Flowers For Baye

After nine years of working at the same school, the powers that be on high decided I needed a fresh start at a new school. So, starting in April, that’s what will happen. Today was the last day of the school year, and customarily, there would be all kinds of pomp and circumstance, flowers and speeches and whatnot. But, for the departing teachers, the school threw together an impromptu goodbye ceremony in the teacher’s office.

The Board of Education was supposed to inform my school that I would not be returning in April, but (for whatever reason) that didn’t happen, so no one knew except me (and a handful of handpicked trustees). One of these trustees approached me an hour before this ceremony began and informed me of the oversight.

“...So, when they ordered flowers, well—”

“None for me,” I said, resigned.

“None for you. I’m so sorry,” she said with a ’this is some unforgivable shit if ever there was’ look on her face. I appreciated it immensely.

“しょうがない,” (Shit happens) I intoned.

Any non-Japanese working in a Japanese office can likely attest to these oversights. This was not the first. Maybe the 100th? It panged, but I rolled with it because it was far from unheard of. When a culture accustomed to excluding the unalike is coerced to include them, there’s always someone who doesn’t get the memo, or presumes it couldn’t have meant 100% inclusion because that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? The Kendrick Lamar in their psyches screams, They not like us! They not like us! They not like us! And so, yeah, meetings get missed, sushi seldom shows, and flowers get forgotten. You come to expect these xenophobic hiccups.

Shit happens.

“You’re expected to say a few words. A little parting message, but if you’d rather not...”

I’d attended many of these ceremonies over the years (whenever I couldn’t find an excuse not to be there), so I knew what was expected of me. But standing there flowerless with a bunch of other flowered teachers just sounded too damn, I dunno, depressingly predictable. Didn’t need that feeling chiseling away at the fact that I was actually leaving behind some people I’d come to care about. So, I was about to opt out when my trustee snapped the Japanese equivalent of “fuck this!” and stormed away.

WTF!

I sat back at my desk and resumed cleaning it out, wondering what that was all about. Five minutes later, the principal came to my desk, knelt, and explained why there were no flowers for Baye. I couldn’t catch all the Japanese, but it was chock full of all the flowery phrases of profound regret you hear here. I usually play half-distracted when people pull this because I’ve come to place little trust in this practice of prostrating oneself to show remorse. But something about the most powerful person in the building kneeling and apologizing demands your undivided attention.

Once he was done, I said, “人生は続く” (life goes on) , and smiled to show I accepted and believed it to be sincere, which I did. “悪く思わない” (no hard feelings) I added.

An hour later, the ceremony began, and all the departing teachers (minus me) came to the front of the teacher’s office and stood before the principal. He ran off their bona fides individually and then added something he liked or found remarkable about the teacher. Then, the teacher would bow, say a few words to the room, receive a bouquet, and the next teacher would step up and follow suit.

While this went on, I felt someone touch me on the shoulder. It was my trustee, again. She indicated I should follow her into the hallway. There, she told me she’d gotten me some flowers. From where I had no idea. An emergency rush order, I imagined. Or maybe one of the teachers hopped on a mamachari (bicycles with baskets and sometimes motors) and raced to the florist? But whatever produced them, I appreciated the effort. She asked if I wanted to say something, and I said, “Why not?” I had no idea what I would say, though. I hadn’t prepared a speech because I hadn’t expected any Pomp and Circumstance. Not for me.

She led me to the front with the other teachers, and the principal called my name.

“Baye-sensei!” he began, speaking to the 70 or so teachers and staff. “I don’t know if y’all know this, but Baye has been here longer than any of us, even me.”

There were gasps. I knew that I was the senior there, of course.

But I didn’t realize that he did.

“How long has it been, Baye? 9 years?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Give or take a year. The years kinda bleed into one another in the teaching world, don’t they.”

Everybody laughed.

“That they do,” he said, then continued. “And in that time Baye-sensei has...” and began singing my praises until I felt embarrassed just being in his vicinity, let alone the song’s protagonist. I honestly had no idea he paid me any mind. Once he was done, I bowed deeply and solemnly. Then, I turned to the room, but my mind drew a blank at first.

I looked out at all the faces of my colleagues. I knew them, and worked side by side with many of them, for nearly a decade. Most were just these entities I encountered daily, parts of my life’s landscape. I felt, suddenly, this powerful desire to be truthful welling up in me.

(In a mix of English and not-so-flowery Japanese):

“Nine years. That’s a nice slice of life. I could have left at any point. All I had to do was say the word. But I stayed, and there’s a reason I did. And it’s not because I love teaching English. To be honest, I don’t.

(Laughter)

I won’t say I hate it, but it’s not my dream job or anything. I do it well, and, well, it pays the bills.

(Laughter)

“Some of them, anyway... (More Laughter) Sometimes.

(A couple of guffaws)

“But, seriously, the thing that’s kept me here is, well. how do I say this? As a non-Japanese person in Japan, it’s not easy to find spaces where I can be entirely comfortable, you know? Maybe you don’t. But that’s the case for most of us. We all need a place where everybody knows our name and doesn’t feel a compulsion to remind us that we’re foreign, strange, or that we don’t belong.

“I have two such spaces. One is at home with my lovely wife, Miki, and the second is here.”

(Awkward applause, unsure whether they should be cheering being one of only two places I’ve known in umpteen years where otherization is not the norm. I felt like Bilbo Baggins at his 111th birthday party telling his guests, “I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”)

“This lovely school of ours has been my sanctuary away from home for the past nine years!”

(Applause)

“Well, not all nine.”

(Laughter)

“Most of them, though. Well, not every day.”

(More laughter)

“But most days. Some days. No, most days.”

(Laughter and applause)

“Seriously, though. It’s not the structure that makes this school a sanctuary. It’s you guys. The people I share this space with have made it special. That’s why I stayed so long, and that’s why I dread leaving now.

“As many of you know, besides teaching, I have several other jobs. I’m an author, a columnist, a public speaker, and an activist when called upon or when I see something that needs attention. And Japan, well...It has a couple of areas of, er, concern.

(Surprising laughter.)

“But just a few.”

(More Laughter)

“A handful, really...”

(Raucous laughter)

“OK, OK. To be honest, it ain’t pretty out there.”

(Some chuckling)

“But the only reason I’ve been able to excel in all these arenas is that I’ve acquired rich experiences and got to know real people willing to share their honest thoughts and feelings with me, and I with them. And together, we’ve gotten a better understanding of one another and gained some perspective. You all have helped me become a better teacher, a better writer, and, indeed, a better person. I’ll miss this school, and I’ll miss all of you. Please do your best. Sorry for the long speech and thank you all for your kind attention.”

Then I bowed to applause and the vice principal handed me my bouquet. I sniffed at the pretty flowers and glanced over at my trustee. She was standing there welling up. I bowed low and long to her and winked some exclusive love her way.

And the topper, when I left to go home, all of the teachers lined up outside in front of the school. They began singing a familiar song, like “Auld Lang Syne,” except it was in Japanese. (I later learned the song is called “Hotaru no hikari.”) They formed two tight columns, erecting an arch above it by joining hands. They urged me to pass through it under this arch. I hesitated momentarily, thinking of Sonny going through the old mill to join the LORDS in “The Education of Sonny Carson.”

(In case you’re unfamiliar with “the old mill” here’s a scene from that movie, filmed in the neighborhood I grew up in, that will put you in the know somewhat.)

But no one whipped out any chains or bats. Just pats on the back and shoulders and shouts of sayonara, kiwotsukete, and ganbatte. (So long, take care, and good luck).

In the taxi I took home, I sat smelling the bouquet, smiling at the lovely blooms, and unconsciously watering them.

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PS: I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from my latest book, Words by Baye, Art by Miki. As you can see, I keep it real—I’m not here to glorify or bash Japan. I’m here to tell true stories because that’s the best way to show my love and respect for this country and its people.

Just got in a fresh batch of books in so if you want copies signed by both Miki and me, you can order here:

Words by Baye, Art by Miki

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The reviews? Thus far, nothing but five stars and high praise.

Peep it for yourself—I promise you’ll see why. This book? Yeah, it’s all that.