by Wonsuh Song
Eight years ago, I witnessed my first elementary school entrance ceremony in Japan, an experience that still remains vivid in my memory. At the outset, I assumed it would be little more than a standard ritual, but I soon found myself confronting an unexpected cultural shock. In particular, the moment Japan’s national anthem, Kimigayo, began to play and sing together—lyrics and meaning entirely unfamiliar—I felt abruptly cut off from everything around me, as if I were a complete outsider.
In Tokyo, where schools can be cramped, some districts limit the number of participants at these ceremonies, whereas in more rural regions, the entrance ceremony can turn into a significant community event. Grandparents often attend alongside parents, posing for photographs in front of signs proclaiming “Welcome to XX Elementary School,” and carrying all manner of items like keyboard harmonicas and disaster-prevention cushions. This spectacle left a vivid impression, at once unfamiliar and fascinating. Meanwhile, I found myself agonizing over whether it was even necessary for my child to bring a randoseru (Japanese backpack) on the first day, given there would be no actual classes. On the morning itself, seeing other parents laden with bags, my husband ended up rushing back home at the last minute. Though it was a minor scramble arising from cultural differences and a lack of information, I now look back on it as a lighthearted memory.
Time passed, and eight years later, my second child graduated from elementary school this spring. The ceremony—performed in a manner many would describe as “characteristically Japanese”—was extraordinarily formal and stretched on for nearly three hours. During that lengthy program, I couldn’t help recalling my first child’s entrance ceremony, feeling an indescribable sense of nostalgia. To a parent, six years of elementary school can feel quite long; yet, when added to the six years of middle and high school, it effectively spans half of a child’s primary education. For families with multiple children, that time expands further still, making the elementary school years seem even longer and more significant.
Looking back, I’m reminded that a parent’s role ultimately involves walking beside a child through each day and shared experience. Japan and Korea have similarities, but their educational environments differ in subtle ways that can be disorienting. Yet every “first” in a new setting—whether initially startling or confusing—becomes a treasured memory in the collective story of parent and child. Even the culture shock I felt at that entrance ceremony, or the confusion I endured in those early days, has enriched my life simply because I went through it with my family.
Once children enter middle school, they typically leave the house early and return late, leaving fewer chances for parents to share in the minutiae of their daily lives. Still, the meaning of all the time we’ve spent together so far never fades. The mingled sense of bewilderment from eight years ago and the pride I feel now merge into a powerful memory—one that continues to bolster me as I watch my children progress through their school years.
The “sense of otherness” I felt at Japan’s entrance ceremony became not only a memorable scene in my life, but also something that, in retrospect, lowered the threshold for understanding and communication within Japanese society. Above all, having gone through that experience is why I could greet my second child’s graduation ceremony with such a special sense of emotion. This, in the end, may well be the ultimate reward of raising a child.
Wonsuh Song (Ph.D.)
Lecturer at Shumei University / NKNGO Forum Representative
https://geographersong.jp/about/
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