. I came to the conclusion that, rather than being taught, I needed to cast myself in the role of teacher using the target language.

In my third year in Japan, I began to receive invitations to speak to assorted civic groups on an exotic range of topics, some of which I knew a great deal about (“Canadian folk singers? No problem!”), others of which I was totally ignorant (“Seniors’ benefits in Canada? Hmm. I suppose I could ask my grandmother in Calgary...”). As the only Canuck (what Canadians call themselves behind closed doors) for a hundred-mile/160.93 kilometer radius, I was expected to be the expert on all things stamped with a red maple leaf. I wasn’t really a “Great White North” nationalist. It was just that no one else was available and I was the default person to go to.

For my part, I accepted these assorted speaking engagements because I had come to realize that they were prime sources for my language development. The words and phrases I prepared for these events were permanently branded on to my brain cells by the ultimate memory tool – fear.

Frankly, I do not view myself as an exemplary student. If there is a clear reason to master language used in a field that is unfamiliar to me, with a little prodding I will put in the necessary hours. On the other hand, without a goal, I can be as lazy as my most lethargic university students. Agreeing to speak in public forced me to investigate content that I was unsure of in my mother tongue then convey the meaning by looking up the key words I needed to express myself in Japanese. The process was stressful and the end result terrifying, but my spoken language was certainly evolving.

Topics were as varied as my audiences and sometimes a little too spontaneous for my own good. For one group of 500 elementary school children, my demure talk on primary school life in Alberta mutated into a frenzied representation of wildlife across Canada. Kids being kids, they were much more interested in hearing about bears and wolves eating deer than school schedules. As a result, their questions forced me into unknown vocabulary terrain. My pint-sized audience stared transfixed as I frantically gestured assorted animals in a desperate effort to elicit the necessary language to express myself (see blog entry 12, Eliciting, and blog entry 19, Show me!). Moose racks spreading out from my head, beaver tails slapping the water surface, coyotes howling at the moon. I left with a whole new corpus of beastly terms – and about 2 kilos of weight loss!

But perhaps the most nerve-wracking discussion context I threw myself into was as the co-host of a radio talk show on a station in Takamatsu when I was teaching at a university there. The program involved cultural commentary and was broadcast live every Friday before the 6:00 evening news. Initially, I was asked by a close friend to be interviewed on air and thought, “Why not?” I chose a safe topic within my comfort zone (local souvenirs that go down well overseas) and, given that I knew the interviewer, did a decent job of getting my point across.

My perky, practical little talk was well-received resulting in an invitation to become a regular commentator. The offer fit perfectly into my schedule and sounded like a great way to pick up new language. I could finish my last university class of the week on Friday afternoon around 4:30, jump on my bicycle and arrive with plenty of time to relax, collect my thoughts then settle down comfortably in front of the microphone as the clock ticked its way to 5:55. Of course, the reality was much harsher.

I had not factored in the possibility that my students might have loads of questions at the end of each university class (“It’s Friday. Don’t you all have dates or something else to do?”) and that I would have to pedal like a banshee to reach the studio in time. Then there were the vagaries of the local weather. Icy winds in February, heavy rains in June, sweltering heat in August. Over the two years I spoke on air, I can count the times on one hand when I didn’t arrive soaked in perspiration seconds before the director frantically signaled that we were broadcasting.

To complicate matters further, while I found the first few months invigorating with plenty of topics to chatter on about, after a year of weekly commentary on what titillated my cultural taste buds, I found myself scraping the barrel for untouched topics. I knew the situation was bad when one Friday I caught myself leafing through a large English-Japanese dictionary to retrieve “denial”, “anger”, “bargaining”, “depression” and “acceptance”, the necessary words for explaining Kübler-Ross’ five stages of grief. What had started out as a light and frothy language learning adventure had mutated into heavy interludes plumbing the depths of “what-will-I-talk-about-this-week” despair!

And there was more misery on the horizon. The listening audience was apparently entertained and I began to garner a following, something I hadn’t really thought about. Getting into a taxi and having the driver turn and exclaim “You’re Don-san, aren’t you?” can be very unnerving. I had achieved my goal of picking up a wondrous range of vocabulary, but was now in need of “infringement” and “privacy”. So this is what it meant to be an “ii no naka no kawazu” – “a frog in a well”, or “big fish in a small pond” as we say in English.


Still, I can’t complain. During my brief career as a part-time radio announcer I had learned language that I would never have picked up otherwise. To this day the words and phrases I frantically committed to memory, sometimes seconds before the red light went on in the studio, are still emblazoned in my brain.

But in the end I moved on, realizing there must be a simpler way of learning “denial” without developing an ulcer.

(If you are really a fool for language, check out my language learning website at http://en.sulantra.com/ with courses from and to English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,Turkish, Bulgarian, Thai, German, Korean, Portuguese and Italian!)

38. Stealth Studying

In this blog I have touched on a number of strategies that have proven useful for me on my language learning journey, such as “eliciting” (getting the words you don’t know using words and gestures you do know; see blog entry 12), “copy correcting” (imitating native speakers when they correct your speech; see blog entry 8), “gesturing” (using your body when you don’t have the words to get your point across; see blog entry 19) and “Control” (conversation management based on a concrete behavioral model; see blog entries 27 and 28). On the other hand, all of these great strategies amount to nothing if you don’t go out into the real world and use them.

This is easy to accomplish if you are living in a country where your first language is not the lingua franca. Every interaction becomes a “learning experience”; however, you still may have to make an effort, particularly if your first language is English and you teach your mother tongue for a living, as many of the foreigners in Japan do.

No matter how sincere intentions are to learn “nihongo” (Japanese), the newly-arrived English speaker soon discovers that intial contact in the workplace will most likely not be in the local language. Soon you slip into the comfortable, but confining routine of functioning through colleagues, whose English language skills grow by leaps and bounds as your Japanese aspirations wither. It is an easy trap to fall into; however, you may soon find yourself frustrated and resentful, like a pampered child being constantly fussed over.

In my time here, I have run across a surprising number of foreigners who accept living in an “English cocoon” as the norm. They are unable to comfortably participate in simple conversations in Japanese even though they landed on these shores decades ago. For me, this is a sad condition. It reminds me of the Indian women I first taught in Canada (see blog entry 17) who were able to function but could not fully participate in the mainstream culture. In the case of English-speaking “ex-pats”, each activity in the local community is a hurdle while one’s circle of friends is typically limited to bilingual natives or other foreigners in the same confining monolingual boat.

The attitude of some local inhabitants may also prove a barrier to one’s efforts to becoming bilingual. In Japan, many of those keen to learn English have come to view native speakers as a type of language “vending machine”. Just push a button and a new phrase will pop out. It can be very frustrating when someone you have never met before insists on practicing their broken English with you when you are trying to get the job done in Japanese. Not the best way to make new friends.

So how do you go about finding opportunities to improve your communication skills in a language when based in a culture other than your own? If you live in a smaller town or the countryside, going to a language school for lessons may not be an option. But that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Endless grammar drills can be mind-numbing while a “key phrase for the week” is hardly high volume learning. For my money, I have found it much more productive to study with the locals as you learn a new skill in their language.

When I first arrived in Japan, I lived in a small village on the Inland Sea (see blog entry 29) with the nearest language classes a one-hour boat ride away. Since I worked most nights, attending lessons across the water wasn’t realistic. Besides, I was facing more immediate hurdles. Trips to the local supermarket were a nightmare. A surprising number of vegetables were unrecognizable while the contents of packaged goods could be positively ominous. I knew the Chinese character for “fish” but I might be purchasing catfood!

To remedy the situation, I decided to take cooking lessons and discovered that they were an excellent setting for learning language. Following orders to chop, slice or grill, I soon realized that I was picking up a range of vocabulary and expressions from my fellow classmates as they chattered around me.

Soon I began to evolve into a “serial student” developing (albeit shallowly) a range of skills, then walking away from each field once I had milked it for all of the language it had to offer. Doll making, wood carving, flower arranging – I tripped through the traditional arts with the ulterior motive of improving my listening comprehension and speaking ability in Japanese.

There was an obvious pattern to my progress. First, search out an instructor who was willing to tolerate an eager foreigner with limited linguistic skills. Second, squeeze in lessons for a few hours during my busy work week, assuming the role of class incompetent until I had mastered some fundamental techniques and terms. Next, strike up conversations, clarifying and being forced to clarify in order to communicate. And, finally, gracefully excuse myself from classes once I knew most of the jargon and it was obvious that my fractured phrases were understood by those around me. If my classmates stopped demanding explanations, I knew my learning experience had plateaued and it was time to move on.

The above progression may sound mercenary, however, my excuse of being “too busy at work to continue” was culturally acceptable and no noses were put out of joint. I had my priorities but was determined to part friends. Furthermore, I wasn’t completely a linguistic butterfly flitting from field to cultural field. I persevered with Japanese cooking for three years and studied “sado”, or tea ceremony, for eight years, even receiving a qualification.

I undertook tea ceremony because the language I had picked up in the Mitsui shipyards (see blog entries 27 and 29) was very rough-edged. I realized this the hard way while making a congratulatory speech at a wedding reception. My eloquent phrases were continuously sidetracked by the embarrassed giggles of the audience. I thought my words were polished and dignified; the other guests thought that I sounded like a dockyard thug!

Japanese tea ceremony, on the other hand, uses language that is excruciatingly formal – perfect for wedding speeches and, as it turns out, funerals. Furthermore, the study of tea ceremony can prove endless. You start with the basics of the ceremony itself, mastering a series of stages and steps in order to perform in a smooth, effortless manner for your guests. But lessons can become addictive and I soon found myself dabbling in ceramics in order to recognize the style of each tea bowl I held or lingering over the elegant hanging scroll selected by my teacher for the day’s lesson. Training includes posture (rising gracefully from a squat to full standing position can be hellishly difficult when you are tall and gangly) and the proper demeanor as you slide open paper screens and move about clad in a kimono. And, of course, all of this activity is accompanied by the directions and explanations of your “sensei” – the much sought after language I so desperately wanted.

The above learning contexts involved aural input. Like a small child, a lot of language has to go in before something comes out. In my next blog, I will talk about efforts at output, or treading in precarious places to improve my speaking skills.

(If you are really a fool for language, check out my language learning website at http://en.sulantra.com/ with courses from and to English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,Turkish, Bulgarian, Thai, German, Korean, Portuguese and Italian!)

37. What’s in a name?

Way back in blog entry 6 I talked about a quirky strategy for remembering new words in a foreign language by associating them with assorted images or similar sounding words in your mother tongue or another language you are familiar with. I referred to this technique as “mental connections” and suggested the weirder the connection the easier it would be to remember since the association would stand out more. This is the season when I put the strategy to good use.

The school year has started again in Japan and with it comes the conundrum of what to call my students. My university classes range from 20 to 120 individuals and getting their names down can be daunting. But knowing a student’s name can mean the difference between his or her active participation or indifference in lessons. To complicate matters, there are a number of cultural norms that I must choose to adhere to or ignore when addressing students.

The general rule for Japanese is that you use the family name followed by “san”, the equivalent of “Mr.” or “Ms.” when speaking with those around you. If you are talking with someone from your childhood, however, the first name (or maybe I should say “given name” since, in Japan, the first name is the family name) can be used followed by “kun” for men or “chan” for either sex – kind of like the “e” sound we tack on names in English to indicate familiarity, such as “Jimmy” for “James” or “Suzy” for “Susan”.

In a school setting, another dynamic comes into play, that of teacher and student. If teachers really want to signify who is in charge, they will drop the title altogether and use the family name only. For female students use of the given name is also common.

So what do I do? Being a Westerner who conducts some of his classes in English, I am allowed to play by a different set of rules, which I tend to make up on the spot depending on who is sitting in the classroom. Usually I address my students by their given names, explaining that in Canada this feels more informal and friendly. Just call me Don, eh?

My goal is to break down the walls and get to know everyone better. The reasoning makes sense to the average twenty-year-old and, after some initial awkwardness mostly on the part of the guys, students take this as the norm and soon begin referring to each other using first names often followed by a “chan” or “kun” to make things sound more palatable to their Japanese ears.

Such use of the given name is normally only reserved for friends and family who have known you since childhood but it does have advantages. It helps build a feeling of camaraderie both in and outside of classes. This point was brought home during a recent parent-professor counseling session (yes, we have such things at the university level, too) when one mother expressed her delight that I was using everyone’s first name. She said that it helped break down the usual formality and her son had supposedly made new friends more quickly “just like in elementary school”. I’m not sure that is the ambience I strive for but she certainly approved.

 On the other hand, my demand that students use my first name results in the awkward situation where my colleagues refer to me by my family name with “sensei” (professor) while the students refer to me by “Don”. This has resulted in some professors complaining that my students are being rude. After explaining that the use of my given name makes me feel more approachable and comfortable with the speaker, some brave souls do attempt to “go with the flow” and address me as “Don”, particularly on staff outings. But others visibly cringe when a student or staff member shouts out “Don!” to get my attention in the halls.

When it comes to the foreign students in my classes, there are some interesting variations. My Korean students seem to enjoy using given names for the same reason I do – it breaks down formality and creates a more relaxed, personal atmosphere. As for my Thai students, they seem to have no qualms whatsoever about using given names rather than family names in class. When I commented on their “adaptability”, I was informed that Thais use the given name when addressing someone formally and switch to a “nickname”, which typically has no resemblance to their real name, in the company of friends. So much for creating a more casual ambience in my classes.

As for my students from China, they are harder to read. Some are delighted that I know a little Chinese and call them by their real names in their mother tongue. Others, however, insist that I use the Japanese pronunciation of their Chinese names, which can be disturbingly different. To give an obvious example, “Mao Tse-tung” of revolution fame is pronounced as what sounds like “Mo-Duck-Toe” to English-speaking ears.

I am not really sure why some of my Chinese students are more comfortable being addressed with the Japanese pronunciation of their names. Maybe they are just being kind to the inhabitants of their host country since most Japanese find Chinese names to be real tongue twisters. Or perhaps it makes my students from China feel like they “stick out” a little less. Being in Japan, they want to use a Japanese variation of their name. I can kind of understand this attitude. When I was in university studying Mandarin, I was given a Chinese name, which meant that I was “part of the group”. To this day certain friends in Vancouver still address me as “Meidan”.

On the other hand, if you are trying to remember the names on class lists and have already created an association for a Chinese name, such as “Jing-Jing” (“Hmm. That sounds like change in my pocket...”) only to discover that she wants to be called “Sho-Sho”, it can really mess with one’s mental processes.

Names are important. They reflect the very essence of someone’s persona with usage governed by cultural norms that are hard to overcome no matter how long you have lived abroad. In Japan, when men become well acquainted, they address each other by the surname without a title to show that they are “buddies”. On the other hand, in the Western culture that I hail from, being called by the surname only (“Hey, Smith!”) can come across as rude and offensive.

In my first year working at Mitsui Engineering and Shipbuilding (see blog entry 27), I became close friends with the man in the desk across from mine, Nishimura-san. One day in my second month, he shouted across the large office we worked in to get my attention by using my surname only. I was thrown off balance. How rude! He thought that our friendship had reached the stage where we were on a first-name basis – family name that is. For my unacculturated ears, it sounded loutish.

I have a close friend, Kurt, whose name ends up sounding like “Kato” in Japanese, a typical local surname. Some of his acquaintances are mortified when they discover that for years they have been calling him by his given name, not his family name. On the other hand, his surname contains fourteen letters and is liberally sprinkled with “v”’s, which don’t exist in Japanese. In the end, everyone sticks with the comfortable, if potentially rude, status quo.

 As for the name “Don”, it is not quite as adaptable. It has a range of meanings in Japanese, none of which are very acceptable. “Don” can refer to the noise of a drum being beaten (“don, don, don…”), the head of a yakuza (gangster) clan, stinky, a dimwit... I think you get the picture, which is not an attractive one. Still, my name doesn’t leave people snickering when I introduce myself as it does in Istanbul. In Turkish, my name means “boxer shorts”. What’s in a name, indeed!

(If you are really a fool for language, check out my language learning website at http://en.sulantra.com/ with courses from and to English, Spanish, Chinese, Japanese,Turkish, Bulgarian, Thai, German, Korean, Portuguese and Italian!)