Work Related Injury

Presenteeism: a portmanteau word describing the act of working or attending classes despite being ill.  Manifold theories exist, as do various causes.  Scholars who study workplace dynamics generally agree presenteeism adversely affects productivity.  The Wikipedia article gives a decent topic overview and provides links to academic work on the subject.  The article is available in several languages... but not Japanese.  Not a thing, here.

There exists ample pressure at work in Japan to put in absurdly long hours to no observable purpose.  Workplaces measure work by the time spent at the office, perhaps as a display of company loyalty.  They do not judge each other on actual production.  Everyone seems very, very busy.  Busy, indeed... but not terribly productive (a common side effect of workaholism). The beehive thrums with purposeful buzzing, but the honey runs disproportionately thin compared to the amount of work which appears to occur.

Japan has a phenomenon called 過労死 (karoshi) which literally means "overwork death."  Perhaps, the ultimate work-related injury.  It happens a lot more here than in other industrialized countries.  People just don't know when to go home.  Reasons abound.  Fear of coworkers' judgement (especially senior coworkers).  Fear of reprimand from above. Fear of appearing disloyal to the company.  For the men folk, fear of going home to face their families.  Fear of rush hour trains.  Fear of fear itself.  Who knows, really.

This carbon blob, however, goes home at a normal time.  Some coworkers don't like that.  Don't care.  Have a son to take care of.  Probably disliked by most coworkers, anyway.  Which, back to presenteeism, probably why three years have passed without calling in sick.  Sick as a dog?  Work anyway.  Why?  Because fuck 'em, that's why!

Plus, gotta feed the student loan beast.
学費貸付の鬼に餌をやらなくちゃ。

Shall eat yonder, greener grass... thence barf forthwith.

Have a literal roomful of toys for the wee one.  Yet what does he yearn for?  The bold primary colors of the oversize Lego blocks?  The wee plastic turtle on wheels with a transparent shell wherein tiny plastic balls bounce around as it rolls?  Perhaps the brightly-colored plastic balls which come apart in halves and can be fit one within the other in the manner of Matryoshka dolls.

Nay, he yearns for none of these.

Instead, he yearns for things in the hands of nearby adults.  Bottles of carbonated beverage.  Books with easy-to-tear pages.  Smartphones.  CUPS OF HOT COFFEE.  It matters not.  You has: him wants.  Preferably something that could cause vomiting if drunk/eaten, scald if touched, leave a mark of some kind, inadvertently contact emergency services, stain, or require costly repairs/replacement when drooled upon and/or smashed.

Friends with children in university have intimated that this pattern continues almost indefinitely.

Actual Human Poo

Funny thing about having children: it provides a crash course in crap.  Literal crap.

(Warning: appetite spoilers follow.)

Babies who nurse produce a mild, yellow excrement redolent of Grey Poupon (no pun intended).  Oddly enough, the end product smells a tad like movie theater popcorn.  Probably, that results from milk having been exposed to acid, with remnant undigested fats rounding out the buttery bouquet.  (Of course, individual results may vary.)

Anyway, changing many much diapers enlightens one some.  Brings one down to earth.  Closer to the soil, anyway.  As a friend once said: today's dessert becomes tomorrow's poop.  True enough... and very Zen.   Circle of life, or something.  Now the wee one has begun eating solid food.

With the entrance of solid foods comes the exit of a different kind of excrement: a whole new number two, if you will.  Solid food brings a revolution to intestinal flora and a completely new set of metabolic by-products (occasionally including whole, undigested vegetables... mmm.)  Not the cute little baby poop anymore.  With the recent addition of meats and fish to his diet, diapers arrive brimming with the real McCoy: actual human poo.

The little shits grow up so fast.

Food Flakes for the Ego Fish.

The end of another school year has come.

Students fill out a questionnaire in the final class (an independent one: not mandated by the institution).  It has a number of questions regarding what the student feels they can or can't do (e.g. "I can introduce myself in English").  The same questions appear on the questionnaire distributed at the beginning of the year.  Those same papers go back to the students after they fill out the year-end ones so they can compare their answers.  It serves as a very tangible benchmark for improvement.  Such "can-do" lists have gained much popularity in language-learning circles.

The final questionnaire also includes open-ended questions regarding what they liked about the class, what they didn't like about the class, and any general comments they have.  The questionnaires have the students' names on them.  The lack of anonymity may curtail some honesty.  However, the answers seem relatively frank to the untrained eye.  Students regularly report things they didn't like.

Reading the answers to the "what did you like about the class" section of the questionnaire invariably serves as food flakes for the ego fish.  The students make such heartwarming comments about what they enjoyed.  Do the children just say what they believe the teacher wants to hear?  Dunno.  Is it all just sunshine for the bum?  Probably.  That doesn't diminish the warm fuzzies it generates.

The students make these comments even before they get the parting gifts for the class: souvenir bags with hand-drawn radish people doing adorable shit (among other things).  Gotta love kids.

Rubber Baby Rugby Bumpers

Balancing childcare and work always presents a challenge... even when one lives in a culture conducive to childrearing.  In some ways, Japan's culture facilitates childcare.  In others, it does not.  In recent years, the birthrate in Japan has been falling steadily.

Japan boasts low-cost, public day-care.  However, there exist waiting lists and an elaborate point system for potential attendees.  Resistance from nimby neigbors who regard daycares as a noisy nuisance stalls the construction of new facilities that might alleviate the burden on extant centers.  And the birthrate falls.

Japan still suffers from a chronic expectation that new mothers will quit working and stay home for all time (i.e. give up their lives).  Company policies, written and unwritten, encourage this.  Friends, family, and society at large place enormous pressure on women to fall in line with this malarkey.  In a culture where one's nakama (仲間）attain virtual godhood in one's life, peer pressure and social ostracism can compel comparable to the threat of violence.  Yet, oddly enough, the birth rate continues to fall.

National insurance in Japan affordably covers many, many things.  However, it doesn't cover the uncomplicated delivery of a baby.  Prenatal care, yes.  A cesarian section, yes.  Neonatal care, yes.  Children's healthcare in general, yes.  Just not the delivery.  Also, many hospitals don't offer epidurals or other pain-management for pregnant women.  It seems female suffering (avoidable or otherwise) receives a full endorsement from this patriarchal society.  It expects women to give up career and selfhood, bear children in Old-Testamenty pain, and struggle with the availability of daycare services.  The birthrate continues to fall... and some people actually have the wherewithal to wonder "why?" aloud in public forums.

On another note, most other teachers at work put in absurd hours doing much administrative paperwork of little observable worth.  They devalue an erstwhile rewarding education career into depressing wage slavery.  Some of these "fathers" rarely see their children.  Can't play that game.  Forget it.  Anyway, for a foreign employee, advancing up the administrative ladder just doesn't happen.  Therefore this carbon blob ensures that work ends at quittin' time.  No promotions to fret about, so go home and see the family.  Then the baby gets handed off like an adorable, little rugby ball so the better half can go to work.  Just lucky this arrangement works, in light of the daycare situation.  Really, wouldn't have it any other way.  Toss that baby over here, would you kindly?