School Ceremonies Part 1: Play That School Anthem One More Time!

For me, attending school ceremonies in Japan is like watching a mind-numbing foreign film with no subtitles. Nothing interesting is happening, the monotonous actors seem so distant and lifeless, and I can’t understand a damn thing. And, unfortunately, the Japanese love nothing more than pointless gatherings to practice their ‘group think’; this is a performance that I have to watch at least once a week. Every time, it is déjà vu all over again.

My school has a 25 minute long assembly every Monday morning. During these tiresome morning congregations, when all of the students are gathered in the gymnasium for ‘debriefing’, one could easily jump to the conclusion that Japanese schools have for years been successfully cloning children. Like a field of oversized, Single-Stuffed Oreo cookies, the students stand attentively in inflexible lines; the blanched, creamy complexion of their faces sandwiched by their straight, carbon-black hair and their equally dark school uniforms. Today, this is a sight that I am well accustomed to. However, during my first experience at a morning assembly last September, I had to take note of the large ‘rising sun’ flag hanging ominously over the stage to make sure I hadn’t inadvertently landed myself in the midst of a North Korean military rally. Kim Jong Il and his platform shoes were nowhere to be seen. And the clone-like students, thankfully, were not wielding rifles.

Regardless of whether or not there is something important to be discussed, these Monday morning ceremonies happen with unfaltering regularity. And therein lies the problem; there rarely seems to be anything of importance happening. At the assembly’s onset, the students are called to attention by one of the principal’s henchmen. Silence falls over the group. They wait and watch patiently as the headmaster makes his way to the stage, shuffling dazedly like Quasimodo with a bad hangover. At the top of the stairs leading to the stage, the principal pauses briefly and bows in the direction of the slightly crooked hanging Japanese flag. He saunters slowly to the podium and then bows to the masses, receiving an enthusiastic ‘good morning’ and teeth-to-the-floor bowing from the students and staff. Talking like he has wads of cotton balls shoved into the pockets of his mouth, he proceeds to ramble on in his gravely voice, sputtering out a variety of formal greetings and pleasantries for which the Japanese - who can’t pour a cup of tea for a friend without rhythmically bowing their heads and muttering a succession of needless humble sayings – are known for.

To make matters worse, these weekly assemblies are highly formal. Despite the fact that everyone in attendance at these gatherings is a member of the ‘school family’, everything is performed as if someone of great importance is watching. In fact, the assemblies are executed as if they are practice sessions for the day that Japanese President Koizumi himself will walk in through the rusting doors of the school’s gymnasium. One example of this pointless formality stands out in mind; often, the principal will give his opening greeting, but have nothing else to immediately add. He will walk off the stage, pausing to bow once again at the flag as he stumbles down the stairs. Before he even has time to catch his breath as he leans against the gymnasium wall, his sidekick will introduce him again, yet for a different task, such as presenting awards to several outstanding students. The principal will saunter slowly back up the stairs, bow at the flag, approach the microphone, and again bow to the students and staff. “Wo! Didn’t this just happen?” I ask myself sarcastically. Couldn’t he have just stayed up there and finished everything that had to be done at once rather than leaving and coming back? Some days, this will happen three or four times – he returns to the stage alone, leaves, comes back with the vice-principal in tow, leaves again, the vice-principal comes alone… Each time with a formal introduction, bowing to the flag, and a warm greeting from the populace as if he had just entered the building. Formality taking precedence over efficiency; the Japanese way of handling business.

During assemblies when there is very little of importance to mention, adjournment does not come early. Rather, time is filled. Usually, the remaining minutes in the allotted ‘meeting time’ are worn-down by the brass band- a group of pint-sized twelve year olds no bigger than their old, faded wind instruments- who torment us with endless renditions of the school’s anthem. Yes, the school, like a tiny, autonomous socialist nation, has its own anthem praising its glorious history and successes; a simple melody sung in Japanese and repeated over and over again for what seems like a short eternity. Any given performance of the school anthem is reminiscent of a scene from a comedy film that I cannot quite place my finger on; just as the band seems to be winding down on the last pass through the song and the instruments are holding what you are praying is the last note to be played, the percussionist cracks the dull drum-snare with her splintered stick and the band kicks off once again from the top; the staff and students singing boisterously along en masse. “La la da da doo da doo doo da.” Every time that you hope it is nearing the end, they loop it back to the beginning for another delivery. Even bad foreign films without subtitles need a soundtrack, I guess.

With all of this practice, one would think that the brass band would be a top-notch ensemble. But unfortunately, no, they cannot play one pass through the school anthem without several discordant squeals from the members’ instruments. ‘The Squeakers’, as I call them, are great kids, but in a system where the 3^rd Year students don’t take part in the ‘club activities’ (they ‘retire’ to focus on their studies), and with every new school year, half the band is replaced by 1^st Year students who have never played their instrument before, you have a recipe for cacophony. After all, a band is only as good as its weakest member; and a trumpet being slobbered into by someone with only a few months experience handling their horn, will never sound good. Even Miles Davis and John Coltrane started out as ‘squeakers.’ Brass band musicians who cannot yet play an instrument but are anxious for success should pawn their rusting saxophones and start a punk band. Then maybe they can sell a million. Hey, it happened to Green Day - once, and forever... 'squeakers'.