Here’s a tentative observation:

“What” and “who” are words we use to refer to unknown or abstract things or people. This means that each of them designates a real or conceptual entity, a thing that somehow constitutes a cohesive whole.

“When” and “where”, on the other hand, designate locations in time or space. On their own, these locations are merely points, directions or vague areas, and do not require cohesion.

Examples will be furnished on demand.

Its true origin lies in the names of Shirasu Masako and Shirasu Jiro (English-only readers: kindly please google, as they’re not on the English Wikipedia – I regret the inconvenience). I’ve been watching a TV drama series about them on NHK the past few days, and I found myself identifying with them on many levels, so in a spur of arrogance, I decided to adopt their last name. The rice part, derived from a memorable bowl of shirasu-and-veggie rice I had during a recent trip to Niigata, is purely extra.

What struck me was the way the Shirasu couple (as portrayed in this series) frequently switched to English when conversing with each other, apparently for no reason other than to reaffirm their identity as people who had significant experience abroad. I imagine that until sometime after WW2, both of them felt frustrated and alienated, unable to find much point in their lives: Jiro because he couldn’t act on his liberal political views, and Masako because she hadn’t found anything to do with her life other than to be Jiro’s wife (she would later go on to become a moderately prominent cultural critic).

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I happen to be a Japanese person who lived outside of Japan for a few years as a kid, and who speaks and writes okay English (or so I think). Until very recently, I used to think that it was shameful and stupid to try to use this part of my background as my main source of sense of belonging, or as my main edge over competitors.

First of all, I believe that neither multilingualism nor the ability to speak English is a huge asset in itself. There are people with little substance who think they’re special only because they speak more than one language, or because they speak English - I would hate to be among them. (And as most readers would probably agree, it’s not that special to be multilingual, anyway.) The same goes for the experience of having lived in more than one country. And I have little esteem for jobs that don’t require much outside of basic business manners and sheer linguistic ability.

At the same time, I feel that I don’t have what it would take if I were to live on my multi-locational background. For any combination of the languages that I command, there are quite a few people out there who speak and write all of them more elegantly than I. And since I lived outside of Japan only up to my early teens, and because I didn’t live in each place for long, I only got very limited experiences. The most I can do is to use them as little vignettes in my self-introductions and corporate “entry sheets” (company-specific CV formats used by Japanese corporations).

However, lately I’m starting to realize that, for better or for worse, extra language skills and the experience of having lived in various places have given me much more than just interesting details on my resume. I’m finding that I have actually gained much of my current knowledge through a process of going back and forth between different languages, and that my ideas cannot quite be separated from that background(I intend to explore this topic further in this blog). Furthermore, I find myself empathizing with people who have lived between different parts of the world.

In short, I’m not particularly special because of my background, but I’m finding that the skills and experiences I’ve ended up with are more important to me than I previously thought. Why feel embarrassed about giving importance to what’s important?

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So what do I make of the Shirasus’ episode? In a seemingly endless undergraduate moratorium (now in its fifth year, with 1.5 more still left), and with no clear plans as to what I’ll do when it’s over, I’m now a bit like how the couple were during WW2: struggling to figure out how to do something meaningful with themselves. The vital role that their language skills and extensive overseas experiences apparently played in their lifework (especially for Jiro) encourages me to see my betweenness as a core resource, and not as an empty status symbol to avoid.

Whether or not I can do anything interesting with this resource, only time will tell.