4 Profound Lessons I Learned Studying Abroad at a Japanese International School
Before I studied abroad at a college near Tokyo at age 20, I’d never left the United States. Hell, I had barely left Florida.
And despite having studied Japanese for seven years, as a sheltered suburban kid, I had truly no idea what to expect from this enormous leap of faith. I come from a small town near Tampa. Historically, most of my exploration of other cultures had come from the internet and the “ethnic” section in Aisle 3 of my local Walmart.
Not to mention, I was certainly never known for my daring attitude or zest for adventure. A perpetual Squidward, I liked dark corners, quiet comfort, and Not Leaving the House Under Any Circumstances. (Until I ran out of peanut butter — that got my ass out the door every time.)
But I did it. Against all odds, for four months in 2017, I lived in Chiba, Japan, attending an intensive Japanese language school with international students from all over Asia. To say it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced would be putting it conservatively.
And if I hadn’t taken that leap, I wouldn’t be here in Japan today: back as Emily 2.0, grad school edition, a slightly-less-fumbling foreigner than before.
After two years, I’ve had some time to process the value of that initial study abroad trip that changed my life. So here, my friend, are the plumpest nuggets of wisdom that managed to stick with me.
I.) As an American studying abroad for fun, I was lousy with privilege.
I didn’t know it at first, but eventually I realized that Japan is like the United States of Asia in that it attracts a lot of prospective residents. The nation has a reputation for safety, peace, and potential to foster long, healthy lives. It’s a compelling option, especially for those looking to escape danger or instability in their home countries.
And indeed, almost all the other students at this school, besides we three Americans, were there to get jobs. These kids were from Mongolia, China, Vietnam, Sri Lanka, and they wanted to live in Japan permanently. Build safer, more prosperous lives for themselves and their families, both existing and future.
None of us were native speakers of Japanese, but for them, whether they learned the language or not had actual consequences.
Compared to my classmates, the two other kids from my university and I were free-wheeling travelers. Here for a fleeting few months to hit a few temples and “soak up the culture” before returning home to our relatively comfortable lives in the U.S. on premium American passports.
In fact, I was having so much fun living out my childhood dreams in Tokyo that it took me until maybe month three to wake up to my peers’ often harsh realities.
On top of attending this demanding Japanese language course, many of my classmates worked minimum-wage jobs long into the night. They struggled to pass college entrance exams in Japanese, stayed after class for help filling out technical school applications, fell asleep in their chairs from fatigue.
Meanwhile, I was leaving before finals. A clear marker of how in the end, this was just a trip for me — a simulation where failing would only mean an awkward talk with my adviser back home, not starving and getting deported.
I had worked hard in class, but still, I was capital-L Lucky. And this was perhaps the first time in my life I truly understood that.
Witnessing slivers of how hard it is to be a young immigrant in Japan gave me an enhanced respect for immigrants everywhere. Blueprinting a life from scratch is no small task, especially in a country that doesn’t speak your language.
II.) The human brain is far more adaptable than I realized.
Regardless of whether anyone else could speak English in this school (and a few could), no one really did. At an intensive Japanese school where we were supposed to be learning their language, there was simply no reason to!
Immersion was the name of the game, and what a truly painful game it started out as. Even after my years of studying, nothing could compare to this sudden, unrelenting torrent of words I knew but not that fast, or had known once but forgotten. It all got mushed together in a linguistic gumbo that no one was about to sort out on my behalf.
Alone in my class, my everyday understanding of what was going on was largely up to me and my semi-functional, jet-lagged neurons.
But after the first two weeks of listening to Japanese lectures for five hours a day, things started to make genuine sense. A two-hour lesson in Japanese began to tire me no more than an English one would have. When asked questions in Japanese, my responses often flowed naturally without mental translation.
And best of all, I no longer left class feeling like my brain had been ground into a fine powder and used to season my teachers’ ramen noodles.
The human mind excels at adapting to the environment it finds itself in — and indeed, to my saving grace, this applies to second language learning as well.
Thanks to our good friend neuroplasticity, there’s no need to fear immersion in your nonnative language. With time, patience, and a solid background in the basics, those words that sound like Simlish will eventually start to click.
III.) Friendship can come from small gestures instead of words.
As mentioned, this school taught Japanese to students from all over Asia, so generally, no one spoke each other’s languages. In my class, there were quite a few Vietnamese kids, some Chinese students, and a handful of Sri Lankans — and then the rest of us came from other countries.
Conversation, thus, was not exactly free-flowing, often limited by varying levels of broken Japanese.
But that didn’t stop cross-cultural friendships from blossoming.
The only Indian student in my class had a long-running sisterhood with one of the Vietnamese girls, messaging each other on LINE every day in their imperfect-but-improving Japanese. The smallest, most mischievous Vietnamese boy was the honorary little brother of four large, intimidating Sri Lankan guys, pulling goofy faces at them from across the room.
And while I wasn’t there long, one of my fondest memories is of how the Mongolian girl who sat next to me kindly pressed her hand warmer into my palm when it got cold.
In return, I shared my scarf with her, draping it over both of our laps, where our hands stayed nuzzled until the end of every chilly day.
Often I came back from the 15-minute break between classes to find that a small cookie or rice cracker had magically appeared on my desk. The students around me would quietly point to whoever today’s snack fairy was, and I’d shoot them a smile and mouth Arigatō. It was an unspoken agreement that food was always for sharing.
These friendships built on acts of closeness and kindness were the glue that held our class together. Though we came from inconceivably different origins and would likely always be veritable mysteries to each other on some level, caring for other people required no translation.
And snacks were a fine substitute for verbal communication when really, all we needed to get across each day was, “I’m here too. Have a cracker.”
IV.) Sometimes all it takes to love people is proximity.
We Americans had to leave Japan before the term ended, so our last day became quite an affair — one in which people kept giving us things.
My homeroom teacher gifted me beautiful stationary and a book with handwritten messages from my classmates that they’d crafted in secret. The girl I shared my scarf with presented this book to me in front of everyone. We bowed to each other awkwardly, laughing at the formality.
Another teacher — one I hadn’t even had — gave all three of us Americans an otoshidama (New Year’s envelope) with a few crisp 1000 yen bills inside, good luck charms, and a piece of paper imploring us to email him if we ever needed anything. Even in twenty years’ time.
All the generosity baffled me: these people hardly knew me, couldn’t really know whether I was worthy of their affection in four short months. Yes, I’m sure they wanted to make good on their partnership with my American college; but even still, their sentiment felt genuine. And in those moments, I wondered what I’d done to deserve such warmth.
But what I realized was that I needn’t have “done” anything — like everyone else on this earth, all I needed to do to be loved was be present, doing my best to live this wacky life alongside the rest of them. And I had.
My answer to their overwhelming kindness was small and inadequate, but all I could think of to do.
I didn’t know much about my classmates, but I did know their names. Every one of them, from the morning roll call that still rings in my ears. I’d demonstrated this earlier in the day, when one of my teachers asked curiously if I remembered everyone’s names, so I went around and named them all. They looked pleased, and a little surprised. For our few interactions, I couldn’t blame them.
So I wrote all their names out on a sticky note with a short message in Japanese: I’d remember them in the States, and though I was leaving early, our class would always be 22 students.
During lunch on my last day, I put it on the whiteboard in the back of the classroom beside a chain of 23 rubber bands I’d messily pinned into a heart shape. One band to represent each of us, including our homeroom teacher.
I hoped it wouldn’t seem too sappy, or dramatic, or an overestimation of the bond we shared. Maybe it was.
But I think they liked it. The girl from India saw it first, and made sure everyone who came to see it understood what it meant. By the end of the day, someone had moved it to the board in the front of the class, faithfully arranged in something resembling a heart.
Afterwards, several of my classmates sought me out one by one to give me anything they had on them: a pressed coin from Tokyo Disney, a lollipop, some Vietnamese currency straight from a guy’s wallet. I accepted them sheepishly; I had barely spoken to these kids all semester.
But if there’s one thing I don’t want to forget from my first study abroad trip, it’s that you don’t need to know everything, or perhaps anything, about someone to care about them.
Sometimes just being in the same place at the same time is enough.
