The hardest thing I have ever done was to teach my own children English. Like with most international couples, my wife and I have secured dual citizenship for our kids, meaning that they themselves get to choose their nationality once they reach adulthood. Yet, long ago we realized that the choices we made for them when they were little would pave our son’s decisions. Emphasis on either language, we felt surely would point them in the direction of that culture.

This Japan Times column from 2014 is about “stage fright,” not capybara. Yet, keep reading. I tie things together in the end. As for stage fright, I have suffered my share, especially when addressing groups in Japanese. At those times, I long to drop my text and dash for the door. And I am not alone. Many of my countrymen get the willies when speaking before groups, thus the stage fright nickname: the American disease. In my first few years in Japan, I was invited to speak of

Hello. My name is Tom Dillon and I am a tofuholic. Yes, I fork down tofu by the saucerload. I slice it and dice it into salads and dump it wholesale into sukiyaki. I spear it up from the misty depths of my miso soup and snarf the deep-fried variety like candy. When I raid the fridge late at night and find a tofu tub quivering in fear behind jars of jam and wrappings of "chikuwa," I offer no mercy.

Most of my Stateside family and friends have knowledge of Japan only as deep as what they see on TV. Which means they think I live my life in a dizzy world of ninja, yakuza and robots. And for the web-surfers out there, the impressions can be even dizzier. For have you read the news about Japan lately? I mean the "research" news — those tantalizing tech tidbits that pop up on Internet sites.

Gaijin/immigrants and their issues are catching attention now, as a growing nationalist movement searches for bogeymen in regard to various Japanese woes, with foreign residents being an easy, defenseless and largely innocent target. Sound familiar with headlines elsewhere? I have long years at this and know few immigrants mean anyone any harm. We all gain our footing little-by-little, one step at a time, often tripping, but always rising back, as we strive to find our way i

The train roars on while the lost foreigner blinks at the map plastered above the door. It's a spider's web of crisscrosses that seems to blur the more that he stares. So, he girds himself and turns to the businessman standing alongside. "Excuse me? Do you speak English?" The man jumps, either with the shock of being approached or at a perceived slight to his education. "But of course!" The foreigner blurts his question. "Great! So what's the next station?" "Who-Wants-To-Know

Here's a fun fact to sweeten your life: The average Japanese consumes about 1.1 kg of chocolate per year. Meanwhile, your typical American gobbles down five times that amount -- which is still nothing compared to the 10 kg snarfed away by your average Swiss or German. The sugary hook on the modest Japanese figure is this: Sixty percent of the total consumption centers around one specific day. And what day is that?

"This month we cheer the Olympic team. Like this: 'Go for broke, Japan! Go for broke!'" She raises her arms and rattles her bracelets. The waiter glances our way and I signal for more wine. Urgently. She lowers her arms. "You don't like it? Why?" I gulp my wine. I have been here before. "Listen, Mariko, your dialog's fine. But people don't talk this way. No one screams, 'Go for broke' these days. Especially as a group. We'd just say, 'Go, Japan, go!' " She wrinkles her n

The Japanese calendar is salted with weird and wacky days from start to finish. Many of these have commercial angles, while others focus on public awareness. And some are just nuts. Still, I would much rather be nuts and celebrate than work, work, work. Take Jan. 7 for example. That was national "Nail Clipping Day," my personal favorite, which I celebrated in due fashion. Too bad it comes but once a year. What follows then is my personal primer of the lesser holiday highl

2014 is — according to the Chinese zodiac — the Year of the Horse. We thus celebrate the spin of the 12-year cycle. This is our year! "Well, they can take it back," she says. "I don't want it." Right. It's not like they give you anything. They don't hand you a golden key to the planet or a weekend pass to Disneyland, or even a packet of tissues. I could get that much at least with a quick trot around Shinjuku Station. The only thing you get is a horsey glow — that is, if y

I prefer this season not as one of tinsel, lights and storefront carols, but rather as one of quiet — a season of soft-falling snow, a season of anticipation, a season of memories. In this season I am haunted by the memory of a Christmas past, that of my very first Christmas in Japan in 1976. And like the Dickens messenger from the shadows of distant youth, the ghost that I welcome is not unfriendly at all.

She jiggled in blue-striped pajamas before the bathroom mirror. She looked a fright, a witch, a hag. Her eyes were packed in red, her hair a ratted ball, and her face sallow and lifeless and above all old! She stuck out her tongue. Of course, it was caked! She put a cold hand to her throat and said, “La, la, la…” The sounds croaked out. Oh she was sick! How could she possibly, possibly sing?

Meet "Father Smith" -- silver hair, gentle smile and a voice so mellow that it flows with a grace from beyond. Maybe there’s a God and maybe there isn't, but when you're with Father Smith, you tend to believe there is. There's just one thing. He's as phony as hell. "I'm an English teacher," he says. "I marry people at a hotel chapel on weekends. I wear the robes, a cross, the whole nine yards. Nobody knows. And nobody cares." He smiles his smile. "Except for maybe me."

One of our family has become a Buddhist. The new Buddhist is not my Japanese wife, who professes Christianity. Nor is it her kin, who advance the sukiyaki approach to religious faith, as in: whatever adds a little flavor is welcome to the mix. No, the family Buddhist is my dog. The story behind this is approximately 14 years long. One third-grade morning, my second son found a frisky puppy outside his classroom window.

Yes, my fellow competitors... it's cockroach season. And the pressure to exterminate is on. First, if you've never had the pleasure of coming face to head with a Japanese roach, let me describe the enemy: They're big. They're ugly. They're bugs. What more do you need to know?

Smoke, as they say, gets in your eyes. Not to mention your clothes, hair, nose, lungs, taste buds, teeth, gums and (if you are a smoker) your pocketbook. Yet, this well-hammered health hazard remains Japan's vice of choice -- a pastime to die for. Literally.

I was beachball-eyed with love. In fact, when we first met, I couldn't take my eyes off her. I pledged my devotion and we traveled everywhere together, merrily rolling over the hills and valleys of life. Rarely have I been so happy. Then -- slowly -- the years took their toll. She began to age. She lost the pep of her younger days. She lost some beauty too. She remained steadfast and responded eagerly to my every request, yet… I couldn't help it. My eyes began to wander.

In the heart of downtown Shinjuku there's a land -- far over the rainbow -- where dreams really do come true. That is, if your dream involves a bowel movement. Fittingly, it’s called the Toto Super Space, a showroom for bathroom fixtures set on the lofty 26th and 27th floors of the L-Tower Building, a place where visitors can flush their troubles away. And -- if they are perhaps so inclined -- their little dog too.

The Internet is ablaze with lists suggesting ways to fight back against the deadliest foe of modern man — stress. Yes, stress! It will boil your blood pressure, electrify your nerves, scramble your stomach, ruin your happiness and lead you straight to the grave. As if you weren't going there already. And to combat stress, here's a summary of what the Internet says you might try:

I learned to swear as a boy. It was the only thing my father ever taught me. He compensated for his lack of attention in other matters by instructing me well in this. And if you think that there is nothing therapeutic, nothing enriching, nothing self-purging about a decent five-second binge of bile, then I can only advise that you try it.