6/14/2005

Monday morning, I’m not quite feeling on top of my game just yet. Still, regretfully, I automatically open my email upon starting up my mac. The last thing I can be arsed dealing with at the first is a slew of emails demanding activity of my brain right off the bat or reminders of inferior manliness and who’s here to help. But on this particular morning the near golden numeral ‘1′ blinks black and, feeling better about the day already, I click through to open my solitary mail. It’s a mail from my boss who, small, kind and ashmatic like the 80-a-day trooper that he is, can be very cute. I’ve been in Japan long enough to understand the flexibility of the word cute, or kawaii, to use this word to describe my boss without fear of homophobic attack or worse. This is the man who invariably pushes his boss to grant me leave to visit family abroad, while stepping in as a kind of adopted father in the office.

Needless to say it came as a surprise when I opened this particular mail to read the subject, “What’s your name?”. He may be getting on in years and a little closer to my grandfather’s age than my dad’s, but forgetfulness is not one of his usual quirks. That being said, he doesn’t write it down, it ain’t gonna happen. However, upon reading the contents of the email all became clear. He’d found a website which translates foreign names into their kanji equivalent, with roman reading for basic pronunciation familiar to foreigners, katakana reading, the character set reserved for foreign words adopted into Japanese, individual kanji character and combined meanings. For a pretty you can buy a nameplate with your kanji beautifully scribed, or, if like me such gimmicks are fun right up to the point that they become annoying, read around the bold red strikethroughs and use babelfish or the like to get the rest of what you need for free.

Here’s the link:

Japanese name translations

You might ask whether it is necessary to have a Japanese name while living and working in Japan. Well, no. The traditional personal signature in Japan is the hanko, or name stamp, although for foreigners the scribble will usually suffice. The hanko is the family name in kanji for official use, just as we would sign for authorisation, autographs, peeing in the snow. Which astounds me. Hanko are sold at specialist stores much like a cobbler sells laces or the icecream man sells cones. But this is your signature, right?! Your stamp of approval, authorisation that you are in fact who you say you are. We don’t flash our laces and expect everything to be hunkydory when applying for a home loan. “Black, cotton, cross-weave, congratulations!“. Yet in Japan you can just walk in off the street, buy the hanko for Suzuki or whatever name you so desire and go open a bank account. My first account was arranged for me by the employer and authorisation was the familiar signature while my name was written in katakana. But most employers will expect you to open an account with their bank of choice, meaning you jobhoppers may acquire no shortage of cash cards and invitations in the post to apply for that home loan. Wear your best shoes.

Upon opening my second bank account I was asked to provide my stamp to finalise particulars. I confessed to a lack of hanko, nor prior need for one, but the lovely clerk across the counter was adamant. No hanko, no account. (I love it when they’re firm like that). So I pointed to my name in katakana and informed her that that was the only name resembling Japanese I’d ever had. I could tell she’d done this before as she swiftly drew me to the door and pointed across the street where a hanko dealer was positioned right between the cobbler and the icecreams. She instructed me to buy a hanko before returning to complete our business. I asked what kind of stamp I should get, katakana or romaji reading, whereby she replied, “Whatever”. Whatever? Whatever. Whatever. So I bought the hanko for blah, meaning “blah”. I like the kanji. I got a bank account. Very wierd.

So get yourself a hanko and Japan is your oyster. Very trusting, locals here. In a cash-based society where people walk the streets with great wads of large bills stashed into Louis Vitton wallets, crowded trains where the pickpocket could have a field day and signatures worth their weight in zip, it’s a good thing crime is rare in Japan. Well, relatively.