I wanted to have a smoke, but seeing no “tobacco tray” such as in Japan is placed before the smoker to hold the burning charcoal brazier and the bamboo ash-receiver, I took a light from the open fireplace. Perhaps there was an ashtray and a box of matches on the table, but I did not recognize them as such. I finished my smoke, but finding no ash receiver, I took out some of the tissue paper which we carry in place of handkerchiefs, and wrapping the ashes in it, crushed them very carefully, and placed the ball in my sleeve. After a while I took out the paper to have another smoke; some wisps of smoke were trickling from my sleeve. The light that I thought I had crushed out was quietly setting me afire!

            After all these embarrassing incidents, I thought I could well sympathize with the Japanese bride. Her new family welcome[s] her and do[es] everything to make her comfortable. One laughs with her; another engages her in conversation—all happy with the new addition to the family. In the midst of all this the bride has to sit trying to look pleasant, but in her efforts she goes on making mistakes and blushes every time.

            Before leaving Japan, I, the independent soul—a care-free student who could look the world in the face—had feared nothing. But on arriving in America, I was turned suddenly into a shy, selfconscious, blushing “bride.” The contrast was indeed funny, even to myself.

I was a shy kid. It took years of practicing my speaking skills and trying to challenge myself, but by college I felt like I had finally burst out of my introverted teenage bubble and became my most confident self. I finally felt proud of my identity and sure in my abilities.

Of all my skills, I thought my strongest was my command of my voice. During the summer of sophomore year, I hosted a radio show at a station near my workplace. By my senior year, group project members consistently asked me to play the central role in any presentation. I often struck up conversations with strangers around town and felt I could talk with anyone without fear. Finally, in my last semester of university, I hosted an auction for my university in front of six hundred people, and a month later performed stand-up comedy before a crowd of seven hundred. By that point, I felt no fear of public speaking whatsoever.

When I arrived in Japan, however, all of that effort to improve my speaking skills had flown out the window. Suddenly, my greatest strength was meaningless. I had a greater chance of communicating what I wanted with hand gestures I had seen chimps mimic on TV than with a punchline that landed at the right moment or a compliment delivered with impeccable timing.

Of course, I knew this would happen when I accepted a job in Japan. I came to challenge myself. But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it personally are very different things.

People around me who had difficulty communicating with me were, of course, very pleasant and extremely cordial. But, I could not help feeling shy. I didn’t know how to tell people how much their kindness meant to me, or explain what I wanted, or why I was correct, or even ask how they were feeling. To lose the ability to show my empathy felt, in no small exaggeration, disabling.

I responded to this newfound inability in two ways. Firstly, I viewed my skill with the English language almost as a crutch that I had taken for granted. I was more grateful than ever during the few times when I could speak in English with my native accent and speed. Secondly, I resolved to learn more Japanese. My communication problem was mine to endure, but also mine to solve. I would never be as good at Japanese as I was in English, but I took a page from the stoics and decided to dedicate myself to its study.

Months after my arrival, I have reclaimed some of my former linguistic glory, but there is still a lifetime of knowledge left to learn. Thus the challenge never ends, and with it, the feeling of progress that makes life worth living.