On my fifth birthday, my mum and grandmother took me to the bag section of a Japanese department store. There, they bought me a randoseru. Borrowed from the Dutch word ransel – meaning backpack, the bag is traditionally used by Japanese primary school children from their very first day of education, to the very last day of year six.
I remember brushing my hand over the row of leather-bound bags, tightly stitched together in a celebration of Japanese design. I wanted so badly to have a rosy pink one. But my mother convinced me otherwise. A shiny cherry red bag was placed on the counter instead – a tradition for girls.
We packed our suitcases and headed home to Australia, where I attended the Japanese School of Melbourne. Instead of enrolling in a local public school, I went to a primary school that was mostly attended by Japanese expats’ children. Our lessons strictly followed the Japanese curriculum and all my subjects were taught in Japanese, even though I was born and raised in Melbourne. Relaying my first day of school to my buddies at ballet, I was taken aback at their tales of tiggy and eating lunch on the grass.
In contrast, my first day at school was all about order – as it was for the next six years. Children would line up from shortest to tallest for a greeting from the principal. Built smaller than most, I was almost always at the front. Afterwards, we’d sit and bow like military soldiers and greet teachers in a uniformed hum.
Calligraphy lessons were my favourite. I loved the ritual of melting the charcoal to create a sea of jet blank ink, in which we dipped and swirled around a perfectly crafted paint brush. We would use our ink and brush to copy ancient proverbs onto translucent paper. There was something thrilling about having only one shot at getting it right.
When the lunch bell rang, we’d push our desks together, dragging them over the grey speckled carpet to create one big dining table. I’d unwrap my tightly double knotted furoshiki – a traditional wrapping cloth – to reveal my double decker bento box. It was a labour of love, as all the mums slaved over ingredients from early morning to make bunnies out of apples, at least five different side dishes all tucked into colourful casings and rice balls shaped like Hello Kitty. Mine, however, often looked a little different.
Little Emma with her cherry red ‘randoseru’. Source: Supplied
Unlike most mums at my school, my mother worked full time to help pay for the expensive school fees and my ever-growing list of extracurricular activities. I’d often feel embarrassed opening my lunchbox to a sea of beige. My mum would experiment, but the only time I’d bring back an empty bento box was when the contents consisted of rice and gyoza. It must’ve been hard to balance full-time work and living up to cultural standards. Especially with a kid who’d turn their nose up at the sight of most food.
Out on the school yard, our free time resembled a circus. Dozens of children would glide on one wheel, some even moving backwards. The Japanese education system placed unicycles in schools to encourage building core muscles, balance and discipline. I taught myself all the tricks and could zoom past teachers, Cirque du Soleil style.
At the end of each day, we followed a strict cleaning roster, where tasks were delegated to all students from prep to year nine. Some would wring wet towels and wipe down all the surfaces of the classrooms; others were tasked to vacuum. I always liked sweeping outside, where I got to manoeuvre all the pretty coloured leaves into big piles. From a young age, we were taught how to clean and look after the buildings we learnt in.
School race day. Source: Supplied
The older I got, the harder it was to be a little different from everyone else. It was strange being a foreigner in the country I was born in. At school, I’d watch all my friends come and go after only a few short years, as their parents’ (often their father’s) expat post in Australia came to an end. Meanwhile, just as I thought I’d caught up to all the new flashy trends in Japan, a new group of students would arrive and look at me wide-eyed, wondering why I was so behind.
There were other subtle cultural glitches too: the only Japanese scene I was familiar with were the rice paddocks around my grandma’s house. Because of this, I once got a zero on a test that asked, “Which country had more high-rise buildings – Japan or Australia?”
Following the Japanese curriculum also meant we copied their emergency protocols. We hid under sturdy desks when the earthquake siren rang – so the children wouldn’t be left confused when they returned to their hometown.
Once the bell rang at 3:30pm, I was Australian again – getting third-degree burns on the metal slides at the park and watching That’s So Raven on Disney channel. For those six years, I moved like an acrobat between my two worlds, even if it meant leading a double life sometimes.
When I finally made the move to a local Australian school at the start of high school, it was quite the adjustment. Learning in English and finding my feet in a new environment meant I was a foreigner once more, but I didn’t mind. My time at a Japanese school meant I could laugh at jokes with my grandma in Japan, and codeswitch seamlessly between both my cultures. Plus, I learnt the value of looking after things – and I’m reminded of this each time I catch sight of my cherry red randoseru, with barely a scratch in sight.
