The question of how Japan's postwar educational system has affected its culture would make a book by itself. But certain trends are clear, as people's adult lives come to mimic the schoolyard, and can be summarized in a general way. Nakano Kiyotsugu has written:

Looking around modern Japan, I don't know why, but invisible rules have grown up everywhere. Lifestyle, human relations, clothing, deportment – each of these is enclosed in a framework. Just as the audience at a wedding stands up, sits down, and points their camera as directed by the MC, so people are bound up in rules. None of these rules is required by law, yet nobody dares disobey or they will be cast aside by the group. The younger they are the more people seem strongly attached to the rules, and they follow the others in their dress, possessions, hair styles, language, and topics of conversation. A foreigner would probably be surprised at the way they all seem to be dressed in uniform.

Magazines have observed that young wives with their children in Tokyo parks seem to form in cliques marked by similar clothes, hairstyles, and speech patterns-members of one, for example, will all have dyed hair. The groups even dress their toddlers in identical fashion. One woman, whom the others had initially shunned, later asked, «What did I do wrong?» It turned out to be the way she scolded her child – it wasn't the same way the other women scolded their children. The media call these groups Park Moms, as opposed to Park Gypsies, outcast mothers who are accepted by no group. A book published in 1996 entitled Park Debut counsels mothers on how to survive in the parks: «Newcomers should always take a low posture» and «Imitate the elder bosses.»

Once admitted to a Park Mom circle, one can participate in its joint activities. The group keeps the women busy with parties, excursions, and kairan-ban (revolving registers), in which they take turns looking after and calling up the others. This is an exact repeat of the uniforms, rules, and nonstop busyness these women experienced as students. It also repeats the school hierarchy and the bullying. One Western observer notes, «Some of these women have imposed a rigid hierarchical system not so different from that of the Japanese political and business worlds. Senior mothers pull rank, signal who is acceptable and who is not, and decide what activities will be engaged in and when. Some even set a dress code.»

And their husbands? They stay at the office until late at night, even if there is no work to do, and come home exhausted. Anyone who spends much time in Japan is struck by the obvious signs of sleep deprivation visible in the faces of the businessmen on trains and buses. The masochism these men learned so well at school has carried over into adult life.

When a woman complimented Whistler on his paintings of misty London bridges and remarked on how close they were to real life, Whistler replied, «Alas, madame, real life is catching up.» Real life in Japan is catching up with its grade-school regimen. Trained since childhood to follow orders broadcast on loudspeakers, the Japanese today are addicted to public announcements. Japan suffers from a severe case of noise pollution. Hotel lobbies, department stores, and train stations reverberate with taped messages advising people not to forget things, to hand in their tickets, to be careful of this and beware of that, and to walk on the left.

Loudspeakers are fitted into every new escalator in public places, with tapes advising people on the most rudimentary behavior. The escalators at the Kyoto railroad station say, «When getting on the escalator please hold the belt and stay behind the yellow line. For those with children, please hold their hands and stand in the middle of the step. If you are wearing boots or thin shoes, they can get caught in the cracks, so please take extra care. It is dangerous to put your head or hands beyond the belt.» There is an announcement at Narita Airport that reminds you to keep walking after getting off the escalator, and at the platform for trains to downtown Tokyo, a taped voice alerts passengers, «Your ticket is valid for the train and car shown on the ticket.»

People have become so addicted to recorded aisatsu and commands that they feel lonely without them. Nowhere in modern Japan can one get away from a recorded voice thanking you for coming, giving you information, apologizing for an inconvenience, commanding or warning you – all this accompanied by a chorus of beeps, buzzes, chirps, and gongs.

The most common words you will hear are kiken (danger) and abunai (hazardous). Daily life in Japan is filled with peril – unless people follow the rules. A ride on any public conveyance – bus, train, or subway – is an endless round of kiken, followed by orders: Don't leave anything behind; stand back while the train pulls in; don't rush to get in; don't get your fingers caught in the door; stay in line. National parks, rock gardens in Kyoto, ski resorts, university campuses, temples, and shrines reverberate with recorded messages and sound effects. There is no escape. With the clamor at home on television, the ear-shattering fanfare of sounds at the pachinko parlor, and recorded voices, beeps, and gongs in all public spaces, the Japanese spend a major part of their waking lives in a sea of noise.

Useless announcements are not, of course, unique to Japan. In New York City, public-address systems in the subway urge commuters not to make trains late by holding the doors open; taxis broadcast recorded warnings, spoken by celebrities, to fasten your seat belt and not to forget your belongings when getting in or out-something that even Tokyo's cabs haven't got around to doing. Nevertheless, the noise pollution in the West and in Southeast Asian countries (so far) is mostly limited to public transit – one would rarely expect to hear loud announcements on every escalator, in gardens, parks, and churches. And repeated not once but endlessly. In Japan, it's a case of excess, of announcements carried far beyond a reasonable limit. And uncontrollable excess is the defining quality of Japan's modern cultural crisis.

In a famous haiku, Basho wrote, «Silence / Into the rocks seep the voices of cicada.» Today, there would be no place for Basho to be alone with his thoughts, for seeping into the rocks would be an announcement from a chartered police-department Cessna overhead: «Let's remember to fasten our seat belts. When crossing the road, let's look left and right. This is Such-and-Such Police Department.» The writer Fukuda Kiichiro points out that public agencies spend tax money to broadcast this sort of message because they have misunderstood the concept of «public service.» Staffed with amakudari officials who have no idea how to benefit the public in any real way, agencies dream up these announcements so that «in the end it's a burlesque comedy put on by agencies such as the Transportation Safety Association as an alibi so they can say, 'Look! We're doing something!' » Another unstoppable tank of officialdom goes rumbling over the landscape. The same spirit of total dedication that has buried Japan's rivers takes over.

This, however, explains only the announcers, not the audience. The key question is why the Japanese public accepts and even craves all these commands and warnings. Fukuda writes:

One could say that social control in Japan has come to invade the private realm to an extreme degree. Of course «control» does not take place if we have only people who want to control. It's a necessary condition to also have a majority of people who wish to be controlled. It's the same mechanism that sociologists call «voluntary subjugation.» That is, people who wish to be controlled struggle to bring about control over themselves. It's related to the fact that chddren in high schools and students in universities never tire of having their teachers advise them what to do. Japanese college students are not adults who bear rights and responsibilities – they should all be called «children.»

The operative word in the above paragraph is «children.» Apart from the addiction to sound effects, the most remarkable aspect of Japan's public announcements is their sheer childishness. The level of nonsense in what Fukuda calls the Kindergarten State can strain credibility. Buses at Itami City urge riders to use soap. At Hayama, a beach south of Tokyo, a recorded voice tells bus passengers, «If you have come from a long way, please rest before entering the sea. If you are drowning, please shout for help.»

The long and the short of it is that Japan s postwar educational system is turning the Japanese into children. That the air everywhere rings with warnings of «Danger!» «Hazardous!» cries out for psychological study-it certainly gives insight into people's timidity in stepping out of line. Commentators in Japan have discussed the problem of this infantilization at length; the social critic Fukuda Kazuya wrote a book entitled Why Have the Japanese Become Such Infants? The effects of infantilization on Japan's modern culture are far-reaching. As we have seen, manga comics now account for nearly half of Japan's publishing business. The old words that defined Japanese culture – such as wabi (rough natural materials) or shibui (subdued elegance) – have been replaced by a new concept: kawaii (cute). Japan is awash in a sea of cute comic froggies, kitties, doggies, and bunnies with big, round, babyish eyes.

The big eyes are a favorite with young girls – the determining audience for modern Japanese design. One magazine editor claims that «the limit on eye size comes when they get so big the shape of the face is distorted.» You can hardly buy a household object – a bar of soap, a pencil, a blanket, a trash can, an electric fan, or a stereo set – without a big-eyed baby face printed somewhere on it. Gone are the days when the sleek Walkman defined Japanese industrial style. Today, while American and Taiwanese computer makers sweep the world with innovative and elegant designs, the main thrust in Japan is toasters in the shape of Hello Kitty.

The educational system has the effect, as Dr. Miyamoto has noted, of freezing children's emotional development at the level before they need to take adult responsibility for their lives; after decades of such a system, the end result is a massive national nostalgia for childhood. Comments Merry White, the author of The Material Child: Coming of Age in Japan and America, « We in the US are said to be a youth society, but what we really are is an adolescent society. That's what everyone wants to go back to. In Japan, it's childhood, mother, home that is yearned for, not the wildness of youth.»