When the Cherry Blossoms Bloom

 In 1990, I came back to Japan from the UK in an attempt to enter a university in Tokyo.

Back in those days, high school qualifications from schools abroad were not readily accepted by Japanese universities. Even if you had completed A-levels or taken the SAT, you still had to sit a university entrance examination. Only a limited number of universities had special admission schemes for students who had studied abroad, so we were left with very few choices.

I failed my first university entrance examination.

I had not used Japanese for a while, and I was not familiar with writing essays in Japanese. It was quite stressful to write all those kanji characters by hand, hoping that I would not make too many mistakes—which, probably, I did.

I took a summer course for students who had graduated from high schools abroad. It was designed to brush up our English and Japanese, as well as our essay-writing skills. After two months of intensive study, I became much more confident about writing in both languages.

I took another entrance examination at a university in Tokyo. I remember there must have been more than 200 students sitting in a large classroom.

It was daunting—not just because of the number of people there, but also because of what they were wearing.

Roughly 80 per cent of the students were wearing Japanese school uniforms.

Alas, my high school did not have a uniform.

I gathered together whatever I could find that looked at least reasonably presentable. I had brought only a few T-shirts and pairs of jeans from England, and I simply did not have the time or money to buy new clothes.

So, rather reluctantly, I turned up for the exam in a shirt and black jeans, hoping that not too many people would notice me.

I felt very uncomfortable sitting beside boys and girls in smart school uniforms. I tried not to look at them.

The written exam seemed to have gone well, and I was called for an interview.

On the day of the interview, I turned up in yet another rather strange outfit: my mother’s bright yellow shirt, a black jumper and black trousers.

Those of us who were not wearing school uniforms naturally gravitated towards one another—the people who had presumably lived abroad and gone to school there. The school uniforms worn by students from the UK or Australia stood out rather conspicuously in Tokyo.

My parents had also taught me the etiquette I was supposed to follow at the interview.

First, knock on the door. Then open it, take a deep bow, and wait until someone calls you in.

I managed all of that.

Then I saw a man waving to me to come in. I sat down in front of his desk.

He asked me:

“Which part of the exam was harder for you, Japanese or English?”

I said Japanese, because I still wasn't sure whether my essay had been good enough for the university.

“Your Japanese was all right,” the examiner said.

That was a great relief.

We talked for a while about what I wanted to study during my four years at university, and I explained my plans.

The examiner listened carefully. After that, he suggested that I take an empty chair in front of another examiner for another interview. We had to speak to at least three examiners.

I sat down opposite a very old man.

He asked me, “How did you get here? By subway?”

At the time, I understood the word “subway” differently. I was confused by what he meant.

How could I have walked from my home to the university? It would have taken more than six hours on foot!

I asked him if he meant the underground railway.

Apparently, he had no idea what I meant by “the underground”.

We ended up talking about what the underground railway was called in Tokyo. In Japan, it is called the chikatetsu, literally “underground railway”. We eventually laughed about the difference in terminology and said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

Almost at the end of our conversation, he said:

“We’ll see you in April.”

I thought that was rather premature. The examination results had not even been announced yet.

So I replied:

“If the cherry blossoms have bloomed.”

There is an old Japanese expression, sakura saku—literally, “the cherry blossoms bloom”—which was traditionally used in connection with university entrance examinations. In the days when exam results were sometimes sent by telegram, a message saying “Cherry blossoms have bloomed” (sakura saku) meant that the applicant had passed.

“Cherry blossoms have fallen” (sakura chiru), on the other hand, meant that the applicant had failed.

The expression became a kind of coded message between students and their families.

The examiner remembered the expression and asked me whether the cherry blossoms would bloom.

I said I would keep an eye on the weather forecast.

We shook hands, and I moved on to another examiner for the next interview.

It was more than thirty years ago, but somehow I still remember that little exchange about the cherry blossoms.

I had actually enjoyed talking to the examiners. Funny how old memories sometimes come back to you. It doesn't happen very often, but whenever this one does, it still makes me smile.

Those students who have lived abroad and returned to Japan to continue their education must be sitting university entrance examinations around this time of year.

I wish them all the best.

And I hope the cherry blossoms bloom for them.