Gambari: The Importance of Making an Effort

Over the next few weeks, I will concentrate on several crucial cultural concepts that might be of interest and use to readers. These will appear in no special order, and can be read in a sort of dialogue with a book that I recently came across called “The Japanese Mind,” edited by Roger Davies and Ikeno Osamu (two college professors who collected their students’ English essays on various Japanese themes). Despite the rather unpromising and pretentious title, and though it rarely goes into depth on any particular issue, this interesting text raises several questions that make for good points of departure for anyone trying to better understand life in today’s Japan.

One of the most important concepts to consider, in my estimation, is that of “gambari,” which can be translated as “patience and determination” (as Davies’ and Ikeno’s students have done) or perhaps as “making an effort.” Gambari is a word that—in one form or another—is used on a daily basis in Japan, and I would guess that it is one of the first words that Japanese language learners acquire once they arrive. I often find myself using it with my students, exhorting them to do their best, and I suppose that it can be thought of as a kind of paired expression with “Otsukare sama deshita” (thank you for your hard work). I would even go so far as to say that the gambari/otsukare conceptual pairing is nearly on par with the much better known uchi/soto (inside/outside), giri/ninjō (social obligation/personal desires) and tatemae/honne (surface/depth) binaries. However, in the case of gambari/otsukare, the two terms are not in any way opposed, but instead reinforce one another.

Let me give a few examples. I was recently at a baseball game where two veteran players who led the home team to a thrilling come-from-behind victory (as pinch hitters, since they are no longer in the starting lineup) were called upon to address the fans and make “hero speeches.” I suppose that it was a moment of nostalgia for many of the older fans, but in any case, I was surprised by the flood of emotion that greeted the players’ comments. Several fans were in tears, as were the heroes themselves—and yet, they didn’t really say very much out of the ordinary. “Thanks to the fans…;” “I did my best…;” “Our fans are great…” and so on. Very predictable, even routine, stuff.

This made me reconsider similar interviews I had seen with Sumo wrestlers. Again, we rarely hear anything beyond the formulaic “I gave it my all” from these men, regardless of the result of their matches. Perhaps we can attribute this to the gendered, masculine style that is expected of athletes in these situations, which call for a certain stoicism and economy of words, but I think that there is more going on than meets the eye.

I’ve written before about the long-running karaoke television show on NHK called “Nodo Jiman,” which has become a postwar cultural institution unto itself. I enjoy watching this show, but I often find myself wondering why—and if I would feel the same way if a similar program existed in English, in the US for example. Would I really sit through nearly an hour of karaoke like this back in the US?

I think the answer to that question is no, and the reason why is gambari. In Japan, it appears that the person’s effort counts for more than his or her ability or skill. Some of the loudest cheering and applause in “Nodo Jiman” seems to always be for the tone-deaf 80-year-olds or the bashful, blushing junior high school students who often burst into tears as soon as the song is over. Inexplicably, I find myself cheering them on as well, though if facing a similar situation in the US (think of William Hung butchering “She Bangs” on American Idol), I would certainly reach for the remote or, at the very least, cringe and plug my ears.

In my department at university, we often have occasions that call for a kind of public performance—making speeches at the beginning and end of the school year, for example—and I have been at a loss to explain why the most inept speakers are nearly always the biggest favorites. Time and again, it appears to me, eloquence is secondary to effort. Smooth speech making is fine, but nothing generates more interest and applause than a blushing and fumbling, inarticulate, even incoherent (or, better yet, violently sobbing) address that would make the most tight-lipped Sumo wrestler seem like a member of Toastmasters International.

In all of these cases, it is the effort that the person put into the situation—the stress and strain, hardship, endurance and so on—that counts the most. The results are often beside the point. Training, discipline, patience, and perseverance are valued much more than ability or talent. Even in speeches, the words themselves are less important than the spirit behind them. We might say that the form is more highly prized than the content. In a way, what people say or how they sing, in and of themselves, are less important than the fact that they are trying, and giving it their all. Perhaps this is one reason that teamwork and cooperation are such an integral part of Japanese society. Maybe this is why, in my own case, I’ve found that my efforts at speaking Japanese, no matter how stumbling or halting, are usually much appreciated, then followed by a hearty “Otsukare sama!”