I first came to Japan in 1991 as an English instructor with the Japan Exchange and Teaching Program and ended up staying twice as long as I originally planned. Here are some recollections from that period.

Dec. 14, 1990, Ithaca, N.Y.

Today I mailed in my application to the Japan Exchange and Teaching Program -- better known as JET -- to teach English to kids in the Japanese countryside for a year. My real dream is to become a journalist, but everybody knows you can't make a living as a writer -- especially right out of college. So a job with the Japanese government will do me good until I grow up and develop a plan.

I'm confident I stand a good chance of getting into JET. I've been studying Japanese on and off for half my life, and the Japanese-language course I'm taking here at school is one of the best in the world. I also study karate in Manhattan with a very traditional Japanese teacher. I've dreamt of going to Japan since I was a kid. JET must be dying for candidates like me!

But there is one thing I can't stop worrying about. I hear so much about Japan being a racist country. It was only five years ago that then Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone said America lagged behind Japan intellectually because of blacks and Hispanics. And there have been other comments. JET officials will know I'm black because of the photo on my application. I sure hope they don't share Nakasone's attitudes on race!

Feb. 2, 1991

I just got back from the JET program interview in Manhattan. One Japanese official asked me if, in the event I am selected, there is a particular city I'd like to stay in.

"Shinjo city," I said without hesitation. "It's where my karate 'sensei' (teacher), Kishi Nobuyuki, lives when he's in Japan."
"There is no such city as Shinjo," said the official.
"I believe you'll find it on the map. It's famous for its snow."
"Yes, well, we'll see what we can do."

Truth be told, I'm more excited about training with sensei than I am about teaching English. If JET sends me to Shinjo, it'll be a great opportunity to immerse myself in sensei's school and hometown. Shinjo city, here I come! I'm finally going to Japan -- to teach English and become the Karate Kid.

March 25, 1991

JET turned me down! OK, more accurately, they put me on standby. But why standby? I'm deeply insulted. Maybe all Japanese do think like Nakasone.

Or maybe I blew the interview. Either way, forget that country. Maybe I'll go to Brazil or Jamaica instead.

April 24, 1991

Yippee.
Got a call from JET this afternoon saying I was selected in the second round. They said they'd even station me in Shinjo.

Maybe I should be jumping for joy. But frankly, I'm still burning up about being put on standby. However, since the U.S. job market is so bad right now for recent college graduates, I guess I'll just go earn some money and get back to New York as soon as possible. We're talking a year over there, max.

July 31, 1991, Shinjo, Yamagata Prefecture

I visited the karate dojo today for the first time since arriving here two days ago. I walked through the door and Kishi-sensei was standing there scowling. He looked even fiercer than usual.

"Where on earth have you been? Why haven't you called yet?" he shouted. "I've been worried sick about you for two days!"

Startled, I muttered something about having to settle in and so on.

"Eric, don't make excuses. Be a man. Being a man means taking responsibility and showing consideration for the people who care about you. You should have called."

For crying out loud! When I started doing karate three years ago, I thought it was about becoming tough, not about eating humble pie for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Sept. 18, 1991

I've gotten into the full swing of life as an English teacher. I work at five high schools around Shinjo: an all-girls school, an agricultural school, a school that teaches mechanical skills, one school for high achievers, and one that's, well, just a regular high school surrounded by rice paddies.

I dread going to the classroom, partly out of stage fright, partly from the exhaustion of training and drinking with the karate men. But more times than not, I manage to psych myself up enough to establish a rapport.

High school kids are a tough crowd to please. I must dance atop chairs and talk in funny voices. I put on stupid ties. I demonstrate how I poke and sniff things at the supermarket to figure out what I'm buying. Anything to keep them interested. Anything to keep me awake.

And when I hear the laughter and turn around to all those twinkling eyes, something magic happens inside me. By the time our 45 minutes are up, I don't want to leave.

Not too much grammar gets taught when I'm at the podium. The kids don't need me for that. I'm more ambassador than instructor.

April 19, 1992

Earlier this week, I moaned to somebody about having to walk so much between my apartment, my schools and the dojo. Somehow word got out.

The next morning before classes began, a student ran up pushing a bright new yellow bicycle.

"I heard you needed a bike, so you can have this one," she said. "My family already has two."

Being a cynical New Yorker, at first I tried to figure out the catch. Gradually, however, reality sank in. People in Shinjo are simply kind. They gossip, but they are very kind.

June 4, 1992

Class 1-3 at the all-girls school has been memorizing the patterns "I am against . . ." and "I am for . . ." in conjunction with environmental issues. Today, in lackadaisical unison, they chanted, "We are against cutting down trees. We are for eating rice." I split my sides.

I was again amused when, back at the teacher's office, homeroom instructor Horiuchi-sensei (not her real name) marched in clutching a toilet scrub brush and demanded to know whose it was.

"This yours?" she asked an English teacher.

"It is not," came the response.

Horiuchi-sensei put the other teachers on the spot but nobody acknowledged ownership. I wonder if she ever tracked down the owner of that scrub brush.

Sometimes I feel that life in Shinjo is one long, pleasant comedy.

Dec. 1, 1992

Today I was sipping tea in the principal's office with Onuma-sensei, an English teacher at the all-girls school who took me under his wing during my first week here. Making polite conversation, the principal asked why I had chosen to come to Japan.

"To study karate," I told him. Onuma-sensei kicked me in the shin.

"No, no, no," he told the boss. "Eric means he's here to teach English. Karate is his hobby."

Onuma-sensei may have rescued me from disciplinary action, but my answer had been honest. Karate for me is no hobby; it is my ideal and it's pretty much all I do in my spare time here. While all my other JET friends travel during their vacations, I stay in Shinjo and spend time with sensei and the rest of the dojo.

May 10, 1993

Yesterday was my first day off from school, from karate, from the endless stream of social engagements that JET teachers get wrapped up in. I was completely bushed and couldn't wait to just read a book and relax. But the phone rang.

"It's me!" I heard Kishi-sensei growl on the other end of the line. "You must be lonely or homesick or something so let's go drink beer."

I did not want to drink beer, but I obediently slipped on my "setta" (traditional sandals) and met sensei at the curb as he rolled up on his squeaky, pink shopping bicycle. He kweeked away toward his favorite bar and I jogged alongside in my setta.

"Eric, why are you so stupid?" he asked me around midnight, over our umpteenth bottle, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in a vice lock. "I've known you for four years. You think I can't see how worried you are about being black, about what people think of you?"

There in sensei's affectionate embrace, I remembered my early doubts about the JET program and realized that living in Shinjo for so long, the issue of race had actually begun to slip my mind. But, as sensei perceived, not as far from my mind as I would have liked.

"Fix your head and listen," he said, whacking my forehead for emphasis. "When you're in the dojo doing pushups, it doesn't matter if you're black or white or Indian or Japanese or Chinese. The sweat on the floor is just sweat. You got that?"

Outside the bar at around 3 a.m., I saw sensei off -- standing at attention, as is dojo protocol, until he had peddled out of sight half a kilometer away. I thought about my recent decision to return to New York to pursue a career in journalism. Two years in sensei's hometown were coming to an end. I wiped the tears from my eyes and went home to my futon.