As of August 7, 2025—立秋 Risshu, the traditional start of autumn—the calendar says fall, yet Japan is still sweltering through day after day above 35 °C (95 °F). On August 5, the city of Isesaki in Gunma set a new national record at 41.8 °C (107 °F). Summer is in full blaze. And yet September is just ahead. From September through November, autumn festivals take place across the country. The culture surrounding Japan’s autumn festivals is distinctive and, frankly, not always easy to grasp—even for me as a Japanese person. To deepen that understanding, I’m presenting an English rendering of “祭のさまざま The Many Faces of Festivals” (1946) by the eminent folklorist 柳田國男 Kunio Yanagita.

My hometown's danjiri

The Many Faces of Festivals

I. What “Festival” Means in Town and in Village

Anyone raised in a village remembers the delight of festivals as a child. Unlike New Year’s or the Bon season, though, once you leave home you rarely chance upon other people’s local festivals, so you don’t end up talking about them much. Cities have shrine festivals too, of course, but far fewer people actually see them up close. As a result, many assume a festival must be something big, flashy, and crowded. That, in a nutshell, is the great divide between town and village.

By a twist of circumstance, many of you are now spending time in a quiet rural place, watching a whole run of festivals—large and small—unfold from spring into summer. Once you really get to know these, you begin to notice things townsfolk often miss.

Village festivals range from grand to humble; in some places there are dozens in a single year. Comparing them changes how you see festivals altogether. Travel around Japan and you discover something else: beneath the surface, festivals share a common core.

I remember the festivals of my home village from fifty, no—nearly sixty—years ago. Since then, I never managed to be back on the very day of the festival and assumed customs must have changed, or differed widely elsewhere. Yet when I actually asked around, I was surprised how many villages still celebrate in ways that look remarkably like my childhood. That, I think, is one of the quiet blessings of this great country.

It’s hard to feel this from hearsay alone. So let me sketch my own memories, and you can compare them with what you see and hear now—what matches, what doesn’t. My birthplace is far from here and little known; imitation is unlikely simply because of distance.

II. Two Shrines, Two Roles

My village had two shrines that hosted festivals. One was the 鎮守 chinju—the “guardian” shrine—located in the next hamlet. Eight or nine districts joined there once a year, holding a single, largest festival in late autumn, near the end of the harvest. The other was the 氏神 ujigami, often called 明神 Myojin, and all the remaining festivals in the year belonged to this local shrine. In rank, the guardian shrine was a district shrine 郷社 gosha, the village shrine a 村社 sonsha with a smaller precinct. Still, when we simply said “the shrine” or “the god,” we meant our ujigami.

Elsewhere the two roles are often combined in one shrine. In the neighboring hamlet, because the guardian shrine stands within its district, there is no separate ujigami; all yearly observances are held at that gosha. Such hamlets are called Miyamoto in parts of central Japan. In some larger villages, one and the same shrine is called both chinju and ujigami. In other places, households of the same lineage keep a private “clan deity” while the whole hamlet jointly worships an 産土 ubusuna (tutelary of the birthplace). Names vary, but you can assume each district has at least one shrine where everyone gathers to celebrate. Those “districts,” after all, are the remnants of older, single villages. Some districts now have two or more shrines—usually because small hamlets merged.

Why did people pool efforts for the guardian shrine? Likely to make the “great festival” truly great—grander and brighter. The festival day often fell around the Ninth Month by the old lunar calendar (mid-autumn). For farmers, autumn is the season of ease. Barring a bad year, preparations start early: households cure mackerel for pressed sushi, the scent of sweet sake drifts through lanes, children eat themselves happily full, and tall banners snap in the autumn wind. On the day, each hamlet sends out its float; some smaller villages pull だんじり danjiri carts. When the 神輿 mikoshi—the portable shrine—sets out to tour the settlements, even the elderly step outside; little ones will follow the drums the whole day.

III. The Great Day and the Rest

On the great festival day, the entire village—every household—was at festival. Daughters married out and sons in service came home; kin were invited; tipsy uncles wandered in and out. The “host house” that managed the festival was busiest: those on duty accompanied the mikoshi and ran errands to the guardian shrine. Women often stayed back for household work, so fewer of them made the rounds. Meanwhile, elders with no assigned role would still visit the ujigami as usual, offering lights and food. Children, captivated by the floats, rarely came by, so the village shrine felt a touch quiet.

There was a clear difference between the guardian shrine’s once-a-year great festival and the other observances at the ujigami. Even where one shrine served both roles, only the great festival featured the divine procession 御幸 miyuki: the splendid tour of the mikoshi, decked in gold and vivid colors. In some big Tokyo shrines the procession loops back to the main hall, but more commonly the mikoshi is welcomed at an 御旅所 otabisho—a temporary “travel lodge” for the deity—where it rests for a day or a night and rites are held. The otabisho site is fixed, often 500–1,100 meters from the main shrine, sometimes farther. Some places, like Miwa in Yamato, set a temporary hall right inside the grounds; our guardian shrine did the same.

In Kyushu, people still call the procession the deity’s “descent” 御降り/御下り okudari. In older thinking, the god came down from a higher realm each time a festival was held. Later, people came to feel the deity abides continually in the shrine building, and festival forms diverged into “great” and “small.” Even then, when rites were held within the main hall, the core idea remained: the deity descends and is present.

Divine descent is not seen with the eye; some festivals even have the god arrive in the deep of night. Turning that into a daytime pageant through sunlit streets is a later development. To suit it, people invented “moving stages” to enliven the route.

IV. Music, Dance, and Pageantry

Music and dance have accompanied festivals since antiquity. For them, people might lay out mats and hang curtains, build a permanent stage beside the hall, or purify a parishioner’s house for temporary use. The place depends on where the deity is formally welcomed that day. Mounting the stage on poles to be borne, or on wheels to be drawn, is newer—meant to brighten the daytime procession—and so is having parishioners perform on it. In that sense, the older form is the small, stationary rite where the community quietly welcomes the deity.

In Kyoto they called such brilliant processions 風流 furyu—pageantry. The style was born of Kyoto’s culture and imitated in the provinces, which could rarely match the capital’s polish. Eager to keep up, country folk poured energy into their great festivals, yet they never treated the smaller observances lightly. Those were intimate village affairs—well known to locals but easy for visitors to miss.

The deity’s “vehicle” was once very simple: a single wand with paper streamers 御幣 gohei, or a clean sacred bough. The belief that the god alights upon it is, quite simply, faith—and many still hold it. To feel that the deity has just arrived in the festival yard requires no special sound or signal. What mattered was preparation: the confidence that time-honored procedures—物忌 monoimi (“things-to-avoid,” ritual abstinence)—had been observed without lapse. With that, people could rest assured the deity would come. Later, some borrowed the Buddhist term 精進 shojin (“purification” or “abstinence”), but in festival practice it chiefly meant bodily cleanliness; eating fish or fowl was fine. The key was never to defile the cooking fire.

V. Purity, “Keeping Away,” and Keeping Company with the Gods

Few pantheons cherish purity and shun defilement as strongly as Japan’s. The idea that a “fire can be defiled” may sound foreign, but people avoided not only contact with blood or mourning themselves; even sharing a hearth with someone who had been in contact with such impurity was thought to distance one from the divine. Thus, in the days before a festival, households closed their doors to visitors and kept a strict monoimi. Crowds, however, invite mishaps. So those who had to work the festival withdrew for several days to a separate place to live in restraint. That place was called the 精進屋 shojin-ya or “vigil lodge” 御籠り所 okomori-dokoro. Sometimes a temporary hut was built; sometimes a private home was purified; some shrines maintained an office or steward’s quarters for it. Nowadays many villages use the worship hall itself. As work lives grew busier, the vigil grew shorter, but in many places young men still bring bedding and keep watch from the night before. Elders and women come the morning of the festival; this is called 日籠り higomori (“day-vigil”), a reminder that the vigil was originally overnight.

People bring neat, clean food and sacred sake, offer the first portion to the deity, then partake themselves and exchange dishes with their neighbors. It is a shared meal of gods and people—singularly joyful and unforgettable, not only for us as boys and girls but for the grown-ups too.

All the “small” shrine days were, at heart, such okomori days—when tiered lunch boxes were opened and adults cheerfully traded cups of sake. Especially delightful was late spring: wisteria and azaleas in the hills; green barley, rapeseed, and rosy clover in the fields; skylarks high overhead. Farmers held a “rice-planting vigil” before they started work, and cherished it most. There were also ad-hoc observances: a “rain vigil” (sometimes nicknamed a “little New Year of moisture”) when timely showers came, or an “insect festival” if pests threatened—each much the same in how the vigil was kept.

“Year-vigil” meant spending New Year’s Eve at the shrine, but winter is cold, so today many simply go before dawn. Around the winter solstice there used to be a “Fire-Lighting” rite: a great bonfire in the shrine’s yard, coaxing spring to come a little sooner. As the flames rose, village children arrived, stripped to wrestle in the firelight, and received treats whether they won or lost.

Beyond these were the seasonal 節供 sekku festivals and the 1st and 15th of each month—perhaps not “fixed” shrine days, yet times when hearts reset, people arrived at similar hours, lamps were lit, and offerings set out. In the Kanto region, people also visited on the 28th, calling these observances 御三日 Osanjitsu. More recently, some gather on the 8th to talk about affairs of the country in the worship hall—conversation that, of itself, becomes a prayer.

Private petitions exist too, but even then people do not go it alone. If someone falls gravely ill, the whole household—often with close friends—goes together to pray; the solitary “hundred visits” are not a country habit. When a child is born, there is a rite called “entering the parish”—氏子入り ujiko-iri. As soon as the mother’s confinement is ritually over, the baby is carried to the shrine; the child’s name is spoken clearly before the deity, and sometimes the infant is laid briefly on the mat to cry under divine eyes. It looks like a family-only observance, but the family also steams red rice, offers a portion on camellia leaves to the shrine, and shares the rest with the village children—an instant way to make new friends. Word spreads fast; the worship hall fills with children that day too.

Apart from one’s own home, the shrine hall is a child’s most familiar place. From about the thirtieth day after birth until their “coming-out” to the wider world, children play there whenever they can. Our Myōjin shrine had a massive bayberry tree—three arm-spans around. Nearly sixty years since I left, I’m told children still gather beneath it, plucking the fruit before it’s even fully ripe—just as I did. The bond between village children and the shrine endures, much as it always has.

The Dark Side of Japanese School Sports

 A prestigious high school baseball team recently withdrew from Japan’s national tournament after a violence scandal, a story that has dominated the news. Japanese school sports are often celebrated as symbols of discipline, perseverance, and virtue. Yet behind this noble image lies a darker reality. According to multiple media reports, the violence was far more brutal than what has been officially acknowledged, suggesting that such incidents may have been systemic rather than isolated. This episode has become emblematic of the disturbing sports culture deeply rooted in Japanese society—what is commonly known as 体育会系(taiiku-kai-kei).

Of course, toxic masculinity exists in Western societies as well. Men may be mocked for carrying umbrellas in the rain, or ridiculed with slurs, like “p-word” if they show weakness. But Japan’s sports culture carries a different kind of pathology. Here, even a one- or two-year age difference creates an absolute hierarchy: seniors command, juniors obey, and disobedience is punished with violence or humiliation. This is not simply peer-to-peer macho posturing—it is a system of master and subordinate, closer to military discipline than to athletics.

I was never part of a sports club myself—I preferred to go straight home after class—but as a student I witnessed many disturbing scenes. One day, a group of baseball players appeared at school with freshly shaved heads. Curious, I asked one of them what had happened. His answer: “Reflection.” They had been punished for not shouting loudly enough during practice, supposedly showing a lack of spirit. In other words, their hair had been sacrificed to prove loyalty. To me, it felt bizarre, almost religious—a ritual humiliation disguised as discipline. Performance in sports should be measured by skill, not by the volume of one’s voice or the length of one’s hair.

I also saw seniors lining up juniors on the floor, forcing them to kneel while screaming insults at them. Freshmen were made to run endless errands unrelated to practice, serving the seniors like servants rather than teammates. Seniors spoke slowly and casually, while juniors—denied any real right to speak—were expected to bark rapid replies in loud voices, as if speed and volume alone could prove their obedience. Watching this, I often wondered: how could a difference of just one or two years justify such rigid hierarchy?

Sports are supposed to nurture people, bring teammates together, and create the joy of effort. Yet in Japan, fear and humiliation have often been repackaged as “discipline” and defended as “tradition.” From an outsider’s perspective, this does not look like baseball or soccer practice at all—it looks like a military cosplay. I feel the same way myself. And I believe these harmful traditions must change. The fact that such scandals are now making national headlines may, at last, be a glimmer of hope.

It is worth remembering that until the 1990s, even corporal punishment by teachers was tolerated in Japan. A student who forgot homework could be slapped hard enough to leave ringing in the ears, and such violence was praised as “tough love.” But as public opinion shifted and newspapers and television exposed these practices, they gradually declined. By the 2000s, teacher-on-student violence had almost disappeared from daily life. Perhaps the same fate awaits the abusive senior–junior hierarchies of taiiku-kai-kei.

I only wish that change had come earlier—back when I was a student myself. If it had, I might have grown to love sports.

Order can be dazzling. Still, I’d rather admire it from afar than lose myself in its uniform rows.

A Torii, a Treaty

 A politician who claimed that “nuclear weapons are the cheapest way to ensure national security” has just been elected. In fact, there’s a surprisingly large number of people in Japan who believe we should either arm ourselves with nuclear weapons or at least start debating the possibility. Frankly, I find this deeply troubling. Of course, it’s only natural to worry about national security as international tensions rise, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with holding open discussions. But at the very least, shouldn’t everyone be equipped with the basic knowledge of the NPT—the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty—that we all learned in civics class?

Japan is a signatory to the NPT. This means we are legally prohibited from possessing nuclear weapons.

Article II
Each non-nuclear-weapon State Party to the Treaty undertakes not to receive the transfer from any transferor whatsoever of nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices or of control over such weapons or explosive devices directly, or indirectly; not to manufacture or otherwise acquire nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices; and not to seek or receive any assistance in the manufacture of nuclear weapons or other nuclear explosive devices.

Article IX (3)
For the purposes of this Treaty, a nuclear-weapon State is one which has manufactured and exploded a nuclear weapon or other nuclear explosive device prior to 1 January 1967.

In other words, under the NPT, only five countries are permitted to possess nuclear weapons: the United States, Russia, the United Kingdom, France, and China.
If Japan were ever to acquire nuclear weapons, it would have to withdraw from the NPT.

What would happen if Japan were to leave the NPT? We would almost certainly face severe backlash from the international community. There’s even a possibility that Japan could be attacked, just as the U.S. recently struck Iran’s nuclear facilities. And let’s not forget: Japan is a resource-poor country. We can’t even feed ourselves without imports. If those imports were cut off, our economy and society would grind to a halt. It would be a return to the days of the ABCD line that strangled Japan before WWII.

So when someone claims that nuclear weapons are the “cheapest” form of deterrence for Japan, I honestly can’t understand what part of this scenario looks “cheap” to them.

By the way, my elementary school’s class trip destination was Hiroshima. We visited the famous torii gate at Miyajima, bought souvenirs, and toured the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. The museum was packed with schoolchildren on field trips, as well as ordinary visitors. Every exhibit was so shocking, so harrowing, that it was hard to look at them directly. As I moved through the crowd, letting myself be carried along almost passively, there came a moment when, all of a sudden, there was no one in front of me. On the floor at my feet, someone had vomited. Honestly, if I had really allowed myself to confront the reality shown in those displays, I think I would have been overwhelmed in the very same way.

Japanese vs American Weddings: Costs and Customs

 Recently, I read in the news that the wedding hall business in Japan is facing tough times. Even in my own city, two venues I knew of have closed their doors in just the past few years. According to a report from 2024, over 30% of Japanese wedding halls are running at a deficit, and if you include those whose profits have declined year-on-year, nearly 60% saw their business worsen last year.

It’s not hard to see why. With Japan’s population rapidly aging and the number of young people shrinking every year, there are simply fewer couples tying the knot. On top of that, the sluggish economy means that fewer newlyweds have the means (or desire) to splurge on lavish receptions. It seems likely this “wedding winter” will only continue.

That said, the very way weddings are approached is quite different in Japan and the United States.

In Japan, getting legally married is as simple as submitting a marriage registration form, signed by two witnesses, to your local city office. There’s no legal requirement for a wedding ceremony at all—it’s entirely optional. You can have a big event, a small one, or skip it altogether and you’re just as married in the eyes of the law.

By contrast, I got married in California, where a ceremony is actually part of the legal process. After obtaining a marriage license from the County Clerk’s office, you must have a solemnization (the official ceremony) with witnesses and an authorized officiant within 90 days, then return the signed license to make your marriage official. In our case, one of my husband’s friends generously volunteered as our officiant, and I have to say—our wedding remains one of my happiest memories.

Because I’m a Japanese citizen, getting married in America didn’t magically update my official documents back home. I had to submit my American marriage certificate, along with a marriage registration, to the city office in Japan.

Our wedding rings

Japan has been debating the idea of allowing married couples to keep separate surnames, but as of now, the law requires both spouses to share a family name. You’re technically free to choose either the husband’s or wife’s surname, but about 96% of couples opt for the husband’s.

There is, however, a special rule for international marriages: Japanese citizens are allowed to keep their original surname if they wish. In my case, though, I actually wanted to take my husband’s last name, even in Japan, so I made the switch on all my Japanese documents as well.

My Japanese family registry, with the line: “Marriage conducted under the laws of the State of California, USA

Getting back to the state of wedding venues—why are they struggling? One major reason is simply the cost. According to the “Zexy Wedding Trend Survey 2024,” the national average for a Japanese wedding (ceremony plus reception) is a whopping ¥3,439,000 (about $23,000), with an average guest count of 52 people.

Unlike the U.S., where wedding guests usually bring gifts, Japanese wedding receptions are funded in large part by cash gifts from guests, presented in decorative envelopes called goshugi-bukuro (ご祝儀袋). Friends typically give ¥30,000, bosses around ¥50,000, and so on. The entire system is built on the expectation that the bride and groom will recoup much of their wedding costs through these monetary gifts.

If you want to dig into the etiquette, there’s a whole world of rules: for example, you’re supposed to give crisp, new bills in odd numbers— like, three bills of ¥10,000, but never an even number. Even numbers are thought to be unlucky, since they can be “split” and thus symbolize a divided relationship. So even if you’re giving the same amount, handing over six ¥5,000 notes would be considered a faux pas. The bills should also be brand-new, to celebrate the couple’s “fresh start.” Honestly, I suspect most of us, including myself, roll our eyes at these elaborate rules and think they’re a bit much, but nobody wants to be “that guest” who flouts tradition and makes things awkward, so we go along with it.

Personally, I never had any desire to invite acquaintances I wasn’t particularly close to, let alone throw a glitzy reception funded by expensive gifts from distant friends. For me, the ideal wedding was exactly what I had in California—a small, intimate ceremony surrounded by my husband’s closest friends and family.

Japan’s Employment Ice Age: A Generation Lost in Stagnation

 In recent years, news reports about Japan’s so-called “employment ice age” (就職氷河期, shushoku hyogaki) generation have become a daily occurrence. The term “employment ice age” refers to people who graduated from school mainly between the mid-1990s and early 2000s—a cohort largely made up of the children of Japan’s postwar baby boomers. As a result, this group is remarkably large, accounting for an estimated 17 million people, or roughly 13% of Japan’s total population according to government and private sector estimates.

The emergence of this “ice age” generation can be traced to a profound structural shift in the Japanese economy. After the collapse of the economic bubble in the early 1990s, corporate earnings plummeted, and companies sharply reduced new graduate hiring. In this prolonged period of economic stagnation and job insecurity, the competition for available positions became fiercer than ever. “Stress interviews” (圧迫面接, appaku mensetsu) and other high-pressure, borderline abusive screening techniques became the norm. There were even notorious cases where candidates were told, “If you’re hot, please take off your jacket,” only to be summarily dismissed with, “Those who removed their jackets may leave,” before the interview even began. Such senseless cruelty was not uncommon.

Even for those who managed to land a job, the working conditions were often brutal: low wages, excessively long hours from early morning to late at night, and a workplace culture rife with sexual and power harassment. Many young people suffered serious physical and mental health issues as a result. Some might suggest simply changing jobs, but in Japan, there has long been a strong “new graduate supremacy” (新卒至上主義, shinsotsu shijoshugi) ethos, where companies prioritize hiring students fresh out of school over other applicants. Once someone fell off the “regular track,” it became extremely difficult to be hired as a full-time employee again. Thus, this entire generation was condemned to chronic disadvantage simply for having graduated in an era of economic malaise.

At the time, the social climate was saturated with the rhetoric of “personal responsibility” (自己責任, jiko sekinin). Although the employment ice age was the product of a systemic failure rather than a lack of personal merit or effort, society at large shifted the blame onto individuals, insisting that if people were struggling, it was the result of their own poor choices.

As of 2025, members of the employment ice age generation are now between 41 and 55 years old. Many still work in non-regular jobs, and even those who have secured regular employment often earn less than other generations. Economic hardship is widespread, and a significant number have never married or started families—another stark legacy of this era.

Today, Japan’s severe demographic crisis, marked by a rapidly shrinking working-age population struggling to support a swelling elderly cohort, can be seen as the delayed consequence of how this generation was abandoned under the banner of “self-responsibility.” Had more effective policy interventions been made twenty years ago, the worsening population crisis might have been at least partially mitigated.

Looking at this situation, one is reminded of the insights of 18th-century economist Adam Smith, who wrote in The Wealth of Nations:

“It deserves to be remarked, perhaps, that it is in the progressive state, while the society is advancing to the further acquisition, rather than when it has acquired its full complement of riches, that the condition of the labouring poor, of the great body of the people, seems to be the happiest and the most comfortable. It is hard in the stationary, and miserable in the declining state. The progressive state is, in reality, the cheerful and the hearty state to all the different orders of the society; the stationary is dull; the declining melancholy.”

These words, written over 250 years ago, strikingly capture the plight of Japan’s employment ice age generation. From the mid-1950s to the early 1970s, Japan’s economy grew at a breakneck pace, to the point where Western nations disparaged the Japanese as “economic animals.” But after the bubble burst, workers found themselves treated as disposable, bought cheap and regarded as almost worthless. The true consequences of this systemic failure are only now coming to the surface, and Japan is entering an era in which it will have no choice but to face the cost of these long-ignored social distortions.

Even in rural Ehime and Kagawa, the legacy of Japan’s Bubble Economy is easy to spot, often in the form of enormous towers, public halls, sprawling parks, or theme parks that seem oddly out of place for towns of their size.

When Test Scores Trump Honesty: Reflections on the TOEIC Proxy Scandal

 In Japan, the TOEIC exam is practically a rite of passage for job seekers and career changers. For many, a high TOEIC score opens doors—so it’s no wonder the test has become big business. But in recent years, it’s also become big news for all the wrong reasons.

Lately, there’s been a surge in so-called “proxy test-taking” scandals, where someone hires another person—a ringer, if you will—to take the exam on their behalf. The headlines this spring were particularly striking: a graduate student at Kyoto University was arrested for taking the test in someone else’s place, and dozens of people who hired him or used the same shady services were also charged.

According to the news, entire networks of brokers operate on social media, advertising things like “guaranteed high scores” and “you’ll never get caught!” Since a TOEIC score can make or break a job or study abroad opportunity, desperate clients fork over tens of thousands of yen for the chance to outsource their exam—and their integrity.

In May 2025 a Chinese national at Kyoto University attempted to take the TOEIC on behalf of someone else. AI facial recognition and vigilant test staff soon caught on. Police traced his application records and money transfers, and discovered some forty clients linked to the same address. A number of these clients were formally interrogated and charged with inciting forgery of documents and other crimes.

It’s easy to see why a high TOEIC score is tempting, but I have to wonder: does cheating really pay off? Wouldn’t your boss eventually notice if your English doesn’t live up to your impressive score? I can’t help but imagine some awkward office moments—“Wait, I thought you spoke English?”

On a side note, there’s a familiar refrain in Japan that “Japanese people can’t speak English because our education system is terrible.” Personally, I don’t buy it.

In my view, there are two main reasons Japanese people struggle with English.

First, Japanese and English are worlds apart in terms of grammar and structure. The Foreign Service Institute (FSI) actually ranks Japanese as a Category V language, the toughest for English speakers to learn. There’s even an asterisk next to Japanese in their rankings, saying “Languages preceded by asterisks are usually more difficult for native English speakers to learn than other languages in the same category.”

In other words, the feeling is mutual, English is one of the hardest languages for native Japanese speakers, too.

Second, there’s simply no pressing need for English in daily life here. Sure, a high TOEIC score is a nice boost when job hunting, but most Japanese people can get through life—and even academia—without ever having to use English. Practically every textbook, from psychology to medicine, is available in Japanese translation, so students can become experts in their fields without mastering English.

And yet, if so many people are willing to pay serious money to cheat on their English exams, maybe the stakes are changing. Maybe English is becoming less “optional” in Japan. But honestly, I hope we never reach the point where you can’t get by in your own country without a foreign language. There’s something wonderful about living in a society that’s self-sufficient in its own language.

For what it’s worth, I took the TOEIC once, just out of curiosity, without any practice or preparation. My score? 920, far from perfect, I know.