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Cultural Conundrums / As American as apple pie, as Japanese as sempai
Kate Elwood Special to The Daily Yomiuri
On a sunny afternoon in early spring several years ago, I went to pick up my daughter, Frances, from kindergarten. Another mother brought her 1-month-old son along as she came to get her older child, Takayuki, who was in the same class as Frances. The little baby rested peacefully against his mother's shoulder, his little hand clutching her sleeve. It was an endearing sight, and many mothers crowded around for a peek. I may have been particularly moved by the scene because I myself was pregnant with my younger daughter, Mary, and looked forward eagerly to the day I'd be able to hold her in my arms. As I chatted briefly with the new mother, I alluded to my own condition, mentioning that perhaps in a few years both of our younger ones would also be at kindergarten together.
Takayuki's mother acknowledged this likelihood with a friendly dip of her head and a smile, then pointed out, "But they won't be in the same class." She was quite right--her little one had been born in late March, so with the school year beginning in April, he'd be a grade ahead of my daughter although they'd be only a few months apart in age and both born the Year of the Monkey.
I was surprised at her rapid educational calculations but one friendly dip of the head and smile deserves another so I responded in kind. We moved on to exchange war stories about our gruesome experiences of morning sickness and labor, favorite topics of conversation among all mothers, but especially of those who had just returned from or were heading out to the battlefield.
With little kids, it doesn't really matter exactly how old they are or what class they're in. They just play with whoever is engaged in an activity that interests them or whichever fellow tot their mother plunks them down next to. Things become a bit more rigid in primary school, but in the United States, there's still a lot of back and forth between the various grades. In Japan, different grades occasionally team up on school outings and other events, usually with the older kids supervising the younger ones. Nonetheless, the distinction between years at school seems more emphasized and definite here.
When my daughters attended the local school I'd sometimes ask them about some child or other I happened to see in the neighborhood, inquiring whether my daughters knew them. More often than not, my daughters would admit acquaintance, then add dismissively, "But they're in a different grade" as if to say, "But they're from another planet." I began to understand the significance of Takayuki's mother's observation more clearly.
The line of demarcation between grades becomes even more distinct in Japanese middle school. This is when the senior/junior, or sempai/kohai thing, really gets going. This relationship between older and younger students is a vital part of the rest of the educational system, especially in teams, clubs and "circles," but it was a bit mystifying to me at first. I got the basic point: Pretty strict attention is paid to the amount of experience a person has, and the more years or months they have under their belt regarding some kind of pursuit, the more respect they command.
So far, so good. It was a little more surprising to find out that "commanding" respect was not just a figure of speech but could in fact at times be an actual directive. The eighth graders (second grade of middle school) at more than one school specifically instruct (in a nice but unambiguous way) the seventh graders (first grade) belonging to the same club to speak to them using polite forms of Japanese. When I learned this, I tried to imagine the same training occurring between American students.
I came up blank. What could they say? "Don't forget to say please when you ask for help and make sure you're not too nonchalant when you greet us." Language differences make directions like these close to absurd. Even putting the linguistic issue aside, such guidance would seem pompously self-important in the United States. Certainly younger members of a team may look up to older members, but only if they've earned the respect, not as part of a defined deference protocol.
When my university students create skits, "the fear-inspiring high school sempai" is a recurring motif. Among women, skirt length is often the central point of dramatic discord. The kohai's skirt is usually too short and she is severely reprimanded by the older student, who is also showing quite a bit more thigh than regulations allow. I've seen dozens of such mini-plays and initially I thought that the aim was to represent the hypocrisy of the leg-baring upperclassman. However, I came to realize that I was the only one who found the double standard problematic and potential parody material. The skits are not satires. Although the fear and intimidation are comically exaggerated, the plays are more like reality TV, with the basic premise of the hierarchy and its manifestations unquestioned.
I understood the mechanism of the relationship. What I didn't get was the spirit of the thing. Apprehension was there. Haughtiness was there. But these elements were not the beginning and end of the story but rather its obvious accoutrements.
The plots seemed to some degree to match those related to "the fear-inspiring older bully," a stock character of many American TV shows about high school. Yet bullies and sempai are not the same. Somehow, despite the seeming improbability of such a thing to many Americans at first, affection and responsibility appeared to be key components as well.
As an outsider, my best glimpse into the positive side of the sempai/kohai relationship came through the hilarious Fuji TV series "Nurse no Oshigoto," about a clumsy but captivating health-care worker called Asakura and her long-suffering, frequently exasperated sempai Ozaki. In English I suppose we would say that Ozaki is her supervisor and mentor, but the relationship is more like that between an older sister and a younger sister.
After the first season, Asakura herself is put in charge of showing new nurses the ropes, and much of the humor derives from her eagerness to be a sempai even as she manages to screw up every assignment, often reducing the area around her to a shambles. Then it's super sempai Ozaki on the spot, to scold, then rescue, her inept, kind-hearted kohai.
I've been a quintessential kohai for much of my life, starting college at age 17, marrying at 21 and becoming a mother two years later. In the United States, I had many older, wiser friends to steer me. And after coming to Japan at age 20, I had plenty of wonderful sempai to lead the way. Now, unbelievably, I have sometimes realized that without even noticing I've been sempai-ified and it's my turn to show the way, taking a bite of that sweet sempai life.
Elwood is associate professor of English and intercultural communication at Waseda University's School of Commerce. She is the author of "Getting Along with the Japanese" (Ask, 2001).
(Sep. 13, 2005)