Shame in Translation: 24 Years in Japan and Still Illiterate

One of my most persistent sources of shame, and something I could feasibly change with some effort, is that I still can’t read or write Japanese.

Yes, after more than half my life in Japan, I’m stuck in a paradox of partial literacy. Writing that down feels heavy like I’m confessing a major oversight. It brings out this sense that I’m being disrespectful to the culture that’s shaped my life as if I’ve taken without giving. Why have I fallen so short in even semi-literacy?

The truth is, I’ve accomplished so much here despite my language limitations. I married a Japanese woman in 2003 and welcomed our son in 2005. We’ve moved multiple times, renting apartments, a house, and even office space. I’ve owned a company, launched my own 合同会社 in 2013, and even built our family home that same year. My wife’s clinic move, with a complete renovation, was one of my larger projects, and since 2011, I’ve handled her clinic’s administrative and back-office work. I’ve taken out bank loans, navigated Japanese business structures, and travelled extensively across Japan. Yet, despite all this, I still falter when faced with complex written Japanese.

I can get by in Japanese. I ask friends to read documents, or I lean on Google for email and other documents. But every time I have to write my address or name by hand, it’s a time-consuming, error-riddled effort that leaves me feeling frustrated.

My biggest challenge has always been kanji. I’ve learned the meanings in English but can’t confidently translate or read them aloud to a native speaker. In essential situations like banking or business, I can often grasp between 50% and 80% of what’s written, but that range leaves room for error. I still feel the need to double-check or seek help for clarity.

Listening is a different story. My spoken Japanese is fairly good—though riddled with grammatical quirks that make me sound, I imagine, a bit like a child on topics no kid would actually discuss. Years of online classes from 2020 to 2022 didn’t quite bridge this gap; finding teachers who could delve into topics that align with my life experience was a challenge, especially being more than 20 years older than the average student. Living in the countryside, where keigo (formal Japanese) is hardly used, has also left me at a disadvantage. Each time I’m confronted with it, especially if it’s the nuanced, complex keigo from my days in Tokyo or Yokohama, I feel like I’m right back to square one.

Living with this gap isn’t always easy, and even if it seems small in the grand scheme, it’s a lingering pain point. Every failed kanji, every slow-motion attempt at filling out forms, just reminds me of what I haven’t mastered. It’s part of my story here, however imperfectly it’s written. And I hope, someday, my efforts and respect for this place are fully reflected in a language I can speak, read, and write fluently.