Just before coming to Japan, I had a week of intensive tuition with others about to depart for teaching posts here, but unfortunately (from my point of view), most of the instruction concentrated on the intricacies of hiragana and katakana; personally, I felt “infantilized”, as if I was back in primary school being made to learn my “ABC” but denied any access to the spoken language the squiggles were designed to represent. My feeling of inadequacy wasn’t helped by the consistently low marks I gained in daily “spelling” tests, nor by the spirit of rivalry these tests seemed to promote among classmates . . .
To make matters worse, soon after arriving in Japan I found that several of my former classmates were surging ahead in leaps and bounds where kanji were concerned (and letting us all know it!). At the same time, the Japanese teacher and textbook kindly provided by my new employers seemed to rather dogmatically take for granted that I’d be fascinated above all by the writing system, which I wasn’t. The pressure was mounting, then, and I took what I probably rationalized as an “adult” course of action at the time: saying a definitive “sayonara” to formal Japanese study and the written language (linked by the feelings of inadequacy they both induced in me), I decided to drop out of the kanji race altogether, politely thanking my teacher for his trouble and saying I was unfortunately too busy to continue, and turning a “blind ear” when conversation among friends turned to the number of Chinese characters they’d memorized that particular week.
I was in a good position to “pick up” the spoken language, being surrounded by kind, helpful and largely non-English-speaking colleagues in the teachers’ staffroom, and I became quite adept at avoiding the necessity to read and write in daily life. But just how have I managed to remain illiterate for so long?







