Japanese School to Test Chopstick Skills

Japanese School to Test Chopstick Skills

By Associated Press

TOKYO — Students need not apply to one Japanese high school unless they can demonstrate dexterity with a pair of chopsticks.

Successful applicants to the Hisatagakuen Sasebo Girls’ High School in south Japan must be able to transfer marbles, beads and beans from one plate to another using just a pair of chopsticks, Kyodo News agency reported, citing the school’s principal Junko Hisata…

Frankly, I’m used to being a bit of an anomaly in Japan. Not that 5’9″ and blonde fades easily into the crowd, I’m also known to speak my mind and in a voice over a whisper. That, plus the fact that I do not cover my mouth and giggle much could be alienating. However, I doubt that my finesse with chopsticks has much to do with the conclusion that I indeed am maybe one notch above a farm animal. (*NOTE, NOT KOBE BEEF) I enjoy my Japanese friends, and business partner, Miki, immensely, but I am a Geijin. I think that translates as foreign devil. I do try to behave and pop a lot of valium while in the Land of the Rising Sun. Even so, while some of the attention to detail may verge on the insane to me, it does drive home a significant point that overall, the US has become somewhat slapdash.

At this point in my life (46, I think, but frankly if I lie about my age now it’s because I’ve lost count), I’m happy when I see my four year old get something from his plate actually into his mouth. I guess I can cut him some slack, but—for the most part, I think that table manners (well, any manners, actually) have virtually disappeared in our ‘Drive Through’/Mall Culture. Now, I’m content if I get a plastic fork and 2″X 2″ paper napkin with my meal–Do you know how hard it is to eat a Chicken Tropichop with white rice/beans with your fingers? I do. Even more fun when you’re driving. I guess I should see if Chanel would customize a lobster bib –better yet– drop cloth for me. Hey, I own my own car (no lease would take me on, I’m sure) so at the end of two years and 140,000 miles–and you think I’m kidding, I should probably just touch my car and call it a day. Hope someone brings Marshmallows, we can make Smores.

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