Taking One for the Team

By Devon Brown, Musashimurayama, Tokyo-ken 2002 - 2004

When I moved to Japan in 2002 to teach English, I had no idea that within a year’s time I would be willing to commit bodily sacrifice for my fellow teachers. But there I was—all alone—writhing on the floor in pain.
Alright, it’s not as bad as it sounds. The eighth grade teachers of my school had invited me on their annual co-worker vacation. There were eight of us in all— three men and five women, including me. The age range began with me at twenty-three and ran all the way up to Ms. Onodera, the Japanese language teacher, a very spry sixty. For the next thirty-six hours we would be exploring Hachijo-jima, a small island off the coast of Tokyo as a single multicultural, multigenerational unit and I felt honored to be included.
One cozy car pool and an hour’s plane ride later, we landed on the island and I was happy to hear that lunch would be our first order of business. Well, I was happy until I saw the gorgeous sushi meal the restaurant had prepared. I don’t eat fish and certainly not sushi, beautiful as it may be. The other teachers must have picked up on my unfortunate affliction because Ms. Koike, the school nurse and one of my best friends, patted my leg and said “Don’t worry Devon-san, we ordered something special for you.”
Tonkatsu is deep fried pork. I’m not a pork fan, but since the other teachers had gone out of their way to order me this special meal, I gathered up a piece and bit with gusto. My mouth instantly filled with a piece of pure pork fat the size of an ice cube. I wanted to spit it out, but everyone was watching and I didn’t want to let them down, so I swallowed it whole and continued to ingest pieces of what seemed to be a meatless piece of pork using bits of rice as a buffer. Leaving the restaurant I felt like a champion; the ordeal was over and group harmony reigned.
However, the trouble was not over. Two hours later, while sitting in the hotel lobby with the other female teachers, I felt a jolt of pain in my abdomen. I excused myself, ran to our room and proceeded to pray to porcelain. My body wretched and two hours later my roommates found me passed out on the tatami mat floor. “I’m not sure what was wrong,” I lied, “But I feel better now.” The next day I felt fine, but the trip was over.
In Japan, it’s traditional to end a trip like this by standing in a circle and clapping just one time in unison. Mr. Goto, the leader of the expedition, gathered our attention in the airport terminal for our final “Yoooshi” and we all clapped together, all in unison—just one time.

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