The Hardest Thing I Have Ever Done: A Father's Confession

Notes:

This is one of the earliest columns from the long run of "When East Marries West."

Our kids spent their formative years in Kumamoto, where I worked. If you are unfamiliar with Japanese geography, Kumamoto is in the center of Kyushu, the southernmost of Japan's four main islands and a long flight from Tokyo. In those days, Kumamoto had few foreign residents and there were no international schools anywhere near.

Surely, everyone knows Sesame Street and the Muppets. But if you slip on the "count to ten" reference, go to YouTube.

Raffi – an Armenian-Canadian – was once called "the most popular children's singer in the English-speaking world," a 1992 quote from the Washington Post. Not a poor melody in his entire repertoire. You can find Raffi on YouTube as well. "Willoughby Wallaby" too.

"Tatami" is of course the floor matting of traditional style Japanese rooms. Oni is the Japanese word for "devil" or "demon." As for "Great Big Billy" (see below), I blogged about my battles with local roaches just last year. Look here.

My title is "The Hardest Thing I Have Ever Done: A Father's Confession." The rather lackluster try by The Japan Times is as follows...

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Dual-Language Households No Fairy Tale

May 19, 1999

I have an acquaintance who says for him the hardest thing imaginable is to write fiction.

“It’s like giving birth!”

What a comment. It makes me want to watch him try.

As for me, the hardest thing imaginable is something I once did, but do not do anymore, nor will I ever do again – knock on wood, cross my fingers and wish upon every star.

While perhaps not as traumatic as childbirth, this specific task left stretch marks on my soul. As well as those of my kids.

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 would point them in the direction of that culture.

Thus, we made a concentrated effort to keep our home balanced. That way, our two boys could keep all options open.

Since we lived in Kumamoto, plunged deep into Japanese culture, the responsibility of providing that balance fell primarily on the English-speaking parent – me.

How did I handle this? Sort of like the Titanic. Full speed ahead. And smack into an iceberg.

My first plan was to equal out Japanese input by saturating our house with English. I bought American videos by the pallet. Audio cassettes too.

We would watch Muppets while listening to Raffi and then watch Raffi while listening to Muppets. Our VCR and stereo both smoked from overuse.

The results?

Even today, our sons cite Bert and Ernie as two of their closest friends. They also would rather watch TV than do anything else.

As for me, I can no longer count to ten without cackling like a vampire.

Even worse, on some mornings, for some in explicable reason, a Raffi tune will fill my head and refuse to leave the whole day long. Many times have I caught myself rocking to and fro on a commuter strap and mouthing…

“Willoughby wallaby woo! An elephant sat on you!”

These scars might have been well-earned had my flood of English worked. But the second I left the room, English would click off and Japanese clicked on.

Kermit and friends would blip into Doraemon and Nobi and “Willoughby Wallaby” would fade into the theme song for Kamen Rider.

At least, I had control of story time. Thanks to Grandma in America, our kids owned more English books than some entire school districts. Most of which we never touched because each night the boys howled for the very same work.

A book always to be recited with the same cartoonish voices and the same funny side comments, including the one at the end, where I told the boys what I was going to do if I ever met the blasted author.

Once the lights went out, I had more freedom, but discovered many bedtime stories needed cultural interpretations. As in:

“Who's that crawling across my tatami?” growled the giant, red oni.

“Why it is I! GREAT BIG BILLY ROACH GRUFF!”

And so on.

My truer struggles began when I tried to teach the boys how to read and write. We grappled with text after text and workbook after workbook.

Eventually I hit on a reward system. I would point to a word and if my son could read it, I would present him with one M&M.

My wife thought this idea was nutty – even though I stuck to plain chocolate.

But she was right. I would quickly proceed past my son’s vocabulary level and thus end up eating the whole bag of M&Ms by myself. Word by word.

Not only did I gain weight, study soon became a time of anxiety – for everyone.

Each night I would drag myself home bone-tired after twelve hours on the job. I wanted only to eat, bathe and sleep, always in that order.

Yet, there they sat… Those textbooks that symbolized my kids’ futures. Reluctantly, I would pick them up and call the boys for their lessons.

Words they dreaded.

Cursed with American features despite their Japanese mother, the boys faced tensions of their own. No matter how native their Japanese language, they couldn’t shake their foreign genetics.

They wanted nothing more than to fit in with others. Yet at school, some children would refuse to play with them, the foreigners.

And every night, there was their grouchy foreign father making them practice the very root of their problem. A frayed equation that added up to no one’s good.

Yet, God does indeed take special care of little kids – and foolish Dads. Just as we seemed ready to crack, the boys and I were rescued.

Out of the blue, a change of assignment took us to Tokyo, allowing our boys to attend international school. A move that not every mixed-culture couple needs, but we did.

Meaning that – outside of bedtime stories like “Billy Roach Gruff” and “Jack and the Bean-Paste Stalk” – I was freed from teaching English.

Of course, my wife now had to teach Japanese. But she offered a far better reward.

Hershey’s Kisses. Without the Hershey’s. And a generous dose of hugs.

Effective motivation. And calorie free.

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© Thomas Noah Wood

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