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| A Season of Goodbyes (03.31.04) |
Back
in August, my first day at the office was my predecessor's last.
When it was time to go, Simon walked down the stairs ahead of
me into the entrance lobby, where all 40 employees were waiting
in a semicircle. They burst into applause at the sight of him.
A few people made short speeches. Simon himself struggled not
to cry as he gave a short speech. As he walked out of the building,
all 40 people bowed and clapped again.
This is how the Japanese say goodbye.
And from my first day here, I've been dreading my last. But
today, long before I go home for good, I got another taste of
goodbye. In Japan, the beginning of the new school year and
work year is April 1. That's the day all college graduates start
work. It's also the day government employees who get transferred
to a new position begin that job.
If April 1 is the first day of the new year, that makes March
31 the last day of the old one. That was today, my first day
back at work after our two-week trip around Japan. Transfer
of employees to and from the Education Center, where I work,
is fairly common. Out of the 40 employees, each year about five
get transferred. Except this year—we had eight.
They all got word of their transfer on March 22.
Today at work we had not one, not two, not three, but FOUR
goodbye ceremonies, scattered throughout the day. This on top
of huge farewell drinking parties held while I was still traveling.
Before I continue, let me explain something. I am a wreck at weddings. Even televised ones. But I am a Qualified Disaster when it comes to goodbyes. I even cried at Simon's goodbye, my very first day of work. All I need to start bawling is just the faintest hint that someone else is about to start.
I knew before I came to Japan that the goodbyes would be difficult. But I wasn't expecting them to come so soon.
 This
weekend, we met my brother Josh's host family near Osaka for
one day. That's all. One day. We spent the night at their house
and talked with them. But they were so kind to us, taking us
sightseeing to Nara and Osaka. They cooked dinner for us and
regaled us with stories of Josh's refusal to eat raw octopus.
When it was time to part, at a train station, they took us by
the hand, looked us in the eye, and told us they felt we were
their children, too, just as they had felt about Josh. They
implored us to come back and visit again, anytime. I frantically
tried to pull my hand out of their grasp and get through the
ticket gate in the small 30-second window of control I had over
the tears. On the other side of the ticket gate, I turned to
wave goodbye one last time and could barely make them out through
my clouded vision. I cried all the way to Shin-Osaka station,
10 minutes down the line.
That was Sunday. I was not looking forward to today.
I knew I'd be in trouble the minute I got to work. I rode my bike for the first time since the snow melted. When I walked into the lobby in my very nonbusinesslike biking clothes, everyone else who'd come to work already was gathered there in a semicircle. I'd seen that semicircle before. As soon I as opened the door, they started clapping. But it wasn't for me, they were just having a laugh. I waved them off and ran away to change into my work clothes.
By the time I got back to the lobby, a few others had arrived,
each one being mock-clapped for in turn. I joined the group
at one edge of the semicircle and soon learned that we were
waiting for a man who would be retiring today. When he turned
up at long last, the entire place clapped, bowed, presented
him with flowers, clapped and bowed some more, then waited for
the speech. He of course gave a lovely speech—no tears—thanked
everyone for the flowers and went on his merry way. I, on the
other hand, was already fighting back tears of my own. Now I
can add retirements to my repertoire of weeping.
 Somehow
I managed to hold it mostly together during the rest of the
day, despite hearing Aoyagi-sensei, my direct supervisor and
best friend in Japan, get a little choked up herself as she
said goodbye to the School Education Department at the usual
morning meeting. Yes, she, too, got transferred. She phoned
me last week in Osaka to break the news. At the time, well,
of course, I could barely get three words out. I think they
went something like, "Thanks... for... calling... -sniff-."
At one
of the last goodbye ceremonies of the day, each of the leaving
employees was presented with flowers by a staying employee.
They asked me to give Aoyagi-sensei her bouquet. Everyone else
bowed deeply and uttered words of encouragement in Japanese.
I shook Aoyagi-sensei's hand and said, "Good luck to you." I
thought I was OK, but after I turned to walk back to the rear
of the staying employee group, I felt a big fat tear slip down
my right cheek. I caught it before anyone else did, but the
stage was set.
A moment later, just ten minutes before I was due to leave by
bicycle in order to catch my train, I decided to suck it up
and actually say goodbye to the people who were leaving, rather
than just run past in a blur on my way out the door. I'd like
to think I did very well, asking for addresses, shaking hands,
wishing them luck. Until I ran into Aita-sensei on the stairs.
Aita-sensei is a music teacher. At the Education Center, she was a music teacher's consultant. She taught music teachers how to teach. Including me and her, our department only had four women, so we often had small tea parties or cooking parties during lunch break. Every time she went on a business trip, she brought a small present back for me. I wanted to get her address, but she wasn't in her office. She was on the stairs.
I asked for her address, and she wrote it down for me. So far,
so good. Then for the handshake... she took me by the hand,
looked straight into my eyes, and said, "Angela, every day was
a joy to work with you. You are always so happy. You are always
enthusiastic. It has been wonderful to know you." Repeat, repeat.
I croaked out a reply ("Me... too.") and tried
to escape up the stairs, but she watched me as I left, tears
rolling.
In the small office we shared, Aoyagi-sensei was waiting. I'd
been hoping to avoid her. She's been like a guardian angel to
me in Japan, constantly looking after me. We laugh and laugh
at work. She's like an older sister. In a way, she IS
Japan to me. I mumbled something about how I had to catch my
train. "Angela, I wasn't expecting to have to say goodbye to
you so soon..." she started to say, then we both turned bright
red and our eyes filled with tears.
I left the office that way, sniffling and wiping as I raced to get on my bicycle in time to catch the train, co-workers yelling after me to be careful.
"See you tomorrow," said Hiromi-sensei, the only woman other
than me who isn't leaving. I was happy to say that I would.
If only they could all say that when it's time for me to go
home in July.
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| - Angie |
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