magic スリッパー surippa

Surippa.

Go ahead, say it. Maybe by saying it, you'll understand that to which this refers. This is the magic of Japanicized English words. But that will be a future post.

Hint:

They are in each and every 玄関 genkan entryway of any private residence or public halls, schools and the like. Each 玄関 is lined with rows of boxes into which you will slip your feet out of your own 靴 kutsu shoes and into their own スリッパ surippa. These flat-footed slip-ons were usually either bright green or, more rarely, a maroon-reddish color, usually with the name of whatever institution to which they belonged stamped in gold lettering on the toe.

Got it?

For most 日本人 nihonjin Japanese people this was no huge deal. Simply step out of your shoes (below the step, of course, so you step up onto the wooden floor with only stocking feet), turn around, pick up your perfectly-placed outside shoes (unless you are familiar with the place in which case you can just turn around with heels to the wood, step up and back onto the wood and then just bend down and pick up your shoes--remember, ritual and set order...), put them into a box and grab the little スリッパ pair awating your toasty tootsies, slip your feet in and you are off. Men in black or blue business suits, women in formal dresses; it did not matter, everyone donned the little green スリッパ of the locale.

For us 外人 gaijin, however, this was often easier said than done.

You see, the majority of the Japanese スリッパ market is made for a size 6 foot. Trying to cram a 外人 average size 8 or so (I am a 9.5 to 10, thank you very much) into a size 6 スリッパ is basically an impossible task, one that would end often in foot cramps and スリッパ getting lost down the 便所...another story altogether. If toes would actually fit into the スリッパ, the slipper would usually end at about mid-foot, so you could pretty much guarantee a rather uncomfortable event. If, however, you were to end up in a 畳 tatami area you were in luck, as スリッパ is not to be worn on 畳...they would all be left at the outside of the 所持 shoji sliding door. You would never again be matched up with the same pair of スリッパ, but that did not seem to matter--share and share alike. After all, they weren't your スリッパ to begin with, right?

I quickly learned to bring my own スリッパ to various places. At my schools, I had my own, a privilege which my position as the town 外人 permitted me; I stood out enough on my own without having to even take into consideration my footwear. I was never mocking of this custom; I instead embraced it, coming to internalize the idea of the removal of one's shoes out of respect of the place I was about to enter, just as one would before entering a 神道 Shinto shrine or 仏教寺 Bukyouji Buddhist temple. The outside world was separate from what occured within the walls, to be left outside and forgotten in the effort to fully concentrate upon that which was to occur inside.

When returning to the States it was difficult for me to ask other Americans to follow my new custom of removing one's shoes upon entering my home, and never have I really ever provided "guest slippers" fearing that would appear extremely presumptuous on my part, but I have had frequent guests decide to keep their own pairs of slippers at my home for their own comfort. After having children it became easier to ask those who entered my doorway to remove their shoes: "My children are always playing on the floor..." was a convenient excuse that I permitted to stick. I am noticing that more and more people simply remove their shoes upon the entrance to others' homes, and I do so out of respect for others' spaces, if not to inadvertently track that which might be sticking on the bottom of my soles onto their carpets.