"I left my job. I have $9,000 in my suitcase. And by the way, I think I have the chicken pox."
Sure, my family can laugh about it now, but when they heard that from me via phone from Japan, it apparently left them in quite a kerfuffle. My sister later reported that my dad completely freaked out when he hung up the phone.
Was he worried about my health? Apparently not. No sympathy there. He was worried about the cold, hard cash.
"It's fine," I assured him, "it's very safe here!"
My first "real" job after college graduation was as an English teacher in Japan. At ¥150,000 a month, I thought I had it made - at the time, that was about US$1,100 a month. I contributed a minimal amount of money each month to pay for the utilities consumed in my two-room, Japanese house, but because the house was located on my boss' property, I wasn't charged any rent.
My boss was a very business-minded man. He took me to the bank, opened up an account for me, and handed over the passbook. Each month, he gave me an envelope containing a stack of 10,000 yen bills (ichiman). Fifteen of them, to be exact. Unsure that I would be able to navigate the bank on my own, I never returned. The envelope of ichimans resided in my sock drawer, and each month, I added to the stack. Sure, I pulled out a bill here and there when I needed to buy groceries, or train tickets, but I managed to sock away about US$9,000 over the term of my contract. In my twenty-four-year-old brain, I was rich.
When it was time to leave the country, I made travel plans. First, a visit to Hiroshima to see friends. While there, I planned to buy a plane ticket out of the country, and then wire the rest of that cash home. Certainly my father could understand that, right?
My boss was a very business-minded man. He took me to the bank, opened up an account for me, and handed over the passbook. Each month, he gave me an envelope containing a stack of 10,000 yen bills (ichiman). Fifteen of them, to be exact. Unsure that I would be able to navigate the bank on my own, I never returned. The envelope of ichimans resided in my sock drawer, and each month, I added to the stack. Sure, I pulled out a bill here and there when I needed to buy groceries, or train tickets, but I managed to sock away about US$9,000 over the term of my contract. In my twenty-four-year-old brain, I was rich.
When it was time to leave the country, I made travel plans. First, a visit to Hiroshima to see friends. While there, I planned to buy a plane ticket out of the country, and then wire the rest of that cash home. Certainly my father could understand that, right?
And then, in Hiroshima, along came the chicken pox. And that fateful call home.
As a foreigner in Japan, I was under constant scrutiny at all times. On the subway, on the street, and certainly while driving to and from work. But nothing prepared me for the scrutiny bestowed upon me when my face was covered with black, chicken-pox scabs. Fortunately, it was winter, so the rest of me was well-covered.
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| I wasn't lying, spots galore in Hiroshima |
Kind of like today. It is chilly here, almost Thanksgiving, and I am well-covered in jeans and long sleeves. But underneath, I am suffering from an allergic drug reaction so fierce that there is nary a clear patch on my skin. Today, my friends are not taunting me (as they did in Japan) with, "Hey, Dottie, how's it going today?" And I don't have the fever that accompanied the chicken pox.
Covered in spots and feeling itchy sucks no matter what the cause, and it is certainly no way to kick off the holiday season. But you know what I did yesterday? I called home and talked to my mom, fishing for a little sympathy. And this time? I got it.
