The Foreign Lecturer in Japan: A Temporary Who Cannot Say No
by Anthony S. Rausch
Foreign lecturer at a national university in Japan . . . sounds promising. But like so many things Japanese, appearances can deceive and you never know how things will turn out. People wind up staying in Japan long-term for a lot of reasons: specialized research, marriage and family, fate and opportunity. There are increasing numbers of foreigners working in Japanese colleges and universities—some permanent, some under contract. The foreign lecturer (gaikokujin kyoshi) is a contract position at a national university; a hold-over from the days when the Japanese government wanted the foreigner to come and teach a foreign language, but not stay too long. While some use the contract post as a way of getting a short-term foreign experience or as a stepping-stone to something else, many also take contracts as a means of gaining a permanent position in Japanese academia.
The foreigner’s experience at a Japanese university takes on characteristics relative to many factors. Most foreigners will inevitably spend some time involved in language teaching, regardless of academic specialty. Depending on program, students and the individual, teaching a foreign language in Japan at the university level can be delightful or very tiring and trying. Some programs and curriculum are well coordinated and comprehensive; others are disorganized, with everything left to the whims of the individual instructor. Students are either highly motivated and hardworking (the minority at most places) or lazy about academics and busy at a part-time job. That noted, the language specialist finds the potential inspiring and the research opportunities limitless. But not all language teachers in Japan are language specialists; nor would that be beneficial for academia in Japan. For the social scientist like me, the constant struggle sorting out priorities can be difficult.
My experience with academia in Japan has been rewarding, but also eye-opening. I am presently the foreign lecturer at a national university in an out-of the way place in rural Japan, far from Tokyo and the big cities. And while my experience is strictly my own, I have heard similar tales. I took an undergraduate degree from the University of Minnesota. After a stint teaching high school in America, I opened a language school in Japan. Becoming completely enmeshed in the society and gaining proficiency with the language, I completed graduate work in social sciences at a national university in Japan and soon thereafter took a post at a private university. As a native speaker of English, I was assigned a load of English courses, everything from grammar and listeningskills to content reading and composition. I continued with my own research while simultaneously working to improve my English teaching skills, eventually taking a thesis-based Master’s level qualification in Teaching of English as a Second or Foreign Language. When I was invited to take the Foreign Lecturer post at a national university, I opted for prestige over permanence, and here I am with a gaikokujin kyoshi yearly contract, vague job responsibilities and an uncertain future.
My contract is an ingeniously written device, generously ambiguous—an advantage for the university—and undertaken between the university president and myself, leaving me confused as to where my loyalties should lie, not only in the battles between administration and faculty and between various faculties, but also between the everyday matters of life at a university and the promise of next year’s contract versus the prospect of a permanent post that can only come with research and publications. When the curriculum is reformed, meaning more classes to be taught, do I refuse a class that puts me over the agreement in my contract? What are my prospects if I say no when the president asks me to teach in the new program for foreign students?
My colleagues are cordial on a day-to-day basis and while I have been both heartened by the graciousness shown by some when sought out as an English proofreader, I have been taken aback by the brusqueness of others. This proof-reading often turns into major rewriting, usually on topics I don’t claim to know. I have rewritten on environmental economics, nursing science, landform geography, African anthropology, psychological disorders, generative grammar, and epilepsy . . . this just in the past year. These many colleagues, too many colleagues, also seem unaware of the tension I face ensuring that I publish my own research while also working to contribute to both the long-term future of this university as well as the success of my colleagues. Once again, I am faced with a question of present priorities and future prospects: do I risk being labelled uncooperative if I refuse? And what if this colleague one day sits on my hiring committee? Best not take a chance . . . and so I rewrite.
Meanwhile, there is a class to prepare for and teach, a student to help or advise, a committee to sit on (I have the right, or is it obligation, to sit on the foreign affairs committee in my faculty). . . and ideally, my own research to advance and publish and my own Japanese language skills to improve. As foreign lecturer, I function on two levels: one day-to day; the other permanent post. I must never forget that I will someday apply for a specialty post in my area, a strategy requiring both a healthy curriculum vitae and the ability to talk about it in Japanese.
Is this essay sour grapes? Not at all. I was neither duped into my current contract dilemma nor do I regret taking it. Moreover, it is within my power—the power of professional publications and personal relationships—to bring about a successful transition to permanent faculty. This essay rather represents the reality of my frustration on the one hand and the necessity for patience on the other. My frustration is with a system not only seemingly incapable of improving itself, but also indifferent toward bringing aboard those who could contribute so much toward improvement. I am patient because that is what it often takes to succeed in Japan.
