R-O-B-O-T-S
“Irassyaimase!” When entering a store or restaurant in Japan, you’ll always get greeted the same way. It doesn’t matter whether it’s Dior or local one-hundred-yen store; doesn’t matter, if it’s a Michelin-star restaurant or a conveyor belt sushi. The procedure’s ALWAYS the same; the Japanese customer service’s “Big Five”: 1. they greet you 2. they take your order politely 3. they thank you 4. they bow 5. they tell you to come back.
In the past seven months, I haven’t seen a single digression from this mechanical arrangement. Sometimes, I wonder whether the local ramen place would follow the same procedure, if a major earthquake occurred while they were taking my order. They probably would. First, I thought this machine-like adhesion to procedures was sort of charming – in the way that Blade Runner might be considered apocalyptically cute. I really appreciated the perfectionist professionalism everywhere you go in Japan. They never raise their voice, they never look tired, the never make jokes. But recently, I’ve started feeling a bit strange. Why does no one make any jokes? Why does the sixteen-year-old teenager working at the convenience store use honorifics when talking to me? Why does no one ever give me strange looks when I show up at the supermarket in pyjamas? Why don’t they scold me for spilling miso soup all over the dining hall? Japan’s the land of Robots, that’s why.
Upon realizing that I have been surrounded and served by machines for the past seven months, I went on a desperate search for human emotions. I tried to make friends with local 7/11 workers. I entered the store, grabbed a bottle of orange juice, and paid at the register. Same as usual. They greeted me, they took my order, they thanked me, they bowed, they told me to come back. At which point, I was expected to leave the store. BUT, I decided to go seven-eleven-ice-breaking. I approached the girl working at the store and asked her: “You seem to have such an amazing hold of all the honorifics! Were they hard to learn?” The smile on her face diminished. Confusion appeared in her eyes. She started making strange sounds and then said she was gonna call her supervisor. I panicked: “No, no, no! I don’t need anything from your supervisor. I just wanted to know how YOU feel, what YOU think!” She started staring at the floor, bouncing back and forth. At some point, I thought I heard the meticulously designed operating system overheating. Vapor started pouring out of her head, and it was at that moment when I decided to peace out. I surely did not make friends with the 7/11 workers, so good thing there’s a COMPLETELY identical convenience store on the opposite side of the street. I’ll definitely try to keep my mouth shut when buying orange juice, next time.
A week ago, I was taking the Higashiyama-line at 7 PM – i.e. the hour of the crowded-disco-inferno that only Japanese metro can provide. All of sudden, an ordinary looking salary man went crazy, hitting his head to doors and poles, shouting “I wanna get out! I wanna get out! “ I freaked out and started texting my family and friends asking them not to play Freddie Mercury at my funeral. I wasn’t as freaked out by the crazy man’s bleeding head as by the reaction of the co-passengers – or should I say the lack of it. The expression of people around me showed no signs of distress, everybody seemed as calm and composed as ever before. Business as usual. No one tried to help the pitiful salaryman, no one complained about his dramatic act, no one laughed. The man kept shouting and hitting himself as the train kept passing one station after another. I couldn’t endure his pain anymore and so I decided to get off three stops before Aratama Bashi and just walk home. The walk was long and it felt a bit like the walk of shame. I felt shameful of not consoling him, of not doing anything to alleviate his anxieties. But then I realized that this would probably involve resetting, and unplugging his batteries, which seemed too much of an effort.
I take the second highest level Japanese class at Nanzan. I understand 99% of daily conversations. I can read Murakami. Yet, I don’t know a single swear word in Japanese. I used to think that my lack of bad Japanese vocabulary simply reflects my own refinements. I used to think that I have been hanging out in circles that are just too high-brow to teach me to be bad. But, now I know I was mistaken. My lack of Japanese swear vocabulary says more about Japan than about my education. The robots don’t need swear words, and so there are none. Swearing comes as such a wonderfully deep expression of discontent – of human emotions – that in the land of machines no such words were, are, or ever will be needed. In fact, instead of swear words, the Robots prefer either refrain (我慢) or action. For instance, the other day I tried to cross street illegally, trying to catch the train. I understand that illegal crossing is strongly discouraged as it endangers the flow of machines as well as (my) life. But, come on, guys, I’m sure that at least once in your lifetime you’ve crossed the street without waiting for Mr. Green, right? Well, when trying to step on the road I was hit by an old Japanese man in a yellow vest. With a composed facial expression, he hit me with a sign that said “Let’s cross the street safely!” I really wish he had just called me names instead of leaving bruises on my right shoulder.
The same holds true of Japanese sense of humor. In America, people tend to “joke around” all the time, without even realizing they’re joking. People share dirty jokes with their colleagues, make sarcastic comments about their friends, and try to post witty-funny facebook statuses. “"I mail, I text, I tweet, I blog/I build a Facebook for my dog/I speak no words, I shake no hands/I am at last a modern man."
I don’t think I’ever heard a Japanese person say a joke. When a Japanese student is international enough to get facebook, their status updates are generally not the most attention catching. “Today, it’s sunny. I’m going to school and then I’ll come back. I hope it’s sunny tomorrow, too!” Their comments are usually some kind of variation of the same theme. A few days ago, I updated my status as “Today, I’m going to Xmas party in all black. My theme’s Santa’s Funeral.” My friend Naoko commented: “Have you noticed how sunny it is, too?” My friend Yuki’s comment ran: “Hayppy Xmas! Good luck!”
It is not only the complete lack of active attempts to make life in Japan less serious but the complete misunderstanding of jokes. What do you think about this one: “
One afternoon, a blonde comes to the library and yells: A HAM-BUR-GER-AND-FRENCH-FRIES, PLEAEAEAEAEASE!
Librarian: I’m sorry, m’am. But this is a LIBRARY.
Blonde (in a very low voice): Ups, then, hamburger and French fries, please.
This joke sounds funnier than it reads – as most jokes. But I’m sure you get the idea. When I was first told this joke by my roommate Austin, I burst into tears. When I told this joke to my Canadian roommate, Joe, he burst into tears. When I told it to my Chinese friend, Mizuki, he burst into tears. When I told my Japanese friend, Mihiro-kun, he paused for a while and then assumed a sorrowful face. I waited for a few minutes, hoping he too would burst into laugher, defying my robot thesis, instead Mihiro-kun simply kept quiet. I asked him what he thought about the joke. He said he felt sorry for the blonde girl, cause she probably couldn’t finish her order.
