Warning: fairly depressing topic at hand today (written after a goodbye party that did involve vodka). This is something I feel like I’ve written over and over again, and yet I can’t find anything about this. If I have written on it before, I apologize, and hope this version is more coherent than the last.
I got an e-mail today from my aunt to remind us that today (Sunday; I’m slightly behind because it’s after midnight now, but let’s pretend that the day we woke up for is the day we’re still in) is the 2nd year anniversary of the day my grandma died. While I can appreciate the sentiment–that we remember the life of our grandma–the day itself is nothing beyond a horrible memory of a really shitty day.
Let me give you some back story. When I worked for AEON, my last day was scheduled for April 20th, 2014. Usually, when foreign teachers leave in Japan, they announce a month ahead of time about their departure date. That gives them one month to say goodbye to students; since we usually saw students once a week, that gave the students time to prepare to say goodbye and adjust to the idea for a new teacher (as well as ample time to sign up for the goodbye party). All of our contracts are originally for one year, but after six months of a contract end date, you go in for assessment, and they can either offer you 1 year, 6 months, 3 months, or no contract renewal. The first time I went in, I was offered a year, and took 6 months. The next time, I was again offered a year, but took 3 months (though it turned out to be slightly longer). I was the first foreign teacher in awhile to renew, so many students had grown attached to me, and of course I felt similarly. Accordingly, I knew the last month would be a little difficult. That being said, I had time to prepare, and I often imagined what it would be like. The last week of work is dedicated to saying goodbye to students, and training your replacement. When I had first started with AEON, I really disliked the company, and I imagined with great satisfaction that last month. As the time drew nearer, I approached it with more of a morbid curiosity, because I had grown to know my students in such surprising ways–and the closer I got to saying goodbye, the more I felt the heaviness of it–but I couldn’t help but think of the reactions I would get as well.
One of my favorites (terrible to say) came the week after I made my announcement. I was teaching a Saturday Discovery class (for those who’ve worked at AEON, the picture is easily developed; for those who haven’t, here’s a quick-style assessment: Discovery is a middle/upper beginner level conversation class, and Saturday classes are usually full of business-people, compared to perhaps a Tuesday Morning Discovery class with 5 housewives). This particular class was one I had had my entire tenure at AEON, and it had almost always been overflowing with students (10 was usually the limit, and it forced capacity so often that it had split into two classes after about a year of teaching it). So the week after I announced that I would be leaving, I entered class and asked people about their weeks. One of the only women in the class, a middle-aged business woman, told the class, “It was okay- but…BUT…I had trouble sleeping.” When I asked her why, she told me, “Because YOUUUU said you were leaving.” I thought she was joking, and I started to laugh, but when I looked at her, tears were streaming down her face. I calmed her down a bit, but after class, she came up to me to ask about my future plans, and as soon as I opened my mouth, she started crying again.
Needless to say, emotions were running way higher than I expected them to–and combine that with the fact that AEON usually requires teachers to move out of their apartments a week before their contracts end, with the provision of a hotel for the final days of teaching. For me, that meant a final day of 4/20 (a Saturday), though I had to move out at noon on 4/15 (a Sunday–and don’t forget that I worked on Saturdays). I had been trying to pack a little every day the week before, but I found myself less successful at it than I needed to be (it’s hard to pack up almost 2 years of stuff, especially when you aren’t actually leaving the country for 2 months). So I finished work around 9:30 p.m. or so on Friday, then went home and tried to pack a bit. I was being a bit unsuccessful at it when I got a Skype call for my dad a little before midnight. This in itself was very rare; I hardly ever got Skype calls from my dad (I mean, I’ve lived in the UK since September, and I’ve yet to receive a call from my dad. In case you are wondering, this doesn’t upset me; that might seem more messed up to some people, but he’s not really the type to call, and neither am I). Looking back, I always think that should have been a warning sign, but I honestly felt no trepidation concerning the call. I just thought he remembered that it was my last week of work, and was calling to chat about it. The voice on the other end, however, was distracted.
“I have some bad news.” Now, I hadn’t felt any foreshadowing before this moment, but as soon as he said this, I knew what it was.
“Grandma’s passed away.” There hadn’t been hints, or signs, or whatever usually precedes death. He went on for about 30 seconds to say that she had died very peacefully, but just as abruptly as he had called, he hung up. This is the part they don’t tell you about when you are imagining traveling or living abroad or whatever other exotic thing you think about doing when you’re grown-up; they don’t tell you about how shitty things happen in the middle of the night, and then you are left so aware of your alone-ness. They don’t tell you about the times when you’re independence becomes your isolation. I tried reaching other family members, but Skype provides only so much accessibility. When I tried to imagine who I could call in Japan, my mind went blank. The people I wanted to call were no longer there, and I think that was the hardest part for me–not having someone to go to.
I had to get up and teach 10 hours later–the busiest day of the week. Not only that, but I had made plans weeks before to have dinner and karaoke with one of my Saturday classes–I thought for sure I would walk in the class and explain why I needed to cancel, but when I got there, I couldn’t find the words. I thought maybe I could reschedule the party, but then I realized there weren’t going to be other opportunities, because my time was ticking to a close.
I ended up going out with my class, and then I had to stay up most of the night packing. Even that wasn’t good enough. My manager had to come help me, and it basically got to the point where I had to turn my back to him and let him do his thing, because he began to indiscriminately throw things away. That week, and the week (weeks?) that followed were some of the heaviest of my life.
So I think of this day, April 13th, and I don’t think of happy memories. Death dates are not happy memories; for me, at least, this particular day doesn’t spur on pleasant recollections of the good times. It is a pinpoint of a period of unshakeable solitude. I’m painting a picture that only spanned two days, mind you; when I look back at pictures from those days, I think, “For a 25-year-old holding herself together in a foreign country at the end of a long journey, you did alright.
Also, when people tell me they are jealous of my experiences, I usually think something along the lines of, “No, you’re jealous of some romanticized concept you very temporarily imagined to be my experience.” I’ve had a vast amount of experiences; some fantastic, some terrible, but you can’t pick and choose.
whereisjillian 