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Finally! I get to update! Wee hee! I am NOT going to talk about the dubbayoo-ay-are possibilities. Bad enough that my students have the heebie jeebies; I don't need to add to the rhetoric here in Diaryland. Instead, I will recount for you a fond memory of foreign relations, Minivan Samurai style, brought to mind when I heard "Born to be Wild" yesterday. Since about 1992, the Samurai and I have been keeping Japanese homestays during the summer for Old Dominion's exchange program. Our very first homestay, Mr. T, was the best by far. Mr. T was visiting Virginia with a delegation from Miyazaki, Norfolk's sister city. When his group arrived, the more advanced English speakers among them immediately began seeking us out. "You are Mr. T's homestay mother?" they'd ask me. "Yes,"I'd say, puzzled. "We are so sorry. He is no good English." Poor guy; before I even met him, I was told ten times how poorly he spoke English! He turned out to be a fiftysomething gentleman, very sweet and polite, almost courtly. All the homestay "parents" and our charges were herded to an Italian restaurant, where the Samurai and Mr. T proceeded to mind-meld. Turns out, Mr. T is an assistant principal AND a "PE teacher." A JAPANESE PE teacher, meaning he teaches judo, kendo, and other traditional martial arts. The Samurai was, understandably, overjoyed. They discussed Musashi over dinner, and were fast friends by tiramisu. Mr. T was fascinated by our house, and brokenly managed to ask us if we owned any guns. In Japan, most folks have never seen or handled firearms. It's a sort of macho fantasy to go somewhere and actually fire a gun. They seem to regard America as a sort of Wild West firing range, thanks to Hollywood. The Samurai pulled out his hunting guns and his Granddaddy's .22 pistol, and Mr. T was both fascinated and horrified. We worried that we had frightened him. Then he saw the Samurai's katana rack. Shyly, he asked if he might handle the swords. Sure, we said. Our meek, sweet Mr. T instantly became Dangerous. That man knew swords intimately; you could tell from the way the pommel cleaved to his palm, by the way that his balance shifted fluidly, that this man was deadly with steel in his hands. Mr. T was with us for five days, and we spent lots of time getting as much information out of him as we could. He, in turn, was delighted by our fascination with Japanese culture. The true cultural exchange day came when the Samurai picked up Mr. T and two other homestays from ODU. They were to meet me at our house and then go to our pal Sandy's house with us for spaghetti. Time passed, and they grew later and later. I fretted. Had our old Toyota, Jean Claude Damn Vanne, died again? Had they taken a long way home to sightsee? They finally pulled in, three giggling Japanese teacher men in suits and one grinning Samurai, "Born to be Wild" blaring on the stereo. Turns out the Samurai had tried to go to the Post Office with them, got sidetracked, and ended up at Bob's Gun and Tackle, with our trio of delighted Japanese guys watching the firing range, popeyed and trembling. All they could say about it was, "BOOMboomboom! Hahahahaaa!" How's that for foreign relations? |
 
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Boomboom!