Ever since people began asking me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I never really had an answer.

Well, actually, when I was in 1st grade, I heard that garbage men make a lot of money. In my head, a lot of money means “the same amount as a doctor.” So, when my teacher  asked the class to create an image of our adult selves in our preferred profession, I drew myself, with the dirty lines like Pig-Pen from Peanuts, carrying a garbage can.

As I got older, I never lost my curiosity. I had a range of interests, from soccer, playing the trumpet, then the drums, then the guitar (much to my mother’s annoyance), to acting, to speech and debate, and more.

So it probably surprises no one that when I got to college and beyond, the question that lingered on the lips of so many well-meaning relatives, “what are you planning to do with your life,” haunted me.

The true answer to this question: I have no idea. I’m winging it and enjoying life.

The answer I usually gave: I’m still figuring it out.

Crazily enough, 13 years after graduating college and three after getting a Masters Degree, that answer still applies.

Post-College Winging It: The Service Industry Years

I graduated from College of Santa Fe, a school that closed before my senior year and scattered students around the country. I earned my Creative Writing degree from the then-nonexistent school, which was later bought out by an arts college and reopened, only to shut down again for good a few years later.

I didn’t immediately pursue a job in writing for several reasons. One, I had absolutely no idea where to start. Perhaps if my school hadn’t shut down in my final year, I’d have gotten some support to find a job or even just general ideas of where I can pursue a career… but honestly, knowing the education system in general, probably not.

Two, I had absolutely no idea what style of writing I wanted to do. I enjoyed my final year writing fiction in school, but I knew the path to making a living wouldn’t be easy. Most people I knew who made money from writing got a book published and started teaching. And they were a whole lot older than I was.

Three, and probably most importantly, I wanted to move back home and have as much free time as possible. I wanted to do the partying I saw many of my high school friends did in state universities that I missed out on during my college years.

I actually started work at the top of the restaurant industry, or somewhere that some would consider “the top,” a New Orleans staple called Antoine’s. This is one of the oldest restaurants in the city and portrays itself mostly as a fine-dining spot, but acts as a functional museum more than a locale for gourmet cuisine. 

Steeped in the history of the city, this restaurant hosts huge parties for Mardi Gras krewes, politicians, and the locally famous. Anyway, my mom knew someone that knew someone, and I entered the restaurant industry with a cheap tuxedo and not a damn clue about waiting tables. 

After a few months of making very little money, learning the depth of racism, favoritism, insane seniority of the restaurant’s system, and the “quality” service the establishment provides. I eventually moved on from this stuffy, traditional restaurant to NOLA Restaurant, Emeril’s black-sheep casual fine dining joint just down the street from Antoine’s.

Over the two years at this restaurant, I made the steepest learning curve in my serving career. I absorbed as much information as possible, learning everything from how to hold two plates in one hand so you can bus all the dishes from a table to complicated wine varieties and cooking methods. Oh, also, I drank away around a quarter of my earnings almost every night going out after shifts with friends.

For close to seven years, I bounced around restaurants whenever frustration got the best of me. I worked at star-and-diamond-earning restaurants with huge, stuffy expectations and turn-and-burn casual joints. I made killer money and lived a fun lifestyle, and for a while, I was content.

But one night, I was talking to my bartender friend as he mixed drinks for my table. He asked me about my writing, and I told him about this story I wrote in college called “Quarter Rat.” It was about a guy who works in the service industry in the French Quarter. 

As the guy walks back home after a night of waiting tables and spending most of his money on drinks afterwards, it slowly begins to dawn on him that he has become a Quarter Rat, someone who never leaves the French Quarter, and that he isn’t living up to his “potential,” and that his life didn’t pan out the way he expected.

Just like it dawned on my “fictional” character in the story, it dawned on me at that moment that I had predicted my own fate; after seven years of being content, not happy, but making it, I needed to move on to something else.

Japan: Gateway to Teaching

 

During my last stretch of waiting tables, I went with two friends to visit my brother, who had recently moved to Japan. He was there teaching English as Second Language in a tiny town in the Iwate prefecture up North. I saw this trip as a test run; if I liked Japan during my short visit, I’d start the steps of getting a similar job. 

As you might have guessed, I loved the trip.

My plan thereafter wasn’t thoroughly thought-through. I knew I needed something different. I heard the steps to working in Japan weren’t insanely difficult, and there wasn’t much keeping me in New Orleans besides friends and family.

 

To make a long story short, in March of 2015, I packed up as much as I could fit in my duffel bag, left a budding relationship, and moved to a small town in the mountains of Nagano called Ina.

I spent two years in Ina teaching at two high schools, one high-performing school called Ina-Yayoi and a school for struggling students named after the city it was in, Tatsuno. It was an interesting exposure to different school cultures; on the one hand, I had students who knew some English and could speak semi-fluently but were afraid to make mistakes. In Tatsuno, I had students who were very outgoing and energetic, but we couldn’t communicate with each other.Mostly, though, Japan was a phase of truly growing up for me. For the first time, I had to be entirely self-sufficient. The first six months was quite an adjustment. With my personality, I find it really easy to get into the habit of staying at home and playing video games or binge-watching TV to avoid uncomfortable situations. 

But if you’ve ever moved to a new town, let alone a new country whose language you don’t speak, every situation, every event is uncomfortable. After a few months, I found that I was talking to myself and giggling at my own jokes.

When my coworker heard me mumbling then laughing to no one in particular, she gently expressed her concern. “That’s the first sign of insanity,” she joked. “You should make some friends and get out more,” she said, a little less jokingly.

After around six months on my own, I knew I had to make another change. I needed to come out of my shell.

Making Friends

The first thing I did was I started searching for recipes online, buying cook books, and even looking up how-to videos of simple things like chopping onions properly. I asked for suggestions for recipes from co-workers, went to more eating and drinking events, and started going to a local pub to socialize.

Also for the first time in a long time, I had to make new friends. I’ve always had a tight-knit group of friends from high school to college and beyond, so this was a new experience for me. 

Making new friends was especially challenging because of where I lived. Though it was a bigger town than most in the area, around 10,000 people, there weren’t that many people around my age, and less than a handful of them spoke English.

I started doing activities I never would have in the States to make friends. I joined a futsal team with a majority of non-English speakers, started hunkering down to learn Japanese (never got to fluency, unfortunately), went to bars and events by myself, and joined a gym.

While at the gym, the manager who was awkwardly showing me around because we didn’t understand a damn thing we said to each other introduced me to his English-speaking friend, Shogo. Shogo and I chatted a bit and exchanged Line contact information, and I started going to the gym.

We became friends pretty quickly, and Shogo became a really important part of my life in Japan. Not only was I spending more time at the gym than I ever had previously, but he also knew about local festivals, dining spots, and more. 

Though I had friends in the last year and a half in Japan, there was always this lingering sense of loneliness I felt. This was partially due to my limitations in the Japanese language, but no matter how close I got to friends, there was always a sense of being on the outside of things. 

Sure, I found plenty of things to occupy my time, but there were often times that conversations with strangers were awkward, and several times I met people who only asked me to do things because it looked cool to be with a foreigner. 

The stares at the local convenience stores or restaurants, the awkward interactions with students, all became a bit much. Plus, my girlfriend and I maintained that budding relationship we left nearly two years previously over a long distance, with a 12 hour time difference. That definitely had a factor in my decision to head home.

In April of 2017, I left Japan not with a sense of regret, but a feeling of nostalgia. I knew that I’d never feel moments of tranquility quite like I did in that amazing country; slow walks through fresh snow on my way to work, frogs chirping in the rice fields near my apartment, quiet, lonely nights in the onsen, soaking in the hot springs as snow drifted and evaporated as soon as it touched me or the water.