bookish dreamer

So the bad stuff?

Believe it or not there was actually bad stuff. The first was the fact that it was enough of a stressful situation that I cried in a couple of my classes because I felt hopeless and tired and as if I was never going to be able to understand Japanese. And while there is a rationale for crying in class (hello stressful situation, fish out of water, in ability to express oneself when one is quite used to having a mastery of the language), it was still embarrassing both during and afterwards. Some teachers handled it better than others, or at least made one feel less like a git for doing it, and it made me appreciate the job they took on all the more. Because honestly I don't think any of my teachers really wanted to make me cry.

I guess I should mention how classes worked: our individual level had four teachers and a TA. Every morning we would gather together in our full group of 22 students for a lecture/reading discussion class where we went over the passages that we'd read the night before and take a vocabulary quiz. After that we split into groups and had a listening comprehension class, a speaking/dialect class, and a grammar/kanji class for an hour. Most days we had a quiz in each class, except for Fridays when we prepared for the presentation we did every Monday (along with a Monday chapter test). I think I probably loved the sensei who taught us dialects the most, even though there were days where I avoided him completely. He had seemingly a ton of patience, and was often absolutely hilarious, but he didn't let us make many mistakes without commenting on them either. I think that was part of the reason why I liked him – I knew I wasn't going to be let off the hook but I also knew that he could smile and laugh and be goofy too, so it made me unafraid to try even when I was getting it terribly wrong.

( Probably the worst thing was that, I fell down some stairs in our classroom building and thought I'd broken my ankle )

But looking back on it now, if these were the worst and the hardest things to struggle with? Could have been far far worse. And the feeling inferior and unintelligent? Probably really good for me to get over that hump and get to the point where I was willing to * try * and hold a conversation instead of too embarrassed to say anything.

Next up, photo post, with happy memories, promise!

Let’s talk about a girl. A girl in the woods. Trying to go somewhere, but they’re never good woods. Dry leaves stick up little edges under her feet. She tries to walk softer, but that just makes the edges stab deeper.

Sun’s going down – the shadows press in and she wonders again what’s out in the dark. What’s out there? Shadows, nightmares, old starched men’s shirts.

Kleenex in her pocket. She rubs edges with her fingers. Cold fingers, like the winds of winter bite at the tips. She feels the nails, they’re cracked.

Where’s she going? No clue. Something’s gotta happen now – introduce an animal maybe. Let’s add an animal.

The bushes rustle, and out hops a kangaroo. You know you love it. The kangaroo hops, flips and turns into itself. She drops her grip on the Kleenex – she has to.

Alright, tell me what else the kangaroo does.

He hops into the distance maybe? I don’t know – what else do kangaroos do?

I don’t know, depends on what kind of a story we’re writing.

He encounters a branch, and it drips, drips, drips – not breathing … 1…2…3…breathing. He licks the branch. Licks it again after a second, and the girl doesn’t know what to do.

What does she do?

What does she do?

Poke it?

Poke what?

The kangaroo.

Ok. It blinks – big soft eyes –

No, poke it – it’s life!

No!

What? It’s a good ending.


* This little scribble brought to you though the joint efforts of Kate and Daria - yep, we have no idea either.