To celebrate a family member's birthday, I began baking a birthday cake as soon as I got up.
While I was at it, I contacted the agency again to confirm the details of the dormitory supplies. The agent was quite proactive about asking students who had lived in the same dormitory, and repeatedly reminded me that a dormitory was not a hotel and would not provide everything.
I knew the reminder was well meant.
Yet it was precisely because the dormitory was neither a hotel nor an Airbnb-style serviced apartment that I wanted to ask about the details.
In the end, of course, anything missing could be solved with money.
What concerned me, however, was something else. We live in a century drowning in material things. It would be wasteful to discard trivial little appliances, such as a kettle or hair dryer, after using them for only three months. There would be no guarantee that I could give them away when the time came, while bringing them from Germany or taking them home again would consume luggage space.
If I could find out and make arrangements in advance, perhaps it would feel as though I had done my small part for the environment?
All right, perhaps I was simply overthinking everything and feeling far too pleased with myself.
I also told the agent about having to buy a broom after moving into my dormitory in Shanghai.
The agent replied that a dormitory in Japan would not be inadequately cleaned when I moved in. For someone staying long term, however, my concern might not be limited to whether the room was clean upon arrival. I also had to consider how to keep it tidy throughout my stay. After all, this was not a hotel; no one would come in to clean every day.
People begin from different places, and it can therefore be difficult to put oneself in another person's position and understand what lies behind a question. Naturally, that also makes it difficult to offer the most fitting answer. The probabilistic ability of AI large language models to infer meaning and responses, giving so many people the feeling that “AI understands me,” truly is a major technological breakthrough.
Today was also the first online session of the course I am taking, “Japanese History and Culture.”
According to the lecturer's self-introduction, she had graduated from a department of Japanese language, completed a doctorate in the history of Japanese Buddhism, spent more than thirty years on the path of Japanese-language and Japan studies, and published numerous books.
She also mentioned that she had gone to Kyoto during the summer break to study incense with a Japanese kōdō teacher.
Quite a few students probably did not know what kōdō was. The lecturer explained that it was an art once practised among the Japanese aristocracy, but had since declined and was now little known. Her Japanese kōdō teacher had also warned her that she must study it with care. Otherwise, if she returned to Taiwan and taught a form of kōdō that was neither orthodox nor authentic, she would be debasing the craft.
There was nothing particularly unusual in this narrative. Yet as the lecturer recounted the experience, I heard another note beneath it: she seemed to place herself on a rather solitary height. In particular, when speaking about her earlier publications and writing, she said that she was older now and no longer wished to write books, so there was no need for her to introduce each of those past works.
I thought to myself: if you do not want anyone to know about them, then hurry on to the next slide, or simply do not prepare this page of the presentation at all.
The lecturer also said that humility and modesty were very important in Japanese culture. All the while, I found myself wondering whether she had a very different understanding of “humility” and “modesty.”
During class, she was also fond of asking students questions. One student really did answer eagerly, but it was often obvious that the lecturer was dissatisfied with the responses. She even said, “You know quite a lot about Chinese history, but that isn't what I'm asking.” Yet her question was clearly related to Chinese history, and the student's answer was not off topic.
This teaching style was a kind of “culture shock” for me. In all my experience studying abroad, even when a student gave a wildly irrelevant answer, virtually answering B when asked A, I had never encountered a teacher who directly rebuffed the student. The older the students in a course were, the less likely such a response became.
Often, even when a student offered a view that differed from the teacher's, the teacher would take the answer apart layer by layer, identify where the two perspectives converged and diverged, and point out what was mistaken or unreasonable. They would not dismiss the student with a single sentence.
To my eyes, the interaction in that class often showed that the lecturer lacked the generosity to accept different answers. The questioning and rebuttals continued through several rounds. Only when the student answering disclosed that he, too, taught at an elementary school did the lecturer's attitude become slightly more “accommodating.” Perhaps his standing as a fellow teacher finally qualified him for such consideration.
Perhaps I had encountered this kind of “Japanese-style” teacher at university too. Unless the course was compulsory, however, I always avoided their classes. My sensibilities were not delicate enough to divine or cater to a superior's wishes. Then again, perhaps what I truly lacked was a sufficient sense of hierarchy.
I rarely enshrine anyone as an untouchable idol. Even with teachers I deeply respect, I have never believed that a teacher is an absolutely correct authority who cannot be challenged.
It was probably this very “insolence” that once thoroughly enraged a native Japanese teacher who taught me the language.
Modern Japanese teaching materials for foreign learners often explain verbs as Groups 1, 2, and 3, rather than using the older labels of godan, kami-ichidan, and shimo-ichidan verbs.
I asked the Japanese teacher: why had the system been changed to Groups 1, 2, and 3? If schools in Japan still used classifications such as godan, kami-ichidan, and shimo-ichidan, why were foreign learners specifically taught Groups 1, 2, and 3? Was it feared that foreigners could not learn the other system? Could foreigners learn the traditional godan classification too? Since this was an individual lesson, could the teacher teach me using the godan system instead?
Faced with this succession of questions, the Japanese teacher flew into a rage. In more than twenty years of teaching, he said, he had never encountered a student like me. Furious, he refused to teach me again.
Even after he refunded my money and blocked me, I still did not quite understand. Why would merely wanting to know “why” make a Japanese teacher angry, or even feel insulted?
Empathy and communication between human beings are often difficult after all.
No wonder so many people would rather communicate with a machine.
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