Is humility gained through humiliation? I got to thinking about this after reading (warning: contains naughty NSFW pic!)
this blog posting. It's a blog I stumbled across written by a former porn star (Ashley Blue) who left the biz and is now a writer and artist. She speaks candidly about her past and is writing a memoir called
Girlvert.
Anyhow, it got me thinking about some of my cringe-worthy moments. The cringe-worthiest is no doubt my interview for the JET Programme (here's a short description from their website: The Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Programme invites university graduates from overseas to participate in international exchange and foreign language education throughout Japan.).
I applied to this program after being urged by a friend of mine. I was single and bored and working a shitty, dead-end job at the time. My friend knew I was unhappy and he had a JET-alumnus homie who spoke very highly of his experiences. It apparently changed this guy's life; he became more confident and open and of course, my friend didn't fail to mention, he cleaned up with the ladies. I won't lie--it was a motivating factor, although not the only one by any means. I mainly just wanted an escape from cubicle life. I wanted an adventure and to travel and live in a foreign country. I really had no interest in being a teacher though. Teaching is something I have no natural aptitude for; I'm not good at explaining shit verbally. So anyhow, I jump through the extensive preliminary hoops: completing a long application detailing my scholastic and job histories; obtaining two letters of recommendation; and writing a long essay explaining my interest in the program. I clear this first hurdle and receive an invitation to interview at the Kabuki Hotel in Japantown. I'm excited but terrified. I'm always terrified before interviews.
So I put on my Botany 500 Couture navy suit with muted white pinstripes (purchased by my dad from The Men's Warehouse for my first interview out of college) and head over the bridge to Japantown. I nervously pace the lobby while muttering my already rehearsed-to-death talking points. They call me in and I greet and shake the hands of three interviewers seated at the long, Last Supper-like table which faces my lonely chair. First guy is a frumpy (is that word ever used to describe men?) middleaged Japanese-American man with a moustache and glasses. Second one I forget and the third is a homely but friendly older white lady with a nice smile. Hardly an imposing group but I wasn't expecting to be interviewed by three people. They launch right into it with the Japanese guy (I'll call him Naoki) taking the lead. He wants to start the interview off with a little role-playing: pretend this is your first day of class in Japan; we're going to pretend to be Japanese eighth graders, he says. He tells me to stand up and introduce myself. Meanwhile, they get right into character with Naoki enjoying this charade a bit too much; he points at the silly Gaijin (
me) while snickering and whispering into the ear of the interviewer on his left. It was very unnerving and I understand this is precisely why Naoki felt this bit of theater was necessary, but I wasn't expecting it at all.
So I try to ignore Naoki and introduce myself in English; I go on to say I'm from San Francisco. Naoki looks at me while offering one those extended "
Ehhhhhhs?" used frequently by Japanese speakers to express shock or confusion. Sensing he wants further explanation, I start mentioning the Golden Gate Bridge and other tourist landmarks. He still is acting confused and at this point I really don't remember what happened. I was a bit rattled and moments later I think I just sat down and decided this part of the interview was over. I should of just left the room without saying a word; like a battered fighter who can't see out of one eye, I should've thrown in the towel. But I decided to soldier on. Perhaps if I aced the traditional question-and-answer portion of the interview, I'd be OK.
So next, the nice-smile lady (I'll call her Eleanor) asks me if I knew any Japanese. I tell her no, but mention that I do know a song called
"Donguri Koro Koro". It's a children's song I learned on a family trip to Japan in the mid-'80s. This was a dumb move to mention this song because obviously Eleanor's follow-up question is to ask me to sing it. I guess I knew this--perhaps I thought a moment of lightness would change the mood--but strategically, it was suicide. It's like a Japanese guy trying to land a job by singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." As I'm singing, I look over at Naoki in the hopes of finding some evidence that I've won him over. He still has that confused look on his face; but this time he's
not in character. He wasn't only confused, there was also a look of disgust on his face. Maybe he felt insulted--like I was treating his interview like a circus. Why is this guy even here, he must've been thinking? Which is more or less what he asked me next.
So, Daniel, why do you think you're well suited and prepared for the JET Programme? I forget exactly what my answer was. But I do remember opening by saying some bullshit like "Well, Naoki, there are a confluence of factors that make me the ideal candidate."
Confluence? I don't know how I even used that word with a straight face. The factors were probably something about my interest in participating in a cultural exchange and god knows what else. The point is Naoki sniffed out my motives. He knew I wasn't the ideal candidate. But on to the larger point about embarrassment building character. I'm not sure it did in this case. It made me realize I didn't want to be a teacher for sure. And it
still embarrasses me even now. But I suppose I am tougher having suffered through that. As far as interviewing, that had to be my nadir. And I hope I don't reach it again.
I grew up reading Sniglets books. A Sniglet is any word that doesn't appear in the dictionary but should. Voit-lock occurs when a basketball becomes wedged between the backboard and the rim; Cheetle is the orange substance that coats your fingers after eating a bag of Cheetoes; Brattled is the unsettling feeling, at a stoplight, that the busload of kids that just pulled up beside you is making fun of you. 
