Saturday, December 31, 2011
The New Japan: New Year's Eve, Japan-style
The New Japan: New Year's Eve, Japan-style: We ventured out at 11pm to empty streets. I comment to my son, "I've never seen Tokyo so quiet" and we all ponder this for a few minutes. ...
New Year's Eve, Japan-style
We ventured out at 11pm to empty streets. I comment to my son, "I've never seen Tokyo so quiet" and we all ponder this for a few minutes. We have the sidewalk to ourselves. Twenty minutes later, we hit the crowds.
Food stalls line the sidewalk. People are lined up ten deep at the local shrine. We walk by the scents of food--chicken, beef, and pork on skewers, noodles mixed with vegetables, octopus pancakes in small balls, pastries, candy, sweet sake. It's a good thing I ate little during the day. My stomach grumbles.
Hungry and ready to eat, we stop at a chicken stand. We ask for a variety of chicken bits on sticks, and the father-son team behind the grill talk to us in English. Dad puts his hands together and says, "Pray? Japan-style?" and I say, "Yes." He grins. "Thank you."
Ten minutes later, the line in front of the shrine is now over 100 deep and I look at my phone, noting we're ten minutes away from midnight. Another ten minutes and the line is now out in the street, cops and firefighters directing traffic away from the worshipers.
We make our way to another bunch of stalls, this one set up in a park. My son looks at grilled fish on a stick--whole--and says, "I want one." He smiles and I grin back.
I pass the stalls selling cartoon masks. "I wanted these when I was a kid!" Then there are the candy stalls. "These, too!"
At each stall, I peer in to see who's behind the stove, grill, counter. I look at my husband and say, "Here's another way Japan has changed. These stalls used to be run by the yakuza guys. These people aren't."
They're around, of course. The chimpira, yakuza wannabes (guys lower down on the totem pole) stick out by their outfits and tightly permed hair. That they don't mind being seen in public wearing outfits their mothers would cringe at is a tell-tale sign of who they are. They swagger. Really. It's a sight to see.
Sumo wrestlers, very large men in traditional yukata walk through the crowds and people part to let them pass. People stare and then look away, a mixture of awe, respect, and just a bit of fear, as we all pretend to look and yet not look.
We eat ourselves silly, pay way too much for street food, and are happy and content as we make our way back to our apartment. The streets are now buzzing with people. Gone is the quiet from before. Taxis weave in and out. We can hardly walk through the crowds on the sidewalks going this way and that. A most perfect way to spend New Year's Eve in Tokyo. May this be the beginning of many more.
Food stalls line the sidewalk. People are lined up ten deep at the local shrine. We walk by the scents of food--chicken, beef, and pork on skewers, noodles mixed with vegetables, octopus pancakes in small balls, pastries, candy, sweet sake. It's a good thing I ate little during the day. My stomach grumbles.
Hungry and ready to eat, we stop at a chicken stand. We ask for a variety of chicken bits on sticks, and the father-son team behind the grill talk to us in English. Dad puts his hands together and says, "Pray? Japan-style?" and I say, "Yes." He grins. "Thank you."
Ten minutes later, the line in front of the shrine is now over 100 deep and I look at my phone, noting we're ten minutes away from midnight. Another ten minutes and the line is now out in the street, cops and firefighters directing traffic away from the worshipers.
We make our way to another bunch of stalls, this one set up in a park. My son looks at grilled fish on a stick--whole--and says, "I want one." He smiles and I grin back.
I pass the stalls selling cartoon masks. "I wanted these when I was a kid!" Then there are the candy stalls. "These, too!"
At each stall, I peer in to see who's behind the stove, grill, counter. I look at my husband and say, "Here's another way Japan has changed. These stalls used to be run by the yakuza guys. These people aren't."
They're around, of course. The chimpira, yakuza wannabes (guys lower down on the totem pole) stick out by their outfits and tightly permed hair. That they don't mind being seen in public wearing outfits their mothers would cringe at is a tell-tale sign of who they are. They swagger. Really. It's a sight to see.
Sumo wrestlers, very large men in traditional yukata walk through the crowds and people part to let them pass. People stare and then look away, a mixture of awe, respect, and just a bit of fear, as we all pretend to look and yet not look.
We eat ourselves silly, pay way too much for street food, and are happy and content as we make our way back to our apartment. The streets are now buzzing with people. Gone is the quiet from before. Taxis weave in and out. We can hardly walk through the crowds on the sidewalks going this way and that. A most perfect way to spend New Year's Eve in Tokyo. May this be the beginning of many more.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
The New Japan: Ofunato Stories: Part 2
The New Japan: Ofunato Stories: Part 2: Today I'm grateful. While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and ref...
Ofunato Stories: Part 2
Today I'm grateful. While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and refurbished building is a reminder of birth and rebirth. It's like Christmas meets Easter all in one season.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ofunato Stories: Part 1
My fifth trip to Ofunato this year showed me a very different town. Not having a "before" image to compare it to, I can only see the progress made as the city worked to clean up the massive amount of debris left by the tsunami. The part of the town near the port is now completely cleaned up. The foundations of houses and buildings remain but the everything else is gone. The few remaining buildings, those made of concrete and strong enough to withstand the waves are back in business or still being repaired.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
The New Japan: The power of advertising
The New Japan: The power of advertising: "I want that," I say, pointing to the television. "What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking abo...
The power of advertising
"I want that," I say, pointing to the television.
"What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking about.
"That," I point.
"What 'that'?" He's looking at the television, completely confused.
"You missed it." I'm annoyed.
"What was it?"
I turn to him. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails."
His look says it all. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails," and he repeats it slowly, making sure I really said what I said. "Whose toenails?"
"Yeah. Frankenstein was painting that woman's toenails. She was sitting by the pool. I think it was somewhere in Florida. I want Big Apple Red."
"You want Frankenstein to give you a pedicure?" He's not sure I'm sane.
"Not a pedicure," and I try not to add a tone that implies I would add "duh" at the end of that phrase. Clearly a complete pedicure would take too long. I just want my nails done. By Frankenstein.
"I want you to get someone to dress up like Frankenstein and paint my toenails. Red."
"Red. Yeah. I got that part. You want me to get some guy to dress up in a Frankenstein costume and paint your toenails? I just want to make sure I'm getting this."
I honestly don't understand what the big deal is. "Yes, I want you to get someone to dress up as Frankenstein, and yes, I want that person to paint my toenails." Duh. "Maybe for Christmas?" I add.
He's deliberate in what he says next. "May I ask why?"
"It looks like fun."
"Fun," and he trails off.
Am I the only one who finds the idea of sitting pool-side, sunbathing, and having Frankenstein paint my toenails serious fun? I think not. The power of suggestion, that this would be absolutely loads of fun, it's so clear to me. Surely this is why whoever is offering the services of Frankenstein's pedicure skills put it on a television commercial. Right?
Commercials are meant to sell. They want us to buy their products and services. Some do a better job of this than others. Case in point. A Japanese credit card company commercial says the following: "What you've seen on the previous commercial, and what you'll see on the next--buy them. Use this credit card." The implication is "buying is good and you should do it through us." No beating around the bush there.
Another commercial, this time for a stew, first starts out with a Christmas tree with lights flickering out from under piles of white snow. Star-shaped lights turn into star-shaped carrots in the stew. Yes, I now want to buy that stew. I also think star-shaped carrots are now officially a wonderful idea. Piping hot stew on a warm winter night with star-shaped carrots? I'm sold.
Commercials for canned coffee make even coffee look appealing. Those drinking them look happy, caffeinated, and ready to hit the day. That coffee is my current nemesis makes the fact these commercials catch my eye and make me wonder about my decision to continue avoiding the drink even a stronger point.
Staying with the coffee theme for a moment.....Some canned coffee advertising makes no sense but still makes one stand up and take notice. I was sitting on a train, absent-mindedly looking around when I see the following:
It'd be great if chicks liked me.
Maybe I'll be a panda.
Chicks like pandas, right?
Pandas are cute. Chicks like cute things.
But, then again, if I were a panda, I'd end up with a panda chick for life.
Hmm. That won't work.
Pandas and human chicks don't mix.
Still, worth a shot, maybe?
What this has anything to do with coffee is beyond me, but I did actually get up from my seat and write down the words from the ad. I didn't buy the coffee, but I had to stifle a guffaw on the train.
I find Japanese advertising to be a mix of subtle, nuanced suggestions mixed with outright "buy this and you too can look like me" statements. I'm not sure I can completely put my finger on what is so different from the ads I see back in the US but different they are. Here is yet another new side of Japan I'm seeing. Why I'm noticing this now is still a mystery to me, but the power of advertising has been a running theme in my life since my arrival.
"I can dress up as Frankenstein and paint your toenails." Evidently, my husband is still figuring out how to look up where to find a company that sends out Frankensteins to sunbathing women.
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"I don't see why I can't paint your toenails."
"It's not the same thing."
"I don't get it."
"I want a real Frankenstein."
"You realize," and here he pauses, "you make no sense."
"I do, too," and I don't add, "in my world" because even after twenty-plus years there are clearly some things he still doesn't get. Seriously powerful advertising is one of them.
"What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking about.
"That," I point.
"What 'that'?" He's looking at the television, completely confused.
"You missed it." I'm annoyed.
"What was it?"
I turn to him. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails."
His look says it all. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails," and he repeats it slowly, making sure I really said what I said. "Whose toenails?"
"Yeah. Frankenstein was painting that woman's toenails. She was sitting by the pool. I think it was somewhere in Florida. I want Big Apple Red."
"You want Frankenstein to give you a pedicure?" He's not sure I'm sane.
"Not a pedicure," and I try not to add a tone that implies I would add "duh" at the end of that phrase. Clearly a complete pedicure would take too long. I just want my nails done. By Frankenstein.
"I want you to get someone to dress up like Frankenstein and paint my toenails. Red."
"Red. Yeah. I got that part. You want me to get some guy to dress up in a Frankenstein costume and paint your toenails? I just want to make sure I'm getting this."
I honestly don't understand what the big deal is. "Yes, I want you to get someone to dress up as Frankenstein, and yes, I want that person to paint my toenails." Duh. "Maybe for Christmas?" I add.
He's deliberate in what he says next. "May I ask why?"
"It looks like fun."
"Fun," and he trails off.
Am I the only one who finds the idea of sitting pool-side, sunbathing, and having Frankenstein paint my toenails serious fun? I think not. The power of suggestion, that this would be absolutely loads of fun, it's so clear to me. Surely this is why whoever is offering the services of Frankenstein's pedicure skills put it on a television commercial. Right?
Commercials are meant to sell. They want us to buy their products and services. Some do a better job of this than others. Case in point. A Japanese credit card company commercial says the following: "What you've seen on the previous commercial, and what you'll see on the next--buy them. Use this credit card." The implication is "buying is good and you should do it through us." No beating around the bush there.
Another commercial, this time for a stew, first starts out with a Christmas tree with lights flickering out from under piles of white snow. Star-shaped lights turn into star-shaped carrots in the stew. Yes, I now want to buy that stew. I also think star-shaped carrots are now officially a wonderful idea. Piping hot stew on a warm winter night with star-shaped carrots? I'm sold.
Commercials for canned coffee make even coffee look appealing. Those drinking them look happy, caffeinated, and ready to hit the day. That coffee is my current nemesis makes the fact these commercials catch my eye and make me wonder about my decision to continue avoiding the drink even a stronger point.
Staying with the coffee theme for a moment.....Some canned coffee advertising makes no sense but still makes one stand up and take notice. I was sitting on a train, absent-mindedly looking around when I see the following:
It'd be great if chicks liked me.
Maybe I'll be a panda.
Chicks like pandas, right?
Pandas are cute. Chicks like cute things.
But, then again, if I were a panda, I'd end up with a panda chick for life.
Hmm. That won't work.
Pandas and human chicks don't mix.
Still, worth a shot, maybe?
What this has anything to do with coffee is beyond me, but I did actually get up from my seat and write down the words from the ad. I didn't buy the coffee, but I had to stifle a guffaw on the train.
I find Japanese advertising to be a mix of subtle, nuanced suggestions mixed with outright "buy this and you too can look like me" statements. I'm not sure I can completely put my finger on what is so different from the ads I see back in the US but different they are. Here is yet another new side of Japan I'm seeing. Why I'm noticing this now is still a mystery to me, but the power of advertising has been a running theme in my life since my arrival.
"I can dress up as Frankenstein and paint your toenails." Evidently, my husband is still figuring out how to look up where to find a company that sends out Frankensteins to sunbathing women.
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"I don't see why I can't paint your toenails."
"It's not the same thing."
"I don't get it."
"I want a real Frankenstein."
"You realize," and here he pauses, "you make no sense."
"I do, too," and I don't add, "in my world" because even after twenty-plus years there are clearly some things he still doesn't get. Seriously powerful advertising is one of them.
Friday, December 9, 2011
The coffee dilemma
Twenty-plus years of marriage with Christmases, Valentine's Days, and anniversaries has long-ago put my husband in a bit of a tough spot.
The question "What do you want for Christmas this year?" means he doesn't know what to get me. He has a list of items he shouldn't buy. No kitchen or household appliances (ever), no jewelry unless he's seen me go "ooooooh!" at that specific piece, and nothing that might make me say "Baby, How am I supposed to fit into this!?"
That he tries makes me happy. That he wants to make me happy makes me happy. Perhaps it's the little girl in me that wants to open up a present from him, squeal and get teary over his ability to find the perfect gift. Considering how many years we've been together and how many times he's had to buy gifts, it's no wonder he's running out of ideas.
Enter my latest answer. I saw it in a movie. The man could have anything he wanted. The CIA or NSA or some secretive government agency promised they would give it to him. His answer? "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." I laugh every time I think of this scene.
My new answer to "What do you want this year?" has also been "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." Which gets me laughs, eye-rolling, "Where do I buy that?", and "No, seriously." I've asked for "Peace on Earth" over the past several years, and dear husband, your "I'll see what I can do" has been much appreciated. Let's try something else this year. My dearest, I need you to solve a problem for me. That can be my Christmas present. My problem? Coffee.
"How is that a problem?" You'll say. "You gave up coffee years ago." To which I would reply, "I know. That's my problem." You would ask for clarification. I would offer the following scenario.
I'm visiting someone. It could be a business meeting or a friend. Out come the drinks and snacks. I'm almost never asked what I'd like to drink. My track record to date, 50-50 between coffee and green tea. Half of the time I'm served coffee, which means that cup sits in front of me untouched and I feel bad for not drinking it and my host feels bad for serving me something I clearly don't like.
This is not good. This is a problem. I'm given a drink, a western drink, and I'm supposed to drink it. That I don't drink coffee is really not the point. I show proper appreciation for their hospitality by drinking it. Period.
Let's go back three-plus years. I'm on a flight, flipping through one of the many magazines I always brought along. Never having time to read them at home, I would save them up for my once-a-month business trips and go through all of them, donating them to the flight attendants at the end of the flight. One article caught my eye. "Green Tea is Good For You." Well, duh. I knew this. I've always known this. Something happened that day. It was an "a-ha" moment. The switch that had been half-on for years offering a flickering light officially snapped into the ON position. I was switching to green tea. Enough with the coffee. This was for real. I was done with coffee. For good.
My coffee-problems were as follows: a). I would add a bit of coffee to my cream, and b). I would inevitably get called away from my desk just as I had made myself the perfect cup of coffee, only to return when it was cold and slightly bitter. I would then drink that cold, slightly bitter, no longer warm and comforting cup of coffee, because I needed the caffeine.
Let's acknowledge here for a moment an important point. Cream is essentially 100% fat. I'm not kidding when I say I added coffee to my cream. This means, I was essentially drinking quite a few cups of serious (albeit very yummy) fat everyday. We all know what that kind of fat-consumption does to certain body parts.
So, admitting I was drinking coffee for it's caffeine content and also knowing I wanted to live longer than continual fat-ingestion would probably allow, that day in that airplane seat, I gave up coffee.
Dear husband,
Herein lines the problem. I know better than to outright tell those who serve me coffee "Sorry, I don't drink coffee." Coffee has not touched my lips in many years and you've heard me say I don't miss it one bit. My butt has shrunk after giving up my many cups of coffee-cream concoction. What do I do then when cans and cups of coffee appear in front of me? Yesterday I fake-drank a cup, only after repeatedly being told "Drink up. It's getting cold," and knowing I couldn't ignore the now lukewarm cup any longer. This problem needs fixing, and for once, I'm all out of ideas. If you can solve this dilemma for me, I'll consider it a year's worth of presents. Do something. I really don't want to go back to coffee. Help me please.
Your adoring wife
The question "What do you want for Christmas this year?" means he doesn't know what to get me. He has a list of items he shouldn't buy. No kitchen or household appliances (ever), no jewelry unless he's seen me go "ooooooh!" at that specific piece, and nothing that might make me say "Baby, How am I supposed to fit into this!?"
That he tries makes me happy. That he wants to make me happy makes me happy. Perhaps it's the little girl in me that wants to open up a present from him, squeal and get teary over his ability to find the perfect gift. Considering how many years we've been together and how many times he's had to buy gifts, it's no wonder he's running out of ideas.
Enter my latest answer. I saw it in a movie. The man could have anything he wanted. The CIA or NSA or some secretive government agency promised they would give it to him. His answer? "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." I laugh every time I think of this scene.
My new answer to "What do you want this year?" has also been "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." Which gets me laughs, eye-rolling, "Where do I buy that?", and "No, seriously." I've asked for "Peace on Earth" over the past several years, and dear husband, your "I'll see what I can do" has been much appreciated. Let's try something else this year. My dearest, I need you to solve a problem for me. That can be my Christmas present. My problem? Coffee.
"How is that a problem?" You'll say. "You gave up coffee years ago." To which I would reply, "I know. That's my problem." You would ask for clarification. I would offer the following scenario.
I'm visiting someone. It could be a business meeting or a friend. Out come the drinks and snacks. I'm almost never asked what I'd like to drink. My track record to date, 50-50 between coffee and green tea. Half of the time I'm served coffee, which means that cup sits in front of me untouched and I feel bad for not drinking it and my host feels bad for serving me something I clearly don't like.
This is not good. This is a problem. I'm given a drink, a western drink, and I'm supposed to drink it. That I don't drink coffee is really not the point. I show proper appreciation for their hospitality by drinking it. Period.
Let's go back three-plus years. I'm on a flight, flipping through one of the many magazines I always brought along. Never having time to read them at home, I would save them up for my once-a-month business trips and go through all of them, donating them to the flight attendants at the end of the flight. One article caught my eye. "Green Tea is Good For You." Well, duh. I knew this. I've always known this. Something happened that day. It was an "a-ha" moment. The switch that had been half-on for years offering a flickering light officially snapped into the ON position. I was switching to green tea. Enough with the coffee. This was for real. I was done with coffee. For good.
My coffee-problems were as follows: a). I would add a bit of coffee to my cream, and b). I would inevitably get called away from my desk just as I had made myself the perfect cup of coffee, only to return when it was cold and slightly bitter. I would then drink that cold, slightly bitter, no longer warm and comforting cup of coffee, because I needed the caffeine.
Let's acknowledge here for a moment an important point. Cream is essentially 100% fat. I'm not kidding when I say I added coffee to my cream. This means, I was essentially drinking quite a few cups of serious (albeit very yummy) fat everyday. We all know what that kind of fat-consumption does to certain body parts.
So, admitting I was drinking coffee for it's caffeine content and also knowing I wanted to live longer than continual fat-ingestion would probably allow, that day in that airplane seat, I gave up coffee.
Dear husband,
Herein lines the problem. I know better than to outright tell those who serve me coffee "Sorry, I don't drink coffee." Coffee has not touched my lips in many years and you've heard me say I don't miss it one bit. My butt has shrunk after giving up my many cups of coffee-cream concoction. What do I do then when cans and cups of coffee appear in front of me? Yesterday I fake-drank a cup, only after repeatedly being told "Drink up. It's getting cold," and knowing I couldn't ignore the now lukewarm cup any longer. This problem needs fixing, and for once, I'm all out of ideas. If you can solve this dilemma for me, I'll consider it a year's worth of presents. Do something. I really don't want to go back to coffee. Help me please.
Your adoring wife
Thursday, December 8, 2011
A little bit of everything
Holiday season that it is, I've been thinking a lot about who would be sitting around my dining room table on any given major winter holiday. My family is made up of, simply put, incredibly diverse perspectives. If everyone on both sides of my family were to sit around the table (and let's not focus here on the fact this will never happen) the list would include the following: Buddhists, agnostics, Muslims, evangelical Christians, atheists, pagans, seriously literal "What Would Jesus Do" Christians, die-hard "I-need-to-stock-pile-guns-to-protect-myself-from-the-government" militia-style Republicans, completely polar opposite "ohmygod, I can't believe I'm related to you" Democrats, gay and straight, with money and not so much, African-Americans, Chinese, Egyptian, Ivorian, Creole, Lakota, mixed race children, Ph.Ds and my grandmother who didn't finish high school, farmers and those with a load of frequent-flier miles, artists and stick-figure drawers, musicians and tone deaf. The list of comparisons goes on.
We don't all get along. Some of us rarely speak. Others simply won't and don't. We are related by blood and marriage. We don't choose each other. Therein lies a significant point. Except for our spouses, we don't choose each other.
Filling my life with those whose opinions are similar to mine--this is fun. We banter, push each other, laugh, and finish each other's sentences. Those with divergent opinions I see less of, and the more adamant we are in our differences the less we see of each other. I like having choices. I like choosing people I like and who like me back and spending time with them. I like having them in my life. I tell myself this is normal. It is, right? Why wouldn't I want to have like-minded people whom I like all around me? (Keyword for this paragraph: like.)
Because--and this is where Japan comes in--that's how I define my heaven. More specifically, and let me go on record first and say I don't technically believe in heaven the way it's referenced in the Bible, my heaven is the Yamanote-line.
This is the Yamanote-line.
It's a major train line running around Tokyo, never-ending, and possibly never beginning. Fine. It must start somewhere every morning and end somewhere every night but that's really not the point I'm trying to make.
My heaven is me on the Yamanote-line. Forever. All my favorite people hop on and off, we eat food, we never get fat, we talk, laugh, dance, sing, tell really stupid jokes (I'm finally able to remember the punchlines of every single joke in my version of heaven), and this goes on forever. Those whom I choose for friends, family, companions, ride with me on the train. Some get off every now and then and let others on. Simply put, I'm surrounded by people I love and chose forever. I'm totally serious about this.
I could argue I can save making sure I'm surrounded by like-minded people until I ride the Yamanote-line forever. I want different ways of thinking in my life, now, right? So then, just as easily I could argue I should make sure I'm challenged by those I'm really not sure I like and do that now so I'll appreciate the presence of my favorite people later on. Not being much of a fan of delayed gratification, this is hard for me. Admitting I don't often sit around the dining room table with my relatives whom I'm just really not all that fond of evidently means I don't want different ways of thinking that much. Hmmm.
Back to why this matters now. As I hunt for apartments in Tokyo, I find myself deliberately avoiding the Yamanote-line. This is ridiculous, I know. I'm almost telling myself if I ride the Yamanote-line too often now I won't appreciate as much later. This is total crap, obviously, but I still find myself looking at the lines that branch out and away from the green circle and avoiding the areas on the line itself. It's like heaven is right there but I'm not supposed to touch it for awhile.
A little bit of everything tonight. Life and death, likes and dislikes, friend and foe, and some how knowing it relates back to Japan. Random musings for the day.
We don't all get along. Some of us rarely speak. Others simply won't and don't. We are related by blood and marriage. We don't choose each other. Therein lies a significant point. Except for our spouses, we don't choose each other.
Filling my life with those whose opinions are similar to mine--this is fun. We banter, push each other, laugh, and finish each other's sentences. Those with divergent opinions I see less of, and the more adamant we are in our differences the less we see of each other. I like having choices. I like choosing people I like and who like me back and spending time with them. I like having them in my life. I tell myself this is normal. It is, right? Why wouldn't I want to have like-minded people whom I like all around me? (Keyword for this paragraph: like.)
Because--and this is where Japan comes in--that's how I define my heaven. More specifically, and let me go on record first and say I don't technically believe in heaven the way it's referenced in the Bible, my heaven is the Yamanote-line.
This is the Yamanote-line.
It's a major train line running around Tokyo, never-ending, and possibly never beginning. Fine. It must start somewhere every morning and end somewhere every night but that's really not the point I'm trying to make.
My heaven is me on the Yamanote-line. Forever. All my favorite people hop on and off, we eat food, we never get fat, we talk, laugh, dance, sing, tell really stupid jokes (I'm finally able to remember the punchlines of every single joke in my version of heaven), and this goes on forever. Those whom I choose for friends, family, companions, ride with me on the train. Some get off every now and then and let others on. Simply put, I'm surrounded by people I love and chose forever. I'm totally serious about this.
I could argue I can save making sure I'm surrounded by like-minded people until I ride the Yamanote-line forever. I want different ways of thinking in my life, now, right? So then, just as easily I could argue I should make sure I'm challenged by those I'm really not sure I like and do that now so I'll appreciate the presence of my favorite people later on. Not being much of a fan of delayed gratification, this is hard for me. Admitting I don't often sit around the dining room table with my relatives whom I'm just really not all that fond of evidently means I don't want different ways of thinking that much. Hmmm.
Back to why this matters now. As I hunt for apartments in Tokyo, I find myself deliberately avoiding the Yamanote-line. This is ridiculous, I know. I'm almost telling myself if I ride the Yamanote-line too often now I won't appreciate as much later. This is total crap, obviously, but I still find myself looking at the lines that branch out and away from the green circle and avoiding the areas on the line itself. It's like heaven is right there but I'm not supposed to touch it for awhile.
A little bit of everything tonight. Life and death, likes and dislikes, friend and foe, and some how knowing it relates back to Japan. Random musings for the day.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The New Japan: The new buzzword
The New Japan: The new buzzword: I hear it everyday. Really. It's perhaps that psychological phenomenon I can't remember the name of, where I think of a song and then next...
The new buzzword
I hear it everyday. Really. It's perhaps that psychological phenomenon I can't remember the name of, where I think of a song and then next thing I know I hear it on the radio over and over. Then again, maybe there's a reason this is happening. And, maybe I know what that reason is. And, just maybe, it has something to do with March 11th.
Before you go, "Oh, here we go again" give me a few more minutes.
I have heard the word kizuna everyday since arriving in Japan. It means bond, ties, a connection, an affinity. The sentiment in Japan is "we are connected." The "we" can be immediate family, a community, a network of friends, or the country as a whole. I get it. I think it's beautiful. This buzzword, I hope stays around for awhile. It wouldn't hurt for the sense of community to stay put. This kind of bonding only builds, and it's a wonderful way to recover.
This video has been making the rounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS-sWdAQsYg&feature=share
I made the mistake of watching it as I sat in a crowded office waiting to file paperwork. Two minutes in, I was tearing up and I had to put my iPhone away. I faked a yawn to cover up my tears lest I get called up to the desk at this exact moment.
It explains kizuna well. You're apart of it this bond, too.
Spread the word.
Before you go, "Oh, here we go again" give me a few more minutes.
I have heard the word kizuna everyday since arriving in Japan. It means bond, ties, a connection, an affinity. The sentiment in Japan is "we are connected." The "we" can be immediate family, a community, a network of friends, or the country as a whole. I get it. I think it's beautiful. This buzzword, I hope stays around for awhile. It wouldn't hurt for the sense of community to stay put. This kind of bonding only builds, and it's a wonderful way to recover.
This video has been making the rounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS-sWdAQsYg&feature=share
I made the mistake of watching it as I sat in a crowded office waiting to file paperwork. Two minutes in, I was tearing up and I had to put my iPhone away. I faked a yawn to cover up my tears lest I get called up to the desk at this exact moment.
It explains kizuna well. You're apart of it this bond, too.
Spread the word.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Tohoku forgotten?
Granted I've been in Japan less than 48 hours. Yesterday was a wash. Walking around town in a daze, I can say now I wasn't taking much in. Today is different. I'm in the city again where I'm most comfortable. My eyes are more focused. I see things better, clearer. I'm struck by what's not present. Ask me again in three weeks, six weeks and I may take this back. Today, I stand by this.
I've walked through stations. I've ridden on trains. I've watched television. Gone are the posters, signage, shows, reports, news stories discussing what happened in Tohoku in March. Sitting in front of the television now, I'm watching a report on how children are faring post March 11th. This is the first time I've seen or heard the words "Tohoku" since arriving in Japan this time.
What happened? What changed? The obvious answer is time. Donor fatigue sunk in long ago. The ever present sense of resolve and perseverance seems to have been replaced with apathy, hopelessness, and a lack of interest. Like other catastrophes, natural and man-made, people get tired of hearing and reading news on the same topic. I get that. I understand how the rest of the world has stopped discussing Japan. But, here, too? That Japan isn't even reporting on the lives of those in Tohoku, this surprises me.
Then there's this.
Starbucks has stopped accepting donations for those in the Tohoku prefectures. The announcement states they stopped collecting money at the end of September, and tells coffee-buyers they donated over 35,000,000 yen to the Japanese Red Cross. That's no small sum. But, why stop now? I don't get it.
I am incredibly aware of the fact I cannot be a gong ringing on my own, trying to keep peoples' interest focused on Tohoku. That means I will spend a significant amount of energy over the next several months figuring out how to balance reporting on what I will do in the Tohoku area, and how not to talk about only that. I will try. I really will. Then again, isn't there something wrong with the fact anyone should have to limit the conveyance of facts (especially facts this important) because the rest of the world has a short attention span?
I've walked through stations. I've ridden on trains. I've watched television. Gone are the posters, signage, shows, reports, news stories discussing what happened in Tohoku in March. Sitting in front of the television now, I'm watching a report on how children are faring post March 11th. This is the first time I've seen or heard the words "Tohoku" since arriving in Japan this time.
What happened? What changed? The obvious answer is time. Donor fatigue sunk in long ago. The ever present sense of resolve and perseverance seems to have been replaced with apathy, hopelessness, and a lack of interest. Like other catastrophes, natural and man-made, people get tired of hearing and reading news on the same topic. I get that. I understand how the rest of the world has stopped discussing Japan. But, here, too? That Japan isn't even reporting on the lives of those in Tohoku, this surprises me.
Then there's this.
Starbucks has stopped accepting donations for those in the Tohoku prefectures. The announcement states they stopped collecting money at the end of September, and tells coffee-buyers they donated over 35,000,000 yen to the Japanese Red Cross. That's no small sum. But, why stop now? I don't get it.
I am incredibly aware of the fact I cannot be a gong ringing on my own, trying to keep peoples' interest focused on Tohoku. That means I will spend a significant amount of energy over the next several months figuring out how to balance reporting on what I will do in the Tohoku area, and how not to talk about only that. I will try. I really will. Then again, isn't there something wrong with the fact anyone should have to limit the conveyance of facts (especially facts this important) because the rest of the world has a short attention span?
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The New Japan: The truth about lying
The New Japan: The truth about lying: Here we go again. I'm back in Japan, and after getting out of bed way too early for my taste (all thanks to jet lag) I spent the morning lo...
The truth about lying
Here we go again. I'm back in Japan, and after getting out of bed way too early for my taste (all thanks to jet lag) I spent the morning looking at apartments. From the outside, that is. Where do I want to live? How much do I want to spend on rent? I did my homework. I asked for advice. Following it, mostly, I took my print outs and combed the streets.
Looking at buildings only tells me so much. I know this, of course. It's the inside that matters. I want space, a toilet that sprays warm water, air conditioning, an elevator. I need to get inside. Before I do, however, I want to walk the distance from the nearest train station. Is there a supermarket nearby? A Chinese restaurant? I walk telling myself research is good.
"Except you need to just go to one of the rental agencies and make the appointments to get inside." My Japanese Alpha male points this out, not as criticism but as fact. (He's not "my" Alpha male, per se. Just one of the few remaining in Japan.)
"I know," I sigh and try not to whine. "I just don't want to deal with the 'we-don't-rent-to-foreigners' thing again. Can't you come with me?"
"Not for awhile."
I don't say anything.
"Just do it." Now he's annoyed. "Just go. It'll do you good. You need to know how to do this."
And, now I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that he's annoyed, and I'm annoyed because he's right.
"Okay. Fine. I'll go."
"Let me know what they say."
"I will."
"Gotta go. I'll call later." With that, I'm on my own.
I pick one of the rental agencies from the many folded-over sheets I'm carrying with me. That I can't find the place after 15 minutes of walking is a bad omen. The map says it's just right around this corner. It's not.
I stumble upon it (another bad omen) and walk in, say hello, sit down, and show them the apartments their agency lists, and ask if I could see one.
"Do you have a guarantor?"
"Yes. Does he need to come with me?"
"Is he a family member?"
What? I'm confused. No, he's not a family member. I'm here on my own.
"No," I say slowly and try not to make too much eye contact.
"He's my sponsor. My employer."
"Ah, well, your guarantor needs to be an immediate family member."
I'm stunned. No way. This is news to me. All along, I've been told my guarantor needs to be someone that the rental agency can go to in case I bail, reneging on my contractual obligations. An employer, a boss would make a much better guarantor than my father, I think to myself.
"Except that my family doesn't live here," I say. "Can't I use the president of the company I'm working for as my guarantor?"
Big sigh. "Aaah, sorry, no." Then, "What kind of company is it?" Really? What does this have to do with anything? I tell him. It doesn't change anything. So, why ask?
Something isn't right. I'm not buying this.
"It's very hard to rent a place as a foreigner as you know, which is why my visa sponsor is willing to be my guarantor."
"Sorry, it needs to be an immediate family member."
Who is not here with me, of course. I almost ask him, "So if my husband were here with me and we couldn't pay the rent you don't think he and I would bail on our contract together?" but I don't.
Truth is cloaked with sugar and icing in Japan. Truth is used when convenient. As are untruths. I'm reminded of an article my mother wrote years ago which I some how ended up reading one day. It had something to do with the concept of truth-telling (or not) in Japan. She used me as an example. Evidently, my completely untrue responses to "Have you brushed your teeth?" were not at all convincing. Here I thought I was getting away with a). not having to brush my teeth before bed, and b). lying about it, and all along my mother knew I was not being honest. Stunned she saw through me, I think I brushed my teeth more regularly there for awhile after reading what she wrote.
I know the line between truth and lies is often fuzzy in Japan. The delicate dance over when to be completely honest and when to tiptoe around it is choreography I'm accustomed to dealing with.....except when it has to do with why I can't rent an apartment, get a cell phone contract, or the like.
I'm fine. Annoyed, but fine. I will find an apartment. It might not happen the way I had hoped or planned, but I will. What I can't predict is how I will react to those who continue to tell me as they sigh and cock their heads, why I'm not a suitable tenant. Then again, the 10-year old me lied to my mother about (not) brushing my teeth. Clearly, I'm capable of lying. Or, shall I say, "I'm capably of lying, too"? It takes two to tango, rental-agency man. You just may have found yourself a partner.
Looking at buildings only tells me so much. I know this, of course. It's the inside that matters. I want space, a toilet that sprays warm water, air conditioning, an elevator. I need to get inside. Before I do, however, I want to walk the distance from the nearest train station. Is there a supermarket nearby? A Chinese restaurant? I walk telling myself research is good.
"Except you need to just go to one of the rental agencies and make the appointments to get inside." My Japanese Alpha male points this out, not as criticism but as fact. (He's not "my" Alpha male, per se. Just one of the few remaining in Japan.)
"I know," I sigh and try not to whine. "I just don't want to deal with the 'we-don't-rent-to-foreigners' thing again. Can't you come with me?"
"Not for awhile."
I don't say anything.
"Just do it." Now he's annoyed. "Just go. It'll do you good. You need to know how to do this."
And, now I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that he's annoyed, and I'm annoyed because he's right.
"Okay. Fine. I'll go."
"Let me know what they say."
"I will."
"Gotta go. I'll call later." With that, I'm on my own.
I pick one of the rental agencies from the many folded-over sheets I'm carrying with me. That I can't find the place after 15 minutes of walking is a bad omen. The map says it's just right around this corner. It's not.
I stumble upon it (another bad omen) and walk in, say hello, sit down, and show them the apartments their agency lists, and ask if I could see one.
"Do you have a guarantor?"
"Yes. Does he need to come with me?"
"Is he a family member?"
What? I'm confused. No, he's not a family member. I'm here on my own.
"No," I say slowly and try not to make too much eye contact.
"He's my sponsor. My employer."
"Ah, well, your guarantor needs to be an immediate family member."
I'm stunned. No way. This is news to me. All along, I've been told my guarantor needs to be someone that the rental agency can go to in case I bail, reneging on my contractual obligations. An employer, a boss would make a much better guarantor than my father, I think to myself.
"Except that my family doesn't live here," I say. "Can't I use the president of the company I'm working for as my guarantor?"
Big sigh. "Aaah, sorry, no." Then, "What kind of company is it?" Really? What does this have to do with anything? I tell him. It doesn't change anything. So, why ask?
Something isn't right. I'm not buying this.
"It's very hard to rent a place as a foreigner as you know, which is why my visa sponsor is willing to be my guarantor."
"Sorry, it needs to be an immediate family member."
Who is not here with me, of course. I almost ask him, "So if my husband were here with me and we couldn't pay the rent you don't think he and I would bail on our contract together?" but I don't.
Truth is cloaked with sugar and icing in Japan. Truth is used when convenient. As are untruths. I'm reminded of an article my mother wrote years ago which I some how ended up reading one day. It had something to do with the concept of truth-telling (or not) in Japan. She used me as an example. Evidently, my completely untrue responses to "Have you brushed your teeth?" were not at all convincing. Here I thought I was getting away with a). not having to brush my teeth before bed, and b). lying about it, and all along my mother knew I was not being honest. Stunned she saw through me, I think I brushed my teeth more regularly there for awhile after reading what she wrote.
I know the line between truth and lies is often fuzzy in Japan. The delicate dance over when to be completely honest and when to tiptoe around it is choreography I'm accustomed to dealing with.....except when it has to do with why I can't rent an apartment, get a cell phone contract, or the like.
I'm fine. Annoyed, but fine. I will find an apartment. It might not happen the way I had hoped or planned, but I will. What I can't predict is how I will react to those who continue to tell me as they sigh and cock their heads, why I'm not a suitable tenant. Then again, the 10-year old me lied to my mother about (not) brushing my teeth. Clearly, I'm capable of lying. Or, shall I say, "I'm capably of lying, too"? It takes two to tango, rental-agency man. You just may have found yourself a partner.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
"What the world can learn from Japan" and the not-so-nice truth no one's reporting
I don't know where this list came from. I don't know who the author is. Seen on multiple postings on Facebook as well as LinkedIn, I was touched by it's beauty and simplicity. Sometimes brevity really is the best method by which to convey important messages.
This list, the words written describing Japanese thinking and behavior post-March 11 is now being challenged. Not by many, mind you. I am one of the few that will call foul. Before I share stories of cruel and stupid behavior by some Japanese, I want you to read this list.
1. THE CALM :
Not a single visual of chest-beating or wild grief. Sorrow itself
has been elevated.
2. THE DIGNITY :
Disciplined queues for water and groceries. Not a rough
word or a crude gesture.
3. THE ABILITY :
The incredible architects, for instance. Buildings swayed but
didn’t fall.
4. THE GRACE :
People bought only what they needed for the present, so
everybody could get something.
5. THE ORDER :
No looting in shops. No honking and no overtaking on the
roads. Just understanding.
6. THE SACRIFICE :
Fifty workers stayed back to pump sea water in the N-
reactors. How will they ever be repaid?
7. THE TENDERNESS :
Restaurants cut prices. An unguarded ATM is left alone. The
strong cared for the weak.
8. THE TRAINING :
The old and the children, everyone knew exactly what to do.
And they did just that.
9. THE MEDIA :
They showed magnificent restraint in the bulletins. No silly
reporters. Only calm reportage.
10. THE CONSCIENCE :
When the power went off in a store, people put things back
on the shelves and left quietly. That's Japan.
I am all for giving credit where credit is due. I am all for telling stories, painful as they may be to write or read. When I hear stories about how some Japanese walked along the coastline right after the tsunami, gathering up cash (not belonging to them) washed up onto shore, ripping off gold necklaces and chains from around the necks of the deceased, cutting off fingers from the corpses and taking the rings home to sell I cry foul. My blood is now officially boiling.
These stories are from a Self Defense Force employee who "worked" alongside these thieves, who at first assumed they were private citizens helping to collect bodies and body parts. I put "worked" in quotes, because this employee was working collecting the dead. The thieves? I suppose a thief's "work" is stealing, so there you have it. Two groups of people "working" alongside one another. One to be commended, the other, well, let's just say it's a good thing I wasn't there. I am not at all sure I would have been able to control my anger.
Back to the list. The resolve shown by this person to not beat the shit out of those who stole, now that's resolve. Dignity, Order, Grace, Tenderness. I've seen them all personified by those I came across. I am witness to the greatest acts of kindness by those in Japan beaten down by what happened in March. Clearly, however, just as any other society has rats and sociopaths, Japan has its share of people who defy reasonable social norms and behavior commonly accepted as decent.
My rage at the scum of Japan who defiled the dead, who thought only of themselves in a time of national and humanitarian crisis, it frightens me. I pray I never come across them in person.
Don't tell me you had your reasons. Whatever they were, there's no justification for what you did. You embarrass me. This is one of the few times in my life I actually wish someone harm. You deserve it. Fuck you, people. Seriously.
This list, the words written describing Japanese thinking and behavior post-March 11 is now being challenged. Not by many, mind you. I am one of the few that will call foul. Before I share stories of cruel and stupid behavior by some Japanese, I want you to read this list.
1. THE CALM :
Not a single visual of chest-beating or wild grief. Sorrow itself
has been elevated.
2. THE DIGNITY :
Disciplined queues for water and groceries. Not a rough
word or a crude gesture.
3. THE ABILITY :
The incredible architects, for instance. Buildings swayed but
didn’t fall.
4. THE GRACE :
People bought only what they needed for the present, so
everybody could get something.
5. THE ORDER :
No looting in shops. No honking and no overtaking on the
roads. Just understanding.
6. THE SACRIFICE :
Fifty workers stayed back to pump sea water in the N-
reactors. How will they ever be repaid?
7. THE TENDERNESS :
Restaurants cut prices. An unguarded ATM is left alone. The
strong cared for the weak.
8. THE TRAINING :
The old and the children, everyone knew exactly what to do.
And they did just that.
9. THE MEDIA :
They showed magnificent restraint in the bulletins. No silly
reporters. Only calm reportage.
10. THE CONSCIENCE :
When the power went off in a store, people put things back
on the shelves and left quietly. That's Japan.
I am all for giving credit where credit is due. I am all for telling stories, painful as they may be to write or read. When I hear stories about how some Japanese walked along the coastline right after the tsunami, gathering up cash (not belonging to them) washed up onto shore, ripping off gold necklaces and chains from around the necks of the deceased, cutting off fingers from the corpses and taking the rings home to sell I cry foul. My blood is now officially boiling.
These stories are from a Self Defense Force employee who "worked" alongside these thieves, who at first assumed they were private citizens helping to collect bodies and body parts. I put "worked" in quotes, because this employee was working collecting the dead. The thieves? I suppose a thief's "work" is stealing, so there you have it. Two groups of people "working" alongside one another. One to be commended, the other, well, let's just say it's a good thing I wasn't there. I am not at all sure I would have been able to control my anger.
Back to the list. The resolve shown by this person to not beat the shit out of those who stole, now that's resolve. Dignity, Order, Grace, Tenderness. I've seen them all personified by those I came across. I am witness to the greatest acts of kindness by those in Japan beaten down by what happened in March. Clearly, however, just as any other society has rats and sociopaths, Japan has its share of people who defy reasonable social norms and behavior commonly accepted as decent.
My rage at the scum of Japan who defiled the dead, who thought only of themselves in a time of national and humanitarian crisis, it frightens me. I pray I never come across them in person.
Don't tell me you had your reasons. Whatever they were, there's no justification for what you did. You embarrass me. This is one of the few times in my life I actually wish someone harm. You deserve it. Fuck you, people. Seriously.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The New Japan: The Emotional Connection (Louis Armstrong on my mi...
The New Japan: The Emotional Connection (Louis Armstrong on my mi...: Of all the undergraduate classes I took over twenty years ago, the one that has served me the most in my adult life was a speech class. Tau...
The Emotional Connection (Louis Armstrong on my mind)
Of all the undergraduate classes I took over twenty years ago, the one that has served me the most in my adult life was a speech class. Taught by my favorite professor, he challenged me to talk to people whose opinions differed from mine.
"Convincing someone who doesn't agree with you to listen, and then actually hear your point of view is a skill you will need." How right he is.
I'm not referring to conversations like the one I had recently where I told a friend I couldn't bake apple cinnamon muffins at home because my husband didn't eat them.
"How can he not like apple cinnamon muffins?"
"It's not that he doesn't like them. He's trying not to eat baked goods. If I bake them, he'll eat them, or so he says. It's easier if I just don't make them."
She understood. Many forty-four year old men are watching their waistlines. Point made, point taken.
Sitting across from the founder of the volunteer organization I worked with back in the spring, I held my response to a comment he made.
"I hope people like you will find it in their hearts to take a month off from work and go volunteer somewhere."
I didn't think I could say to him "That won't be happening with me." I did not go to Japan on a whim. I went to volunteer in late March in areas affected by the earthquake and tsunamis because it was Japan. The floods raging Thailand? I won't be going there to help. I'm sorry. I really am. Not sorry enough to spend money out of pocket to go, but sorry nonetheless.
I went to Japan because of my emotional connection to the land, country, and people. It was my home. Japan matters to me. Just as the natural disaster in Thailand matters less to me, the events on March 11 do not matter to most people. This painful realization is my the latest fact I struggle with. If I can't and won't go to Thailand to help them, how can I expect those who share no emotional connection to Japan to keep helping?
The answer lies in Greece. Asia does not have a "Union" the way Europe does. To assume and believe the economic crisis Japan is now experiencing does and will not affect the rest of the world, this I argue against vehemently. Just today NPR reported Honda's production has decreased by over 50% since March and its exports are down over 15%. Not buying a new car any time soon? So be it. This is just one example of how Japan's economy can affect you. Extend this problem out several years and not only will we see a decrease in products made in Japan, if Japan becomes less of a consumer powerhouse will that not in turn affect the world's economy?
Europe may or may not bail out its neighbor to the south. The economic woes of Greece, however, have affected the European Union. Who will bail out Japan? What will Japan's economic woes do to the rest of the world? To you? To me?
Louis Armstrong is quoted as saying, "There are some people that if they don't know, you can't tell them." This statement has been not only on my mind since March, it has become my mantra I struggle against. How do I talk to those who have no emotional connection to Japan and get them to care? I am no economist. I am no banker. I can't espouse theory and rhetoric that will make people change their beliefs. Is Louis Armstrong right? Am I doomed? Is it truly impossible to convince people who "don't know"?
I think back to my speech class. Having tried many of the tactics taught me, I come away with mixed results. The answers on how to talk to people who don't "get it" elude me while my emotional connection to Japan remains strong and real. A most frustrating conundrum, indeed.
"Convincing someone who doesn't agree with you to listen, and then actually hear your point of view is a skill you will need." How right he is.
I'm not referring to conversations like the one I had recently where I told a friend I couldn't bake apple cinnamon muffins at home because my husband didn't eat them.
"How can he not like apple cinnamon muffins?"
"It's not that he doesn't like them. He's trying not to eat baked goods. If I bake them, he'll eat them, or so he says. It's easier if I just don't make them."
She understood. Many forty-four year old men are watching their waistlines. Point made, point taken.
Sitting across from the founder of the volunteer organization I worked with back in the spring, I held my response to a comment he made.
"I hope people like you will find it in their hearts to take a month off from work and go volunteer somewhere."
I didn't think I could say to him "That won't be happening with me." I did not go to Japan on a whim. I went to volunteer in late March in areas affected by the earthquake and tsunamis because it was Japan. The floods raging Thailand? I won't be going there to help. I'm sorry. I really am. Not sorry enough to spend money out of pocket to go, but sorry nonetheless.
I went to Japan because of my emotional connection to the land, country, and people. It was my home. Japan matters to me. Just as the natural disaster in Thailand matters less to me, the events on March 11 do not matter to most people. This painful realization is my the latest fact I struggle with. If I can't and won't go to Thailand to help them, how can I expect those who share no emotional connection to Japan to keep helping?
The answer lies in Greece. Asia does not have a "Union" the way Europe does. To assume and believe the economic crisis Japan is now experiencing does and will not affect the rest of the world, this I argue against vehemently. Just today NPR reported Honda's production has decreased by over 50% since March and its exports are down over 15%. Not buying a new car any time soon? So be it. This is just one example of how Japan's economy can affect you. Extend this problem out several years and not only will we see a decrease in products made in Japan, if Japan becomes less of a consumer powerhouse will that not in turn affect the world's economy?
Europe may or may not bail out its neighbor to the south. The economic woes of Greece, however, have affected the European Union. Who will bail out Japan? What will Japan's economic woes do to the rest of the world? To you? To me?
Louis Armstrong is quoted as saying, "There are some people that if they don't know, you can't tell them." This statement has been not only on my mind since March, it has become my mantra I struggle against. How do I talk to those who have no emotional connection to Japan and get them to care? I am no economist. I am no banker. I can't espouse theory and rhetoric that will make people change their beliefs. Is Louis Armstrong right? Am I doomed? Is it truly impossible to convince people who "don't know"?
I think back to my speech class. Having tried many of the tactics taught me, I come away with mixed results. The answers on how to talk to people who don't "get it" elude me while my emotional connection to Japan remains strong and real. A most frustrating conundrum, indeed.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The New Japan: The Pachinko Problem
The New Japan: The Pachinko Problem: Men, or so I'm told, measure much of their worth from how well they are able to provide for their families and loved ones. Not being a man,...
The Pachinko Problem
Men, or so I'm told, measure much of their worth from how well they are able to provide for their families and loved ones. Not being a man, this is not a given for me. Assuming there is truth in this statement (the fact men derive pride out of how much they make--not the part about me not being a man) there is now a new problem in Tohoku for many of the men there.
The damage done on March 11th can be measured by loss of buildings, property, and lives. Lost also were jobs. Simply put, there is no easy solution. "Go find another job" is neither welcome nor helpful advice. Lack of employment opportunities and what this is doing to the morale of men was one of the topics on hand at a gathering of locals I attended recently.
It is always an honor to be invited and included. To say people in Tohoku value community is the positive spin on what I could just as easily describe as an "insular subculture." Outsiders are just that. We are from the outside. I could live an hour away and I would not be "from here." That I am from outside of their immediate town, prefecture, Tohoku region, and country makes me the ultimate in outsiders. That they let me in holds that much more meaning. I'm humbled.
The dinner party, an excuse to drink really, is held at a local restaurant where we've met before. The usual gang trickles in one at a time. Every time the door opens and another pops his head in, each man with a grin bigger than the one before, the crowd at the table cheers and we argue over who sits where. It's musical chairs, grown-up style.
Settled in, conversations take place between two here, three there. Facebook is the topic of discussion tonight. Who's on, who's not, why, why not, chiding those don't know how to use their Smart Phones to keep up with "the younger generation." The mention of the "young ones" is evidently a sore spot with one, the eldest of the gang, and suddenly the tone and mood at the table changes.
"It's embarrassing," the leader of the group says. "You know, these young guys, they have unemployment benefits right?" Others nod.
"I know what you're going to say." I catch Yoshi-san's eye as he looks first at the leader and then around at the others.
"What?" I don't know where this conversation is going. I can't read him. "What are you talking about?"
The leader looks at me. "Pachinko."
"Facebook is good, all right? It keeps people talking. It's a communication tool. It's not a waste of money or time. We can keep in touch with people like you." Here, he points to me. More nodding. "Pachinko? These guys, these young guys. Who knows. Maybe they know about Facebook. Maybe they don't. I'm all for new technology, see. But, these young guys who hang around Pachinko parlors wasting their money because they can't find work and they feel sorry for themselves because there are no jobs here. It's embarrassing. This isn't who we are. We're not lazy. We work hard around here. These guys. They make us all look bad."
Everyone is silent for awhile. I'm still confused as to how we went from Facebook to the evils of Pachinko and the young men who waste time and money on it, but I know to keep my mouth shut.
"There are no jobs," the leader says. "Right?" He looks around. Everyone nods. I do, too.
"But, Pachinko? Pachinko? It's been seven months. They need to move on. Move away. Go down to Tokyo or Osaka. Get a job there. Sure, it will be hard to be away, but this Pachinko problem." He shakes his head. "It's embarrassing. There are limits, you know? It's been a rough year but to sit in those Pachinko palaces day after day throwing their money away because they don't have a job. This isn't who we are."
There is evidently a real Pachinko problem in various cities and towns along the coast where the tsunami did so much damage. The underlying cause of this new phenomenon isn't truly Pachinko. It's unemployment. It's boredom. It's the fact that men who want to work can't without making large and painful sacrifices.
We didn't solve the Pachinko problem that night. We weren't trying, I suppose. I left the party happy to have seen them, happy to have one more Facebook connection, and profoundly unsettled.
The damage done on March 11th can be measured by loss of buildings, property, and lives. Lost also were jobs. Simply put, there is no easy solution. "Go find another job" is neither welcome nor helpful advice. Lack of employment opportunities and what this is doing to the morale of men was one of the topics on hand at a gathering of locals I attended recently.
It is always an honor to be invited and included. To say people in Tohoku value community is the positive spin on what I could just as easily describe as an "insular subculture." Outsiders are just that. We are from the outside. I could live an hour away and I would not be "from here." That I am from outside of their immediate town, prefecture, Tohoku region, and country makes me the ultimate in outsiders. That they let me in holds that much more meaning. I'm humbled.
The dinner party, an excuse to drink really, is held at a local restaurant where we've met before. The usual gang trickles in one at a time. Every time the door opens and another pops his head in, each man with a grin bigger than the one before, the crowd at the table cheers and we argue over who sits where. It's musical chairs, grown-up style.
Settled in, conversations take place between two here, three there. Facebook is the topic of discussion tonight. Who's on, who's not, why, why not, chiding those don't know how to use their Smart Phones to keep up with "the younger generation." The mention of the "young ones" is evidently a sore spot with one, the eldest of the gang, and suddenly the tone and mood at the table changes.
"It's embarrassing," the leader of the group says. "You know, these young guys, they have unemployment benefits right?" Others nod.
"I know what you're going to say." I catch Yoshi-san's eye as he looks first at the leader and then around at the others.
"What?" I don't know where this conversation is going. I can't read him. "What are you talking about?"
The leader looks at me. "Pachinko."
"Facebook is good, all right? It keeps people talking. It's a communication tool. It's not a waste of money or time. We can keep in touch with people like you." Here, he points to me. More nodding. "Pachinko? These guys, these young guys. Who knows. Maybe they know about Facebook. Maybe they don't. I'm all for new technology, see. But, these young guys who hang around Pachinko parlors wasting their money because they can't find work and they feel sorry for themselves because there are no jobs here. It's embarrassing. This isn't who we are. We're not lazy. We work hard around here. These guys. They make us all look bad."
Everyone is silent for awhile. I'm still confused as to how we went from Facebook to the evils of Pachinko and the young men who waste time and money on it, but I know to keep my mouth shut.
"There are no jobs," the leader says. "Right?" He looks around. Everyone nods. I do, too.
"But, Pachinko? Pachinko? It's been seven months. They need to move on. Move away. Go down to Tokyo or Osaka. Get a job there. Sure, it will be hard to be away, but this Pachinko problem." He shakes his head. "It's embarrassing. There are limits, you know? It's been a rough year but to sit in those Pachinko palaces day after day throwing their money away because they don't have a job. This isn't who we are."
There is evidently a real Pachinko problem in various cities and towns along the coast where the tsunami did so much damage. The underlying cause of this new phenomenon isn't truly Pachinko. It's unemployment. It's boredom. It's the fact that men who want to work can't without making large and painful sacrifices.
We didn't solve the Pachinko problem that night. We weren't trying, I suppose. I left the party happy to have seen them, happy to have one more Facebook connection, and profoundly unsettled.
Monday, October 17, 2011
The New Japan: The Sound Princess and energy conservation
The New Japan: The Sound Princess and energy conservation: It all started sometime during the 1980s. Somewhere along the way, women in Japan decided it was too much to hear bathroom noises made by o...
The Sound Princess and energy conservation
It all started sometime during the 1980s. Somewhere along the way, women in Japan decided it was too much to hear bathroom noises made by others. Natural bodily functions, yes. Did that mean we all needed to hear them? Evidently not.
Women started flushing the toilet to cover up their sounds. Flush once to cover, flush again to, well, flush. The consequences? Water usage spiked. Women, en masse, began using double their normal water consumption level, at least in bathrooms.
Puzzled bureaucrats, or so the story goes, did a study. Somewhere along the way, some brave woman must have told these men who cocked their heads that she may know the answer. The result? New commodes with Sound Princesses.
I may not have all the facts straight in exact sequence, but the gist of the story is true. Toilets in Japan are heated, spray "front and back," cover up odor as well as sounds. Some toilets have lids that open automatically. The sounds made while women do their business range from an automated, electronic flushing sound to gurgling brooks with chirping birds. I kid you not. Here's proof.
The button on the right (FLUSHING SOUND), in Japanese reads "Sound Princess." I do love this about Japan. No mocking, no judgment here. I think it's fun. I have yet to enter into the men's room in any given building to see whether or not the men's commode is labeled "Sound Prince." Perhaps some day I will be bold enough to make that trek.
That's the history of how and why Japan's commodes have become the best in the world. Indeed, a "normal" commode is now boring for most of us who have had the pleasure of using these fancy thrones. The story, of course, does not end there.
Yesterday, I saw this sign for the first time ever.
This was one of those rarely-seen "normal" commodes. The sign says, "Please refrain from flushing the toilet to cover sounds. Please help conserve water."
Interesting. Here is yet another example of energy conservation in light of post-March changes in how Japan has had to deal with energy usage. All kidding aside, I do believe this is a bold move for Japan to make, considering how common place sound-eliminating bathroom etiquette has become over the past thirty or so years. Here again is more proof of the country's efforts to join forces and maintain efforts at environmentally responsible behavior.
Women started flushing the toilet to cover up their sounds. Flush once to cover, flush again to, well, flush. The consequences? Water usage spiked. Women, en masse, began using double their normal water consumption level, at least in bathrooms.
Puzzled bureaucrats, or so the story goes, did a study. Somewhere along the way, some brave woman must have told these men who cocked their heads that she may know the answer. The result? New commodes with Sound Princesses.
I may not have all the facts straight in exact sequence, but the gist of the story is true. Toilets in Japan are heated, spray "front and back," cover up odor as well as sounds. Some toilets have lids that open automatically. The sounds made while women do their business range from an automated, electronic flushing sound to gurgling brooks with chirping birds. I kid you not. Here's proof.
The button on the right (FLUSHING SOUND), in Japanese reads "Sound Princess." I do love this about Japan. No mocking, no judgment here. I think it's fun. I have yet to enter into the men's room in any given building to see whether or not the men's commode is labeled "Sound Prince." Perhaps some day I will be bold enough to make that trek.
That's the history of how and why Japan's commodes have become the best in the world. Indeed, a "normal" commode is now boring for most of us who have had the pleasure of using these fancy thrones. The story, of course, does not end there.
Yesterday, I saw this sign for the first time ever.
This was one of those rarely-seen "normal" commodes. The sign says, "Please refrain from flushing the toilet to cover sounds. Please help conserve water."
Interesting. Here is yet another example of energy conservation in light of post-March changes in how Japan has had to deal with energy usage. All kidding aside, I do believe this is a bold move for Japan to make, considering how common place sound-eliminating bathroom etiquette has become over the past thirty or so years. Here again is more proof of the country's efforts to join forces and maintain efforts at environmentally responsible behavior.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
The Smokers' Corner
Fact: Japan is changing.
Proof: Smokers are losing their "rights."
As recently as twenty years ago, smokers could light up while waiting for a train, on sidewalks, in restaurants, and in most public places. The given, the fact that smoking was a part of the culture, wasn't questioned. I first noticed this change, that smokers could not pull out a cigarette wherever they wanted, as I stepped out of the arrival gate at the airport in Narita. I knew something was different. The air smelled different. The cloud of smoke I was so accustomed to wasn't there. I looked around and saw the usual crowd of smokers standing in a cluster far away from others. Huh. This was new.
Since that day, I have noticed continual changes in how Japan accepts, rather doesn't accept smokers. The same crowed of smokers at Narita are now clustered inside a square box. Sidewalks are dotted with cartoons of banned cigarette stubs. Street signs have popped up all over Tokyo saying "keep our town clean" and "don't walk and smoke" and loud speakers announcing the evils of cigarette smoke.
Major changes like this in Japan don't take place over night. The fact that changes have occurred to this extent is to be commended. The good news is, if smokers can be relegated to a box, a corner, a section of the office, then pretty much anything is possible here. I don't say this lightly. Smoking in Japan was a normal part of life. That it is not today is huge. Facts like this beg the question what else is possible in Japan?
Proof: Smokers are losing their "rights."
As recently as twenty years ago, smokers could light up while waiting for a train, on sidewalks, in restaurants, and in most public places. The given, the fact that smoking was a part of the culture, wasn't questioned. I first noticed this change, that smokers could not pull out a cigarette wherever they wanted, as I stepped out of the arrival gate at the airport in Narita. I knew something was different. The air smelled different. The cloud of smoke I was so accustomed to wasn't there. I looked around and saw the usual crowd of smokers standing in a cluster far away from others. Huh. This was new.
Since that day, I have noticed continual changes in how Japan accepts, rather doesn't accept smokers. The same crowed of smokers at Narita are now clustered inside a square box. Sidewalks are dotted with cartoons of banned cigarette stubs. Street signs have popped up all over Tokyo saying "keep our town clean" and "don't walk and smoke" and loud speakers announcing the evils of cigarette smoke.
Major changes like this in Japan don't take place over night. The fact that changes have occurred to this extent is to be commended. The good news is, if smokers can be relegated to a box, a corner, a section of the office, then pretty much anything is possible here. I don't say this lightly. Smoking in Japan was a normal part of life. That it is not today is huge. Facts like this beg the question what else is possible in Japan?
Monday, October 3, 2011
The New Japan: "We are the nicest people in Japan."
The New Japan: "We are the nicest people in Japan.": Tucked away in the foot hills of Mt. Aso in Kyushu is a village. Called Yamaga , it's written as "mountain deer." True to its name, deer p...
"We are the nicest people in Japan."
Tucked away in the foot hills of Mt. Aso in Kyushu is a village. Called Yamaga, it's written as "mountain deer." True to its name, deer pop in and out of the town along with, or so the stories go, boars and monkeys. Here, you will see the quintessential old Japan. It's quaint, beautiful, elegant in its simplicity, and according to the 70-plus year old man I met this weekend, here you will find the nicest Japanese anywhere. I'm fully aware of the impact of that statement. Them's fightin' words, if you ask me. Then he tells me the story, and for the umpteenth time this year, I'm speechless all over again. I can only agree with him. "Yes, here live the nicest people in Japan."
It all starts with a conversation he and I are having. Standing next to the 70-plus year old local legend is one of his many "disciples" who happens to be the fourth generation president of an artisan family making Japanese fans.
The elderly master "we all want to emulate" (the artist-president says) digs through his bag. I assume he's looking for business cards or something of the sort. He pulls out his datebook and cell phone, starts skimming through the pages, and evidently finding the number looks over to his disciple and says, "Got to make this call."
"The swallow?" the artist says back.
"Yeah."
I have no idea what this conversation is about and am about to take my leave when the master says to the artist, "Tell her."
"About the swallow?"
"Right," and on cue, he starts talking into the phone.
"What's up with the swallow?" I ask the artist-fanmaker, and this is the story he tells me.
The buildings in Yamaga are old. Big beams protrude out from under the tiled roofs, and the plaster walls are whitewashed. Underneath one such roof in the corner between the beam and the wall was a swallow's nest. Eggs hatched, baby swallows chirped and the locals celebrated. More life.
"We notice these things," the artist says.
"Not like people in Tokyo." Ouch. Enter the master, having recently concluded his "swallow business."
"Right," he says. "Not like those in Tokyo and Osaka. They're not human. Stupid people. They wouldn't know if their neighbor was dead in the apartment next to them. You know that, right?"
I do. I have heard stories and read articles about bill collectors coming to apartments and after repeated visits with no answers finally get the police involved, only to find a skeleton in the bed, having been there clearly for months. None of the neighbors noticed their neighbor's absence, although many complained of an odd smell.
"Here, see, we notice these things. I tell you, if a cat died a kilometer from here, we'd all know about it. Right?" The master asks the artist.
"Right."
"Did you finish the story?"
"No. Not yet."
"How far did you get?"
"That we knew there were babies."
"So, see," the master turns to me. "These babies, right? We would all watch them with their beaks pointed upwards and making these noises." He looks up at the sky, puckers his lips and starts making chirping noises. I try not to grin. "And then, then, the swallows stop coming to the nest. We're all assuming the swallow parents died and so we stand around wondering what to do, right?" I nod.
"Then, the sparrows arrive."
"Sparrows? Sparrows or swallows?" I want to make sure I have my birds straight.
"Sparrows."
"But, I thought they were swallow babies."
"See?" He's pleased I've made the connection.
"They are swallow babies. Sparrows came out of nowhere and started feeding these swallow babies. I had to make this call because we're telling everyone we know. People need to know this." Period. End of story. I don't know that I've ever seen a chest actually swell with pride before. Standing in front of me, the master's chest expanded. It's amazing to watch, really. His chest grew. I kid you not.
"Even the sparrows are nice here," the artist says.
"Everyone here, everything here is nice." The master agrees. "We are the nicest people in Japan."
He starts shaking his finger at me. "Don't go to Tokyo. That's not Japan. You need to be here. This is real. This is Japan." I smile and nod.
The real Japan. I've been thinking about this story and nodding every since. Something about this story makes sense. Strangers helping strangers. Sparrows adopting swallows. It's beautiful. That the townspeople of Yamaga take every opportunity to tell their neighbors of the sparrows' generosity is a whole new kind of beauty.
Pass it on.
It all starts with a conversation he and I are having. Standing next to the 70-plus year old local legend is one of his many "disciples" who happens to be the fourth generation president of an artisan family making Japanese fans.
The elderly master "we all want to emulate" (the artist-president says) digs through his bag. I assume he's looking for business cards or something of the sort. He pulls out his datebook and cell phone, starts skimming through the pages, and evidently finding the number looks over to his disciple and says, "Got to make this call."
"The swallow?" the artist says back.
"Yeah."
I have no idea what this conversation is about and am about to take my leave when the master says to the artist, "Tell her."
"About the swallow?"
"Right," and on cue, he starts talking into the phone.
"What's up with the swallow?" I ask the artist-fanmaker, and this is the story he tells me.
The buildings in Yamaga are old. Big beams protrude out from under the tiled roofs, and the plaster walls are whitewashed. Underneath one such roof in the corner between the beam and the wall was a swallow's nest. Eggs hatched, baby swallows chirped and the locals celebrated. More life.
"We notice these things," the artist says.
"Not like people in Tokyo." Ouch. Enter the master, having recently concluded his "swallow business."
"Right," he says. "Not like those in Tokyo and Osaka. They're not human. Stupid people. They wouldn't know if their neighbor was dead in the apartment next to them. You know that, right?"
I do. I have heard stories and read articles about bill collectors coming to apartments and after repeated visits with no answers finally get the police involved, only to find a skeleton in the bed, having been there clearly for months. None of the neighbors noticed their neighbor's absence, although many complained of an odd smell.
"Here, see, we notice these things. I tell you, if a cat died a kilometer from here, we'd all know about it. Right?" The master asks the artist.
"Right."
"Did you finish the story?"
"No. Not yet."
"How far did you get?"
"That we knew there were babies."
"So, see," the master turns to me. "These babies, right? We would all watch them with their beaks pointed upwards and making these noises." He looks up at the sky, puckers his lips and starts making chirping noises. I try not to grin. "And then, then, the swallows stop coming to the nest. We're all assuming the swallow parents died and so we stand around wondering what to do, right?" I nod.
"Then, the sparrows arrive."
"Sparrows? Sparrows or swallows?" I want to make sure I have my birds straight.
"Sparrows."
"But, I thought they were swallow babies."
"See?" He's pleased I've made the connection.
"They are swallow babies. Sparrows came out of nowhere and started feeding these swallow babies. I had to make this call because we're telling everyone we know. People need to know this." Period. End of story. I don't know that I've ever seen a chest actually swell with pride before. Standing in front of me, the master's chest expanded. It's amazing to watch, really. His chest grew. I kid you not.
"Even the sparrows are nice here," the artist says.
"Everyone here, everything here is nice." The master agrees. "We are the nicest people in Japan."
He starts shaking his finger at me. "Don't go to Tokyo. That's not Japan. You need to be here. This is real. This is Japan." I smile and nod.
The real Japan. I've been thinking about this story and nodding every since. Something about this story makes sense. Strangers helping strangers. Sparrows adopting swallows. It's beautiful. That the townspeople of Yamaga take every opportunity to tell their neighbors of the sparrows' generosity is a whole new kind of beauty.
Pass it on.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Debunking the "real men don't cry" theory
I'm 23 years old. My husband and I are at a dinner hosted by my Japanese boss. He invited another Japanese colleague and his family. The eight of us, three couples and two children, sit around the dining room table dipping into pots of boiling stew. I remember this night vividly for what happened next.
The little boy, maybe four years old, burned his tongue and started to cry. His father scolds him saying, "Stop crying. Boys don't cry." Immediately, I react. Spouting off righteous 23 year old rhetoric I just learned during my four years at university about how "boys should be allowed to express their feelings" and "we shouldn't stifle our children" I go on about how this boy should be allowed to "express his feelings." My boss's wife shoots me a look. It says, "You don't get it. Shut up." I do.
Thinking back on this now, I'm proud of the fact I knew to keep my mouth shut after being given the look that told me I overstepped my bounds. I'm also embarrassed by my arrogance. Convinced what I learned at school about what is right, I superimposed an idealistic way of thinking onto another family's cultural values. Shame on me.
It's this notion of "real men don't cry" so prevalent here in Japan that has been on my mind over the past six months. To date, more than ever before, I have seen Japanese men cry, choke up, and lose control over their ability to keep their tears in check. Certainly, there has been plenty to cry about. Those whose lives are still affected by the tsunami, earthquake, and nuclear reactor fiasco still struggle to find ways to express their frustrations, dissatisfaction, despair, and grief. The rest of the country, feeling helpless, continue to watch and rewatch television footage, hoping new ideas on how to help will emerge on cue.
Today, I'm less concerned about whether real men should or should not cry, especially in a country like Japan where strong men are considered stoic and silent. What's more important is that this pain, the basis for all these tears still exists in Japan, and will continue to exist for many, many months. It's not up to me to tell men whether it's okay to cry or not. I will share their pain if they let me. If they don't, I will stand by and let them shed their tears, hoping they know with me, their tears are safe.
The little boy, maybe four years old, burned his tongue and started to cry. His father scolds him saying, "Stop crying. Boys don't cry." Immediately, I react. Spouting off righteous 23 year old rhetoric I just learned during my four years at university about how "boys should be allowed to express their feelings" and "we shouldn't stifle our children" I go on about how this boy should be allowed to "express his feelings." My boss's wife shoots me a look. It says, "You don't get it. Shut up." I do.
Thinking back on this now, I'm proud of the fact I knew to keep my mouth shut after being given the look that told me I overstepped my bounds. I'm also embarrassed by my arrogance. Convinced what I learned at school about what is right, I superimposed an idealistic way of thinking onto another family's cultural values. Shame on me.
It's this notion of "real men don't cry" so prevalent here in Japan that has been on my mind over the past six months. To date, more than ever before, I have seen Japanese men cry, choke up, and lose control over their ability to keep their tears in check. Certainly, there has been plenty to cry about. Those whose lives are still affected by the tsunami, earthquake, and nuclear reactor fiasco still struggle to find ways to express their frustrations, dissatisfaction, despair, and grief. The rest of the country, feeling helpless, continue to watch and rewatch television footage, hoping new ideas on how to help will emerge on cue.
Today, I'm less concerned about whether real men should or should not cry, especially in a country like Japan where strong men are considered stoic and silent. What's more important is that this pain, the basis for all these tears still exists in Japan, and will continue to exist for many, many months. It's not up to me to tell men whether it's okay to cry or not. I will share their pain if they let me. If they don't, I will stand by and let them shed their tears, hoping they know with me, their tears are safe.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Dear God, I hope you saw what I ate today.
Humor me a moment. Please.
I spent a long time in Iwate in the spring shortly after the tsunami hit almost 300 miles of coastline in Japan. The memories I have will take a lifetime to tell. One memory, however, can be explained very quickly.
Since returning from Japan in late-May, I have not eaten fish. To clarify, I have not eaten fish that stare back at me. I eat sushi and sashimi. Hands down. No questions asked. If it doesn't look like a fish I'm fine. Anything with a face, body, and tail, however, I have to skip. There's a reason for this. I saw, stepped on (guts spewing onto my boots), and smelled black, dead, rotten fish for months. These fish washed up into homes, on the street, on top of cars, inside of cars, and simply put, could not be avoided. Having seen and smelled these, eating anything that resembled these creatures has been a no-no. I just can't.
So, today as I made my way to the Ofunato Sanma (saury) Festival held at the foot of Tokyo Tower, sponsored by the City of Ofunato, attended by 12,000 people, I wondered how I would avoid having to partake in eating this one-foot long fish that resembled those dead things I stepped on months ago. I was pretty sure there would be no way to avoid having to eat one. I was right. (Not that this makes me happy, mind you.)
I ate it.
I avoided looking at the eye socket. I picked at it, not looking at how black it was. All this to say, Dear God, I really hope you saw what I ate today. And, if there is such a log as "good deeds done today" and "bad deeds done today" I hope you put a big gold star next to my "good deeds" column for the day.
Thanks.
I spent a long time in Iwate in the spring shortly after the tsunami hit almost 300 miles of coastline in Japan. The memories I have will take a lifetime to tell. One memory, however, can be explained very quickly.
Since returning from Japan in late-May, I have not eaten fish. To clarify, I have not eaten fish that stare back at me. I eat sushi and sashimi. Hands down. No questions asked. If it doesn't look like a fish I'm fine. Anything with a face, body, and tail, however, I have to skip. There's a reason for this. I saw, stepped on (guts spewing onto my boots), and smelled black, dead, rotten fish for months. These fish washed up into homes, on the street, on top of cars, inside of cars, and simply put, could not be avoided. Having seen and smelled these, eating anything that resembled these creatures has been a no-no. I just can't.
So, today as I made my way to the Ofunato Sanma (saury) Festival held at the foot of Tokyo Tower, sponsored by the City of Ofunato, attended by 12,000 people, I wondered how I would avoid having to partake in eating this one-foot long fish that resembled those dead things I stepped on months ago. I was pretty sure there would be no way to avoid having to eat one. I was right. (Not that this makes me happy, mind you.)
I ate it.
Thanks.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
In defense of good manners
I will admit my bias upfront. Raised on books like "Good Manners Make People Nice To Know" and "What Do You Say Dear?" the importance, nay, insistence upon proper behavior and good manners was drilled into me from an early age. This means, unfortunately for me these days, I am finding myself more and more annoyed by the lack of said manners by those around me. Increasingly, I see behavior I can only shake my head to.
It's universal. Bad manners are not reserved for wealthy, fat, North Americans. To my shock, I am coming across Japanese who simply put, should be smacked once or twice, sent to their room with a copy of "What Do You Say Dear?" which they are expected to memorize before they can come join society again.
Case in point. I mentioned several months ago how Japanese taxi drivers personified the best in people here. I said they were polite, their cars impeccably clean, and knew how to toe the line between when to be chatty and when to to stay quiet. Allow me to back pedal. On my first day here several weeks ago, I lugged my four giant, heavy, suitcases into and out of a taxi, by myself as the driver stood next to the open trunk and watched. I didn't fare well. Up until this point, I had assistance with my bags. I barely had to lift any of them. This driver offered no assistance. Nothing. Nada. So shocked by this, I even forgot to ask for help. In the US, drivers would help put anything into the trunk regardless of whether the passenger was male or female. Do they do this because of tips? Perhaps. It's also expected. I will gladly tip to not throw my back out.
Then there's the men-first-always mentality. Standing in front of an elevator, five men come up behind me. They chat away as we all wait for the car to reach our floor. I'm the first in line, if there was actually a "line" per se. The doors open and from behind me the five men rush the door. I kid you not. No "ladies first" here. It's as if they were afraid the elevator had a mind of its own and if they didn't get in right away they were going to some how be left behind. They really rushed that door. I actually stood outside of the elevator, let the men go past me, looked at them with what I hoped was a "did you just do what I think you did?" look and then got in. I'm quite capable of being passive-aggressive. Yes. Did they get my point? Who knows.
This sense of "rushing" is also seen when getting onto trains. The doors open, the passengers get out, and in the past the queue waited to get on until everyone was off. Now there's barely a semblance of a queue and there's no real expectation that we are all to wait for the passengers' exit and then get on.
What's going on here? Seriously. What has happened to Japan? All this talk (accurate, mind you) about how orderly people were both during and after the earthquake on March 11th is hard to believe at times. Allow me to back pedal again. Yesterday's typhoon hit Tokyo right at rush hour. From around 5:00pm until midnight, millions of Tokyoites cram trains, subways, buses, and taxis for their commute home. Last night, the trains stopped running. Stations were crammed with people waiting. There was no rioting. No serious complaining. I was one of several hundred who stood in line for several hours waiting for a taxi. So, see. People here are capable of being patient. Of letting others go first. Sometimes. What used to be "always" is not just "sometimes." Where has this change come from?
To prove that good manners are a thing of the past here in Japan, I offer these photos.
They are all over train stations in Tokyo.
That these posters
need to be put up in the first place, this is a shocker. Then again, it's not. I've seen such behavior over and over. I'm saddened. This bothers me. I'm accustomed to Americans behaving badly. From the man who asked why I don't mention him in my blog to the screaming matches at political rallies to those who feel the need to cut others off in traffic to the utterances of "Do you know who I am?", America is, unfortunately, filled with people who believe their time is more important than yours. That those who share this sentiment now also are on the rise here in Japan, this is truly sad.
There are some things not worth importing, people.
It's universal. Bad manners are not reserved for wealthy, fat, North Americans. To my shock, I am coming across Japanese who simply put, should be smacked once or twice, sent to their room with a copy of "What Do You Say Dear?" which they are expected to memorize before they can come join society again.
Case in point. I mentioned several months ago how Japanese taxi drivers personified the best in people here. I said they were polite, their cars impeccably clean, and knew how to toe the line between when to be chatty and when to to stay quiet. Allow me to back pedal. On my first day here several weeks ago, I lugged my four giant, heavy, suitcases into and out of a taxi, by myself as the driver stood next to the open trunk and watched. I didn't fare well. Up until this point, I had assistance with my bags. I barely had to lift any of them. This driver offered no assistance. Nothing. Nada. So shocked by this, I even forgot to ask for help. In the US, drivers would help put anything into the trunk regardless of whether the passenger was male or female. Do they do this because of tips? Perhaps. It's also expected. I will gladly tip to not throw my back out.
Then there's the men-first-always mentality. Standing in front of an elevator, five men come up behind me. They chat away as we all wait for the car to reach our floor. I'm the first in line, if there was actually a "line" per se. The doors open and from behind me the five men rush the door. I kid you not. No "ladies first" here. It's as if they were afraid the elevator had a mind of its own and if they didn't get in right away they were going to some how be left behind. They really rushed that door. I actually stood outside of the elevator, let the men go past me, looked at them with what I hoped was a "did you just do what I think you did?" look and then got in. I'm quite capable of being passive-aggressive. Yes. Did they get my point? Who knows.
This sense of "rushing" is also seen when getting onto trains. The doors open, the passengers get out, and in the past the queue waited to get on until everyone was off. Now there's barely a semblance of a queue and there's no real expectation that we are all to wait for the passengers' exit and then get on.
What's going on here? Seriously. What has happened to Japan? All this talk (accurate, mind you) about how orderly people were both during and after the earthquake on March 11th is hard to believe at times. Allow me to back pedal again. Yesterday's typhoon hit Tokyo right at rush hour. From around 5:00pm until midnight, millions of Tokyoites cram trains, subways, buses, and taxis for their commute home. Last night, the trains stopped running. Stations were crammed with people waiting. There was no rioting. No serious complaining. I was one of several hundred who stood in line for several hours waiting for a taxi. So, see. People here are capable of being patient. Of letting others go first. Sometimes. What used to be "always" is not just "sometimes." Where has this change come from?
To prove that good manners are a thing of the past here in Japan, I offer these photos.
They are all over train stations in Tokyo.
That these posters
need to be put up in the first place, this is a shocker. Then again, it's not. I've seen such behavior over and over. I'm saddened. This bothers me. I'm accustomed to Americans behaving badly. From the man who asked why I don't mention him in my blog to the screaming matches at political rallies to those who feel the need to cut others off in traffic to the utterances of "Do you know who I am?", America is, unfortunately, filled with people who believe their time is more important than yours. That those who share this sentiment now also are on the rise here in Japan, this is truly sad.
There are some things not worth importing, people.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The green field of silence
I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May. I chose not to go there when I returned in late June. At that time, I didn't need to see it. Ofunato was where I wanted to go. There, I left my past behind. Or, so I thought.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Why manners still matter
In a country where rules exist on how deep one bows, when, and for whom, and where protocol is clear on when to give gifts, how, and why one would think tradition rules. Saying it doesn't is misleading. Truly, manners matter in Japan. Rather, manners have mattered in Japan. Change is in the air.
When the earthquake hit on March 11th, Tokyoites walked home hours on end. I am blessed for having heard story after story of random acts of kindness during the seven or eight hours some people spent walking. This side of Japan always impresses me. This side of Japan I love. This is what I want people to know about Japan.
I will not, however, sacrifice the whole truth for the sake of a good story. Day after day, I see more and more cases of what I can only call obnoxious behavior in Tokyo. Evidently, the Japanese are just as capable of being rude and horribly behaved as they are of having impeccable manners. What's going on? Has Japan always been like this and I'm just now noticing? I think not. The Japan of my childhood is slowly disappearing. Certainly Japan has always had its share of rude people. To say otherwise is naive and irresponsible. As a society however, en masse, I have been blessed with seeing incredibly generous people with manners a society can be proud of. Which is why when I see such flagrant changes in Japanese behavior, I can only stand back and take notice and cringe.
In the past several years in Japan I have seen every emergency vehicle have to ask for cars to move. There is no automatic pull-over-to-the-side here. I don't quite see how this can be but I saw it again today. Three bright red fire trucks had to wait for people to cross the street in order to move through an intersection. A fire fighter in full gear is in the front passenger seat saying into the microphone, "Excuse us. We're coming through." Pedestrians trump firetrucks? Really?
I feel quite entitled to point out how selfish those are who will not move out of the way for vehicles on their way to save people. Why? I drive in Massachusetts. Massachusetts drivers are ranked 49th out of 50 in terms of the country's worst drivers. We (and I must add myself to this list) are affectionately referred to as "Massholes." I know bad driving. I really do. Then there is our wicked neighbor. Immediately south of Massachusetts is Rhode Island where the worst drivers in the US move to/live/breed/congregate. Survey after survey ranks those from Rhode Island as the worst drivers in the country. I couldn't agree more. Which is why when there is never a question for terrible American drivers to always and consistently move out of the way of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, and yet the generally-known-as-incredibly-polite Japanese can't seem to make way for these same vehicles, I cry foul.
What's going on here? Where has this general acceptance of bad manners come from? Come on, Japan. You can do better.
When the earthquake hit on March 11th, Tokyoites walked home hours on end. I am blessed for having heard story after story of random acts of kindness during the seven or eight hours some people spent walking. This side of Japan always impresses me. This side of Japan I love. This is what I want people to know about Japan.
I will not, however, sacrifice the whole truth for the sake of a good story. Day after day, I see more and more cases of what I can only call obnoxious behavior in Tokyo. Evidently, the Japanese are just as capable of being rude and horribly behaved as they are of having impeccable manners. What's going on? Has Japan always been like this and I'm just now noticing? I think not. The Japan of my childhood is slowly disappearing. Certainly Japan has always had its share of rude people. To say otherwise is naive and irresponsible. As a society however, en masse, I have been blessed with seeing incredibly generous people with manners a society can be proud of. Which is why when I see such flagrant changes in Japanese behavior, I can only stand back and take notice and cringe.
In the past several years in Japan I have seen every emergency vehicle have to ask for cars to move. There is no automatic pull-over-to-the-side here. I don't quite see how this can be but I saw it again today. Three bright red fire trucks had to wait for people to cross the street in order to move through an intersection. A fire fighter in full gear is in the front passenger seat saying into the microphone, "Excuse us. We're coming through." Pedestrians trump firetrucks? Really?
I feel quite entitled to point out how selfish those are who will not move out of the way for vehicles on their way to save people. Why? I drive in Massachusetts. Massachusetts drivers are ranked 49th out of 50 in terms of the country's worst drivers. We (and I must add myself to this list) are affectionately referred to as "Massholes." I know bad driving. I really do. Then there is our wicked neighbor. Immediately south of Massachusetts is Rhode Island where the worst drivers in the US move to/live/breed/congregate. Survey after survey ranks those from Rhode Island as the worst drivers in the country. I couldn't agree more. Which is why when there is never a question for terrible American drivers to always and consistently move out of the way of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, and yet the generally-known-as-incredibly-polite Japanese can't seem to make way for these same vehicles, I cry foul.
What's going on here? Where has this general acceptance of bad manners come from? Come on, Japan. You can do better.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
A new kind of honesty
At the risk of making a controversial statement bordering on a gross generalization, I believe this strongly: Japan has always allowed for a delicate dance around truth-telling. I say this without judgment. It is what it is. I'm in no position to critique such a broad cultural phenomenon.
Multiple television commercials I've seen since arriving in Japan a week ago have given me pause and make me reconsider whether Japan is entering a new stage in truth-telling. One such commercial was from a construction company.
"At xxxx, we destroy nature." Whoa. That caught my attention. "Because we destroy nature to build our homes, we do everything we can to give back to nature by planting trees." They go onto to highlight the projects the company is involved as they attempt to offset their environmental destruction.
I find myself impressed. I'm not accustomed to this level of honesty in Japan, much less on television. Then there is the open and frank mention of menopause. The product advertised is specifically for menopausal women. All women go through menopause. Nothing shocking there. Today's Japan, evidently sees no shame in offering products to these women, even though in my life in Japan to date I have never heard of menopause ever being discussed openly. I'm both surprised and pleased by Japan's ability to showcase this publicly. I see this as a new attempt at telling the truth.
Then I see it: "Who lied?" A magazine advertisement on a train blatantly implies a cover-up about the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The assumption is not insinuated as much as it is stated. Someone lied. Many people lied. The question is who? Who will reveal the truth? What will be done about those who lied?
What I take away from all this is a new appreciation for the truth and a lesser tolerance for lying. In today's Japan, it is okay to talk about things previously not discussed. It's okay to be honest. It's also okay to call out those who tell lies with consequences that are no longer acceptable.
This should be interesting.
Multiple television commercials I've seen since arriving in Japan a week ago have given me pause and make me reconsider whether Japan is entering a new stage in truth-telling. One such commercial was from a construction company.
"At xxxx, we destroy nature." Whoa. That caught my attention. "Because we destroy nature to build our homes, we do everything we can to give back to nature by planting trees." They go onto to highlight the projects the company is involved as they attempt to offset their environmental destruction.
I find myself impressed. I'm not accustomed to this level of honesty in Japan, much less on television. Then there is the open and frank mention of menopause. The product advertised is specifically for menopausal women. All women go through menopause. Nothing shocking there. Today's Japan, evidently sees no shame in offering products to these women, even though in my life in Japan to date I have never heard of menopause ever being discussed openly. I'm both surprised and pleased by Japan's ability to showcase this publicly. I see this as a new attempt at telling the truth.
Then I see it: "Who lied?" A magazine advertisement on a train blatantly implies a cover-up about the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The assumption is not insinuated as much as it is stated. Someone lied. Many people lied. The question is who? Who will reveal the truth? What will be done about those who lied?
What I take away from all this is a new appreciation for the truth and a lesser tolerance for lying. In today's Japan, it is okay to talk about things previously not discussed. It's okay to be honest. It's also okay to call out those who tell lies with consequences that are no longer acceptable.
This should be interesting.
Down the up stair case
I don't ask for much. Connect me to the existing Wi-Fi spots in town and I'm happy. I go to the local Softbank store yesterday and am told I need an Alien Registration card in order to purchase a Wi-Fi device. Fine. I make my way to the local ward office this morning, and spend money to register myself.
I head back to the same Softbank store that promised to bump me to the front of the line to get the Wi-Fi connector. I am. The registration process begins. I hand over my passport and Alien Registration and everything is going well. I'm told I will get the unit for free. I'm pleased with myself for some reason. I feel just the slightest bit successful, as if I've just successfully negotiated some huge deal. That they do this for everyone who signs a contract isn't the point, of course. Then it comes. My Alien Registration card says I'm only in the country for 90 days so I now have to pay for the little, magic machine that will give me access.
"Why?"
She's uncomfortable. Am I going to make a scene? She stops what she's doing and gives me what I can only describe is a lame explanation.
"Fine. Do it." I try not to snap.
Then she throws me a zinger. They won't sell me the unit because I need to be in the country longer than 90 days in order to have a contract. I'm floored. Why did she even start the process if Softbank policy doesn't allow them to sell me anything? I make her repeat it. I'm pissed. She brings out the sheet that spells out their evil policy. I can't read the fine print so I stretch my arm out as far as it will go and repeat back to her what I heard her say.
"So, I can't buy this because I'm going to be in the country less than 90 days even though you told me yesterday if I came with my registration card I could get this?"
She apologizes. I can't win. I leave.
To say I'm angry is putting it mildly. This policy stems from the fact there's a history, albeit it not long or extensive, of foreigners buying pre-paid phones and policies and then using said phones for criminal activity. Surely, if some foreigners are criminals it's safer to assume many, nay most could also be as well. Right? Let's just create a policy that confirms phones and policies are sold to legitimate foreigners committed to a long-term stay.
I make a point of walking down the up stair case at every train station the rest of the day. It's a pathetic and private rebellion but it's the least I can do to uphold the image of foreigners behaving badly.
I head back to the same Softbank store that promised to bump me to the front of the line to get the Wi-Fi connector. I am. The registration process begins. I hand over my passport and Alien Registration and everything is going well. I'm told I will get the unit for free. I'm pleased with myself for some reason. I feel just the slightest bit successful, as if I've just successfully negotiated some huge deal. That they do this for everyone who signs a contract isn't the point, of course. Then it comes. My Alien Registration card says I'm only in the country for 90 days so I now have to pay for the little, magic machine that will give me access.
"Why?"
She's uncomfortable. Am I going to make a scene? She stops what she's doing and gives me what I can only describe is a lame explanation.
"Fine. Do it." I try not to snap.
Then she throws me a zinger. They won't sell me the unit because I need to be in the country longer than 90 days in order to have a contract. I'm floored. Why did she even start the process if Softbank policy doesn't allow them to sell me anything? I make her repeat it. I'm pissed. She brings out the sheet that spells out their evil policy. I can't read the fine print so I stretch my arm out as far as it will go and repeat back to her what I heard her say.
"So, I can't buy this because I'm going to be in the country less than 90 days even though you told me yesterday if I came with my registration card I could get this?"
She apologizes. I can't win. I leave.
To say I'm angry is putting it mildly. This policy stems from the fact there's a history, albeit it not long or extensive, of foreigners buying pre-paid phones and policies and then using said phones for criminal activity. Surely, if some foreigners are criminals it's safer to assume many, nay most could also be as well. Right? Let's just create a policy that confirms phones and policies are sold to legitimate foreigners committed to a long-term stay.
I make a point of walking down the up stair case at every train station the rest of the day. It's a pathetic and private rebellion but it's the least I can do to uphold the image of foreigners behaving badly.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The barber shop and the prime minister
This link (http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html) shows young volunteers painting a barber shop in Ofunato. My friend was one of the many who donated time to create a colorful little house on a hill.
The barber shop is surrounded by fields still containing debris from the tsunami, almost six months ago now. Nearby is a kindergarten. One of the things the shop owner wanted to do was to show the kids who see and play near these fields of bent metal and carcasses of houses that there *is* hope. It *is* okay to dream.
Enter the phoenix painted on the building. Spotlight clouds, flowers symbolizing rebirth and hope. This is the new Japan.
Further south from Ofunato in Tokyo, there is a new prime minister. Here, I sigh. Will he be any better? Do we dare hope? How long will he last? Japan's musical chairs of leadership is tiresome and depressing. Will yet another change in leadership really make any difference?
I put my money on the barber shops of Japan, the ones painted brightly on purpose in bold pink, blue and purple. These symbolize what Japan is capable of. I'll eat my words if this new prime minister lasts longer than a year and leads Japan into economic recovery and tangible reconstruction in the areas devastated by the tsunami and earthquake. It saddens me that I don't think I'll be eating my words. In the interim, more pink houses please!
http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html
The barber shop is surrounded by fields still containing debris from the tsunami, almost six months ago now. Nearby is a kindergarten. One of the things the shop owner wanted to do was to show the kids who see and play near these fields of bent metal and carcasses of houses that there *is* hope. It *is* okay to dream.
Enter the phoenix painted on the building. Spotlight clouds, flowers symbolizing rebirth and hope. This is the new Japan.
Further south from Ofunato in Tokyo, there is a new prime minister. Here, I sigh. Will he be any better? Do we dare hope? How long will he last? Japan's musical chairs of leadership is tiresome and depressing. Will yet another change in leadership really make any difference?
I put my money on the barber shops of Japan, the ones painted brightly on purpose in bold pink, blue and purple. These symbolize what Japan is capable of. I'll eat my words if this new prime minister lasts longer than a year and leads Japan into economic recovery and tangible reconstruction in the areas devastated by the tsunami and earthquake. It saddens me that I don't think I'll be eating my words. In the interim, more pink houses please!
http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html
Monday, August 29, 2011
"Japan can take care of itself."
This was a statement made to me recently. I continue to be baffled by it. On the one hand, for those who have no emotional attachment to Japan, the events of March 11th seem distant and foreign. I get that. On the other hand, actually stating "Japan can take care of itself so I'm not sending any money" feels cold, uncaring, and harsh.
The news about the damage Hurricane Irene brought to the US is a good example. This news will disappear in a week. Mark my words. There will be some new story needing to be covered. Maybe someone will find Gadhafi. Maybe someone will find secret love letters between John F. Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy. My point is, life moves on. The news moves on. The devastation brought by Irene to those in the US, and those who are still struggling from events almost six months ago in Japan--for them, life has changed dramatically.
Let's say you live in Virginia. Imagine every city, village, and town on your Atlantic coastline experiencing some kind of damage. If you live in Washington, you would be going something similar. And North Carolina. And South Carolina. If you live anywhere between Boston and Manhattan, your town would be in ruins. That's what people who live on an almost 300 mile stretch of coastline are still experiencing in Japan. You think cleaning up after Irene will be a pain? Welcome to the club.
With Prime Minister Kan's resignation (covered for a day on CNN) still fresh on my mind, I have to wonder what's in store for Japan. Will a new prime minister really make a difference? How much longer can Japan hold on? Where do those whose lives have been turned upside down continue to find strength? Or, do they?
I can't keep people from assuming Japan can take care of itself. I can, however, try to remind people that a triple disaster that affects millions will most definitely take years to fix. If you think Japan's economic woes won't affect you down the road, shame. Talk to me again when you can't replace your Japanese car in six months or a year because your local dealer is still out of stock. Japan is everyone's problem. Be a part of helping or not but the longer Japan takes to recover, the more of us will feel the pain. My two cents, of course.
The news about the damage Hurricane Irene brought to the US is a good example. This news will disappear in a week. Mark my words. There will be some new story needing to be covered. Maybe someone will find Gadhafi. Maybe someone will find secret love letters between John F. Kennedy and Jackie Kennedy. My point is, life moves on. The news moves on. The devastation brought by Irene to those in the US, and those who are still struggling from events almost six months ago in Japan--for them, life has changed dramatically.
Let's say you live in Virginia. Imagine every city, village, and town on your Atlantic coastline experiencing some kind of damage. If you live in Washington, you would be going something similar. And North Carolina. And South Carolina. If you live anywhere between Boston and Manhattan, your town would be in ruins. That's what people who live on an almost 300 mile stretch of coastline are still experiencing in Japan. You think cleaning up after Irene will be a pain? Welcome to the club.
With Prime Minister Kan's resignation (covered for a day on CNN) still fresh on my mind, I have to wonder what's in store for Japan. Will a new prime minister really make a difference? How much longer can Japan hold on? Where do those whose lives have been turned upside down continue to find strength? Or, do they?
I can't keep people from assuming Japan can take care of itself. I can, however, try to remind people that a triple disaster that affects millions will most definitely take years to fix. If you think Japan's economic woes won't affect you down the road, shame. Talk to me again when you can't replace your Japanese car in six months or a year because your local dealer is still out of stock. Japan is everyone's problem. Be a part of helping or not but the longer Japan takes to recover, the more of us will feel the pain. My two cents, of course.
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