Behold The Power of Santa

Christmas in Japan is about Christmas Eve.  Christmas Day is not a holiday.  No one I know is taking the day off tomorrow.  This means anything Christmas-related needs to happen today.  If I may spin this for a moment, in my defense I couldn't have gotten Santa's letter to this child on Christmas Eve if I tried.  Let me back up.

Dozens of Santas visited Tohoku schools prior to Christmas Eve last year in an attempt to bring joy to children who had gone through varying degrees of trauma post March 11th.  In theory, this was good.  In reality, this confused the kids.

"Which one is real?"
"Why is Santa Japanese?"  Pictures of Santa these kids have seen show a foreign-looking grandpa.
"Will Santa still come on Christmas Eve?"

Touche.

School principals made it clear to me "No Santa" this year.  In an attempt to be creative while finding a way to continue the Christmas tradition of gifts-to-kids-in-Tohoku, I took Santa's son.  It worked.  Not accustomed to thinking Santa has a family but still making sense Santa would be generous to come early via his son, the kids ate it up.  And, the candy Santa's son brought.

At one preschool, after gifts had been given out and Santa's son and the reindeer (me and another friend) had been serenaded with songs, kids came up to us sly looks on their faces.  The three of us were handed home-made Christmas trees--pine cones decorated with glitter, sitting in a bottle cap for a base.  We oohed and aahed appropriately.  I believe I even giggled a bit.

After the cheering died down, one boy got up standing out in the sea of seated children.  He walked over to the podium and pulled out a cardboard Christmas tree.  Making his way to Santa's son, the tree passes from boy to man and everyone starts talking at once.  The principal shushing us, says, "Daisuke made this just for you," and I swear I'm about to lose it.

Santa's son leans down, pats the boy's head and says, "I'll take this to my dad, Santa.  He'll be so glad you made this for him."  The boy beams.  I blink hard.  I will not lose it.  I will not lose it.  I will not lose it.  We left touched, loved, basking in the feeling we did something good on this day.  So far so good. 

Fast forward a week and I'm back with Santa's son.  He hands me a letter.  "Can you get this to Daisuke?"  I'm stunned.  He remembered.  I open the card, a pop-up Christmas image inside.  On the back Santa wrote,

"Dear Daisuke,
Thank you for the wonderful Christmas tree you gave me.  My son gave it to me.  It made me very happy.  I will never forget you or this gift.  Thank you very much.  Be a good boy next year, too.  Love, Santa Claus."

I look up at Santa's son and am speechless.  "I'll get this to Daisuke.  I promise."  That was Saturday afternoon.  I make a mental note to make my way to the post office on Monday (today) to send Santa's letter express so it will get there on Christmas Day.  I'm pleased with myself.  I can make this happen.

Or not.  I wake up on Monday morning and it hits me.  The Emperor's birthday was yesterday.  A Sunday.  That makes this a holiday as well.  I run to my laptop.  They have to be open.  I find my local post office branch and look at their hours.  "Not open on holidays."  No.  No, no, no!

I resolve to make this work.  I breathe.

The preschool is closed today.  That means I can't reach the principal.  No problem.  I call a friend in town who is surely to have her number.  I make the call, reach my friend, and trying not to sound frantic tell him the situation.  Five minutes later, the principal calls and I explain again.

"I can send it overnight, right?  If I FedEx it?"  Is FedEx open on national holidays?  I fight the urge to panic.
"I think so," and I hear her conferring with her husband in the background.
"Or, I can just tell Daisuke Santa's running a bit behind because he was busy."
"No, I don't want that.  Santa's supposed to be organized."  I skip the "unlike me" part.
"Can you call someone in Daisuke's family and tell him the letter is in the mail?"
 I choose my words carefully because it was made very clear to the three of us who received special gifts on that day that Daisuke's gift was extra special.
"He came from Rikuzentakata," the principal tells us later.  "He's had it hard.  He lost so much in the tsunami."
I don't ask what this means.  Did he lose him home?  His family?  I want him to know Santa's letter will arrive, but I don't know who in his family the principal can contact.
"I can take care of that.  I'll call his mother" the principal reassures me.  I feel better.  At least his mother is around.
"I'll run down to my local Seven Eleven and see what I can do."

It worked.   Santa's letter to Daisuke will arrive tomorrow.  The 740 yen I spent to make sure this boy gets a thank you card from Santa Claus is the best money I've spent in a long time.  I can exhale again, deeply.  Merry Christmas, Daisuke.

Porn on the Train

I first heard about the Mayan calendar, the "December 21st is the last day for humankind" story on a camping trip to New Mexico years ago.  Let's just say nature called out.  I needed to reconnect.  True I was burnt out; tired of airports, hotels, and living out of a suitcase.  I camped with a group of women in the hills of New Mexico.  This is most unlike me.  I don't camp.  It was one of those things in hindsight I can't explain.  Nature has not called me to reconnect since, and I don't expect I'll commune with it even if it does.  I'm simply not a nature girl.  But, I digress.

It's December 21st in Tokyo, and while there are several hours left yet in the day, the world has not come crashing down around me.  In fact, I had a most wonderful lunch and dinner.  Coming away from it feeling tall and useful, happy and loved, I was convinced life is truly good and no way would the world come to an end today.  On that note, who's December 21st are we to be looking at anyway?  Whose clock officially kicks off this day?  Are we to calculate this day using GMT, or on Mayan time?  If the latter, December 21st starts around Pacific Standard Time in the US? That actually means December 21st is about 36 hours long for us here in Tokyo.  This is too much math for me to contemplate.

I'm heading home on the subway after dinner, yawning because I haven't had enough tea today.  I'm looking off into space, not really paying attention to my surroundings.  Still happy from my meetings, I let myself dwell in this special moment.

I yawn again, and cover my mouth but a bit too late.  Looking to see if anyone noticed I see the man sitting across from me staring.  What?  You've never seen a woman cover her mouth only half-way through a yawn?  Sorry.  Bad manners on my part.  Our eyes have met.  Here, he looks down to the magazine he has open in his lap.  He looks up at me again.  I look down at the magazine.  It's porn.  It's actually child pornography, but in anime, Japanese cartoons.  The front cover facing me has a barely dressed preteen in an erotic pose.  Well now.  I look back up at him.  He nods.  Am I being challenged?  I sit still.  He nods again, this time to the empty seat next to him.  Is he serious?  He wants me to sit down next to him?  I ponder this.  Briefly.  He nods again, gesturing down at the seat with his head. 

I decide there is this vortex of confusion over the earth today, December 21st and all, and that our planet is trying to decide whether or not to stay alive.  In this confusion, I'm thrown in front of a man reading child pornography on the train who evidently wants me to read it with him.  I get up and sit down next to him.  Be prepared, dear man.  Bring it.  You have no idea what you're getting into.

Sitting side by side, he looks at me and I look back at him.  This is a fight.  I can feel it.  I'm determined not to lose, although I can't quite pinpoint what exactly "losing" would mean.  He starts reading the magazine again.  I join in.  It's not reading as much as it is looking at the pictures.

Of girls being raped.  Of girls giving blow jobs.  Of girls.  There's nothing about these drawings that would make anyone think these characters are anything but six-year olds.  This is child pornography.  This is smut.  Possession of this child pornography in Japan is legal.  He's not breaking any laws. Attempts by foreign governments to shame Japan into proposing legislation that would categorize even anime as child pornography have a). not succeeded, and b). been met with furious opposition from the "artists" who draw these scenes of torture and debauchery.  "It's art," they say.  Bite me.

We're both quiet.  He flips pages and I follow along.  The "stories" are short.  He starts another and I see this one contains a dog.  That's it.  That's my limit.

I look at him.  "You like this?"
He looks back.  "Yeah."
I turn my ahead away from him and look straight ahead.  People are watching us.  I'm silent for a minute and then say, "Huh."
"You don't like it?"
I turn, then pause, and cock my head to the side.  I'm giving him my best "you're-kidding-me" look, hoping he gets it.  Straightening back up, I say, "No, I don't."
I'm not done.  "I don't get why looking at this is fun.  I think it's gross.  This," and I point to the dog, "Really?"
"Yeah, the dog is a bit much."
"The dog is a bit much?  The rest is okay?"
"Yeah.  The rest is okay.  It's not real."
Aaah.  There it is.  It's a cartoon so no one's getting hurt.
"You're foreign so you don't get it.  This is okay in Japan," he says and I feel my eyes widening and I'm so close to punching him and I have to force myself to exhale.
"Well," and I take a deep breath because I'm now shaking, "in my country this is illegal."  I pause for effect.  "This is considered counter-culture, stupid, dirty, and the worst kind of perversion out there.  You'd be arrested for reading this in my country."
"Good thing I'm in Japan then," he says.
"Yeah, only in Japan.  The rest of the world thinks this is wrong.  You guys are way behind the times in what's considered decent," I say and this is my cue.  I get up.  I've had enough.

I did not punch him.  For this I'm proud of myself but only sort of.  I got off the train three stations before mine.  I needed air.  I could feel my heart in my chest, beating furiously.   I wasn't expecting to change his mind, lead him to an epiphany where he would see how morally and socially corrupt this whole "it's not real so it's okay" argument is.  I equally did not see myself coming away feeling this deflated.  I feel gross.  My hands feel oily.  I want to scrub myself clean.

It was a matter of time before this happened.  Today it did, and it some how makes sense that it would on this particular day, but I know this argument will hold no water when I face a similar experience again in future and it's not a day the world is to come to an end.  Deal with that then?  I guess.  It's frightening how wrong that answer is, and yet.  And, yet.

Post-Earthquake Update

The M7.3 earthquake that hit off the coast of northeastern Japan last night has left many in Tohoku shaken.  Too close to where "the big one" hit 20 months ago, memories kept right under the surface pop out again like pimples.  It's too soon.  It's too raw.

I was in Rikuzentakata City Hall when the earthquake hit.  There was a bit of a roar, the earth rumbling with a warning, but it wasn't enough of a notice for us to prepare.  Our pre-fab building shook.  A lot.  Items started falling off the shelves.  People got up, propping up tall file cabinets, bookshelves and the like.

I sat.  It's all so unreal.  That famous line from cop shows "It happened so fast" is real in ways I don't want it to be.  There's also a sense this is happening around me.  It's as if I'm not really a part of this.  Japan is not my country.  I feel oddly disconnected.  I'm not technically a Rikuzentakata City Hall employee.  They've already been through this with disastrous consequences.  Having lost one quarter of their employees and another 100 or so in contract workers, they know the drill.  Literally. 

And, I do mean it literally.  Once the shaking subsided everyone went into action.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

There are lessons to be learned here.  Immediate lessons we need to drive home.  Not just for those of us here in Tohoku, but for every kind of disaster.

I reflect upon the following:

1).  I've always thought I had an escape plan.  To be fair, I did.  Having said that, I never made myself go through a "drill" of any sort.  Behind the apartment I stay in is a hill, and I can see where I would go to escape, but I've never practiced.  I don't know how long it takes.  This is not okay.  Considering we are to be prepared for aftershocks for awhile, I will do this today.

2).  With time we all become more complacent.  While I can argue how normal this is and many would agree, this is dangerous.  My cell phones are often only half-charged.  It wouldn't hurt if I could find (and then carry) a small solar-powered flashlight.  It's simply not smart to assume anything.  It's hard to always be vigilant.  It's harder to be caught off guard and thus completely screwed.

3).  People care.  My phone rang frequently with people checking up on me.  "Where are you?"  and "Are you okay?" were welcome questions, especially considering my family were fast asleep in the US.  It's okay to hang onto these lifelines.  It's further okay to...

4).  Ask for help.  The apartment I stay in when I'm in Tohoku is too near the ocean for my comfort at times like this.  I called friends who live in town, a good distance from the coast and asked to spend the night there.

5).  Follow the leader.  There are people who have to be calm in situations like this, and they're resources.  Use them.  Trust them.

In Rikuzentakata City Hall, there were those who went straight into battle-mode.  Others clung to each other.  At first glance, it looked as if they were hugging.  It's not a hug when you don't or can't let go.

I'm concerned about post-earthquake trauma.  Sirens, a good source of information because they always follow with an announcement are actually ominous and eerie.  Necessary but they're not tools that induce calm. 

I'm okay.  I will be okay.  I have people I can rely upon and I will spend the rest of the afternoon preparing while trying not to obsess or feel stress.

Prepare yourselves, people.  It's the right thing to do.

Playground Rules 30 Years Later

Let me be clear.  I'm not complaining as much as I am noting a recent experience.  In short, it's a repeat of what many of us experienced in school during recess, in playgrounds, at play dates.  The you-can't-play-with-us-because-we-didn't-invite you, or you're-not-one-of-us phenomenon--how many of us have been the recipient of such behavior?  The protagonist?  It's a form of bullying.  Less obvious perhaps, less overt, possibly even less painful than the blatant "I hate you" or "you're weird/too different"but let's call it what it is.  It's exclusion. 

I can't think of any instance when bullying is acceptable.  When adults take part it's just dumb.  Be honest.  This resonates.  We've either seen it happen, heard of it, or taken part ourselves.

The latest such experience is taking place not near me, but around me.  Hypothetically, let's imagine there's an event taking place somewhere far away that involves a community of Japanese locals.  Let's also hypothetically assume there's been an attempt to sell Tohoku-related goods at this event specifically meant to help those who made these items.  Now let's "pretend" (and I'm being generous with this word) some of the sponsors of this event decided they needed to intentionally block the sale of goods made by those in Tohoku (to whom the money would go) because -- wait for it -- it wasn't their idea.

Let's call it as we see it.  This is a I-didn't-think-of-this-first-and-you-didn't-ask-my-permission-so-I'm-going-to-block-you response to an act that would otherwise be considered common sense, right, proper, courteous, and kind.

I don't get it.  It's silly.  This is what people do when given a bit of power and they feel the need to exert it.  I'm also really sorry this kind of behavior is necessary.  Clearly, some people aren't able to see the big picture.  It's sad, really. 

Thirty years after we've played in parks, living rooms and playgrounds, evidently some of us still don't know how to play nicely in the sandbox. 

Maybe I am complaining.

Thirty Minutes on a Train

No one to date has been able to understand how a spouse, mine in particular, would just say "Go." 
"Go into an active tsunami zone."
"Go where the aftershocks are hourly and often large."
"Live apart for an indefinite period of time."
"It's okay."
"I miss you but what you're doing is worthwhile enough that we can handle it."

My spouse has said all this since immediately after the March 11th earthquake and tsunamis.  He is a large part of my reasoning for coming to Japan.  I couldn't and wouldn't do this without his complete support.  For that, for the freedom he gives me, for his patience, for his kick-in-the-pants ("Go!") I am most definitely grateful.

Knowing I still can't say when I'm leaving Japan for good, it's important we're on the same page.  I need to know he's fine with this ambiguity.  I'm often asked, "How long are you staying?"  I smile and say, "Until I'm not needed here anymore, and when my husband says 'That's enough.  Time to come home.'"  People nod in response. 

On the Marunouchi Line last night, as we make our way towards downtown for a Friday-night-in-Tokyo-date-night, we continue chatting.  Let's make one thing clear:  Skype cannot and does not replace what live, in-person chatting accomplishes.  I'm grateful for Skype.  Don't get me wrong.  While my husband and I e-mail daily, it's the multi-hour Skype chats that keep us connected.  Sitting in the subway,  however, I'm reminded how much of this personal connection is missed when we talk laptop-to-laptop.

I bring up (again) the fact I can't say how long I'm going to be here. 
"I know," he replies.  "I knew that when you left."
I know he knows.  But, but, I need to hear it again.  I need to make sure he's okay with this no-end-date-in-sight reality.  I also need to know how and why he's okay with it.  I need to hear it again.

"When we sat in that coffee shop in Ofunato the other day," he begins, "and that spider started dropping towards my head you immediately freaked out, right?"
"Right."
"You got this box of tissues and you were adamant I should get rid of it."
Of course.  It's a spider.  It probably has fangs.
"That's how I know you haven't changed." 
Evidently, I looked confused.
"That's the spiders-are-evil part of you that came out right then and there.  Things like that make me realize you're still you."
Okay.
"Then, an hour later, you take me to this apartment building in Rikuzentakata that looked like it had been bombed."  He leaned in as he told me this.  "You did that as if it was no big deal." 
I don't get where he's going.
"So, see.  You've changed.  Part of you still hates spiders, but there's another part of you now that has a purpose.  You were bored with the past several jobs you had back home.  You did them and did them well, but you were bored.  Here," and now he laughs, "you're anything but bored."  He sat back then, as if he'd made his point clearly, taking another sip of his tea.  "I like that.  The ways you're changing--they're good changes.  That's how I know you're okay here.  So long as you're changing in ways that make you grow, make you do new things, give you a purpose, so long as you're doing that you should stay.  It's when you tell me spiders no longer freak you out that I'll worry."

Evidently that's it.  Evidently, for him, it's as simple as that.  I decide to take him at his word. 
This is the kind of support that keeps me going.  I couldn't and wouldn't stay without it.  I still don't know how long I'll stay in Japan, but my husband's words warm me up.  I hit the jackpot with this man--that he's fine with not knowing (so long as I'm growing) feeds my soul.

Thirty minutes on a train and I realize all over again how lucky I am.  Gratitude on a Friday night:  a lovely way to start a date.

Gone Native

I'm out with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  He's good company as usual.  I'm at ease.  With him, I feel safe.  I can be myself.  One of the consequences of being this relaxed is that I speak freely.  I don't edit.  I don't think before I speak.

Which is why the word "consequences" is so appropriate.  Somewhere in the conversation with Alpha Male I evidently said, "Why's that?"  It came out naturally.  It went downhill from there.  Sort of.

"What did you say?"  He's driving so he doesn't look at me.
"I said, 'Why's that?'  Why?"
"Say that again?"  He's smirking.  Instantly, I'm annoyed.  What?  I'm not enunciating?
"I said..." and before I can finish, he says "'Why's that?'  Right?'  You think you said, 'Why's that?'  Right?"
I'm not amused.  What is this?  I think I said?  I know what I said.  I said....

And then it hits me.  Ohhhhh.  I did it.  It happened.  I spoke using the Tohoku dialect.  I did say "Why's that?" but I said it Tohoku-style.  No one outside of Tohoku would ever say it that way.  It actually doesn't even make grammatical sense.  It's not technically Japanese, except that it is for those in Tohoku.  Crap.  Crap, crap, crap.  I look over at him about to concede, confessing this country-bumpkin dialect has now crept into my vocabulary when I see he's trying ever so hard not to laugh out loud.  I decide right there not to concede.  It is funny.  Yes.  But, far be it from me to let him have any fun at my expense, I get defensive.  Except, I don't know what to say.  No quick retorts today.

"What?" he says.  I still say nothing.
"Oh, come on."  I'm still silent.  I've honestly got nothing.
"Are you mad?" and now he's not actually asking but more insinuating I'm being unreasonable, albeit possibly, could it be?  Does he think I'm being cute?
"I'm not mad," and now I'm the one trying to keep a straight face.
"You're pouting."  He laughs, guffaws actually, and I'm afraid we're going to crash.
"Watch out!"  Instantly my hand shoots straight out hitting the glove box, propping myself as if I'll be safe if this way.
"Sorry."  He swerves, avoiding a moped.

We're silent again, both still half-smirking, half-smirk-hiding.
"You gotta admit, it's pretty funny," I hear.
Instead of defending myself, possibly even complimenting myself for being able to sound like a true Tohokuite I say, "It just popped out!  What am I going to do?  Honestly?  I can't even tell when I'm using the Tohoku dialect?  It's that natural now?  Oh no.....Who else have I said this around?"  It's funny.  I get it.  Except, it's not.  Alpha Male is laughing again.
"I think it's a good sign."
"Good sign?"  Indignant, I fly off the handle.
"Good sign?  It just popped out!  Seriously!  I didn't even know I said it until you pointed it out.  I don't speak standard Japanese any more?  This is not good!  What am I going to do?"  He's still laughing.
"Look," he says, "It is funny.  Everyone knows you're working up there.  It's natural you'd..." and he laughs all over again.  "Sorry," he says.  Is he crying?  He's wiping the corner of his eye.  Come on.  It's not that funny.  "Sorry," he says again, trying to sound normal.  Then it hits me.
"You know," I start.  "It's true."  I tell him the following story.

"I was out to dinner with a bunch of guys from Ofunato, and they asked me what I wanted to eat.  So I said, 'I'll start with sashimi,' at which point they all laughed."  Alpha Male is laughing again.  I know why.
"I said to them, 'What?' and they said, 'You've gone native,' and I was totally confused.  I asked what they meant and they said, 'That's how we'd say it in Tohoku.'"  I continued to explain to Alpha Male how they'd corrected my Japanese, giving me instructions on how people in Tokyo would say "I'll start with sashimi" and while I knew the difference, I had no idea the way I said it was Tohoku-style.  "So, it's true.  Evidently, I now have enough of a Tohoku dialect that I don't even know I'm using it."  I ponder this for a moment.  Is this a problem?  Evidently guessing what I was thinking, Alpha Male says, "That's a good thing."
"Is it?"
"Sure.  It means you really have gone native."
"But, when I'm in Tokyo..."
"No, we get it.  I'll bet I'm not the only one who thinks it's..." and here he stops.  Is he looking for the right word?  Is he about to say, "...who thinks it's cute"?
"It's not cute," I finish his thought for him, guessing.
"Yeah.  It is.  It's good."

So, the consensus is, or so I assume, it's okay for me to speak this way.  I'm not sure I believe this, and I'm certainly not sure I like it, but I decide to accept the inevitable; I now have gone native and it's taken as a good thing.

I sure hope it is.

Rude, Stupid, and Clueless: Those Who Get It and Those Who Don't

On the eve of another US Presidential election, I sit in Japan (not eve here) and wonder what's going to happen over the next several days.  Often struck by how angry my friends are at those who disagree with them, violently at times, absolutely sure they are right in their opinions and thoughts and beliefs, the election and whatever the outcome will be......it all feels like a lose-lose situation.  How much more divided can the US be?  The polls are split at 49% for each candidate.  Will we know for sure in 48 hours, or will there be another recount, postponing the inevitable for another several weeks?  I dread this.  It's depressing.

At which point I tell myself "at least I get to vote."  I may be voting for the "one I dislike less" but I still get to vote.  Those in Japan do not.  That's just the beginning of the list of countries where ordinary citizens do not get to cast a ballot for their leader.  I would not handle that well, especially considering there have been rumors, promises, and challenges surrounding the current Japanese Prime Minister and his Cabinet.  As in, they're out by the end of the year.  I would want a say in picking someone, in the hopes they'd stay longer than eighteen months.  I'll stop there, as anything else I write will be cruel.

The gap between people with such strong opposing viewpoints--this seems to be a real trend.  Or, perhaps I'm just seeing more of it, having been thrust into the middle as of late.  With both sides convinced, truly convinced they're right, often I find there's no point in continuing the discussion.  If I don't agree with them, I'm simply wrong.  The opposite is true as well.  That's the part we don't often admit.  We judge others who disagree with us just as harshly as they do us, except when they don't agree with us we tend to think they're small-minded and stupid (which we mostly don't say out loud), and when we don't agree with them we're just wrong.

Apply this to what's going on in Tohoku, and very possibly in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.  (Or, any natural disaster for that matter.)  There's a word tossed around Japan that outlines the gap between those affected and those far removed.  The literal translation is "temperature difference."  The distance between those who get it (from the Tohoku locals' perspective) and those who don't is, simply put, a major problem.  Everyday I hear a new story about someone who says or does something unbelievable.  Locals shake their heads saying, "If you're not here, you simply don't get it" meaning they're not fond of, nor do they appreciate those in Kasumigaseki (Japan politics central located in Tokyo) who create policy and have yet to come to Tohoku, all while formulating plans and solutions in their heads with no practical knowledge.  I point out there are plenty "here" who don't get it either.  Here are examples of both.

Federal funds allocated to Tohoku relief are used for impish projects.  The latest is money sent to fix a highway in Okinawa.  That, for those unfamiliar with Japanese geography, is as far as you can get from Tohoku.  The press had a field day with the "injustice."  As they should.

Then there are the locals who move forward, getting things done, getting publicity for doing so who are criticized in ways that hit below the belt.  Just recently, the wife of a prominent and active Ofunato man received criticism for accepting a donation of vitamins from a friend for her brother recently diagnosed with a grave illness.  "If multivitamins work then you don't need hospitals.  What's the point of him getting treatment?  And, how are you special enough to get a donation of vitamins?"  This is helpful how?  That it was said on Twitter (can't say it to your face?) makes it all the worse.

In the end, we're all mean to each other.  This temperature difference, those who say things that really shouldn't be said and those who just think things that shouldn't be said, those who truly believe they're right and look upon others who don't agree with them with a "how stupid are you?" look and attitude...this scares me.

There are plenty of times in history where we did some pretty horrific things to each other because we were so convinced we were right.  Careful, people.  Be nice.  Whoever becomes the next US President, and whoever says cruel things to you, careful how you respond.  Someone has to take the high road, and the more of us who can and do the better.

The Ultimate Telling Off

The 2012 Best Television Commercial Award in Japan went to Toyota and the series of ads they created for the Prius.  Here again is one of these "I can't make this up" stories.  Look up on YouTube "Toyota Prius CM" and "Kimura Takuya" or "Beat Takeshi."  The commercials are called "Toyota ReBorn" numbering quite a few.  Try to start at the beginning.  Here's the storyline.

Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, two lords notorious for betrayal, rivalry and war in Japanese history meet in modern-day Japan as Kimura Takuya and Beat Takeshi, two major and current celebrities.  Kimura and Beat go on a road trip, with Beat giving the younger Kimura instructions.  "Take the highway up north," and several commercials later they end up in Tohoku, Ishinomaki to be exact.  Along the way they pick up Matsuko Deluxe, an popular and obese transvestite who's seen hitchhiking in a flowing black gown (looking very much like the grim reaper to me) who ends up being the wife or mistress of one of the two men.  (I've forgotten enough of my Japanese history that I don't understand the historical significance of this woman.  Google "Oichi-no-Kata" for more details.)

Once in Ishinomaki, they visit what used to be an evacuation shelter (now boarded up).  While there, Beat says to Kimura, "Let's go to the ocean."  What comes next is the best, most honest telling off--of the ocean.  Beat screams, face twitching, the ultimate Japanese version of "F*** you."  Technically, yelling "Bakayaro!" at the ocean that destroyed Ishinomaki and countless other cities and towns along the coast, he's calling the ocean stupid.  Anyone who knows this man, however, knows he doesn't just say "stupid." His language is much more coarse.  Not known for being nice or polite, Beat is absolutely, most definitely saying anything akin to just "stupid."  In this one word, he does what we've all wanted to do since March 11th.  The commercials are strong, powerful, and painful all at the same time.  They deserve the award.  If I were creating these commercials, I might have added Bolero as the soundtrack, but that's just me.

The commercials are worth watching.  I applaud Toyota's audacity, their ability to take a subject not the least bit funny, taking two men admired and loved and turning a hybrid car into the medium by which to tell a story, express anger, and remind people to care.  Watch it.  Laugh and cry.  Care.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afzj_J8MizM

Stories From The Living Honoring The Dead (Some Graphic Content)

The circular building with classrooms facing the playground in the middle, windows surely filling the rooms with light stands still, alone, and silent.  I'm here to plant an elm tree honoring the 74 children and 10 teachers lost at Ohkawa Elementary School outside of Ishinomaki.  Of the 108 children and 11 staff, 84 are dead or missing.

"You'll bawl," I'm told.  I probably will.  "It's holy.  You'll feel it as soon as you get there."  I'm sure I will.  I drive down the hill with the looming and tall embankment to my left.  The wave rushed up the river on the other side of the bank, spilling over with force that swept 84 people away in an instant. Ohkawa Elementary School is right there, on my right.  No one ever assumed this was a dangerous place to build a school.  Hindsight.  Again.

My host greets me.  I look at the building, the hill right behind the school grounds, the emptiness of it all, taking it all in.  "Pray first," I hear my host say.  Right.  There's a series of altars, stone, marble, concrete, with fresh and artificial flowers covering them all.  The lilies, carnations, chrysanthemums in white and yellow remind me of the funerals I've been to in Japan.  Bottles of juice, soda, a tray of coins, a rin bowl (a small metal bowl to gong before offering prayers), and an incense holder dot the altars.  There's a statue to the far right of a woman cradling a child in her arms that reads "Statue of the Child Protector."  Fat lot of good that statue did.

Large signs in front of the ropes strung around the building read, "Do Not Enter (Except Family Members of the Deceased)."  I'm allowed in thanks to my host, so I go.  I crawl under the rope and enter hallowed ground.  People, many people died here.

Round containers, huge flower pots, line the outer walls of the classrooms, facing into the playground.  I like this architect.  The children must have planted flowers, watching them grow, scent and color filling their rooms.

I walk around the grounds.  I'm alone.  Wondering what the hell must have happened here, I enter a classroom.  The floors are swept clean.  Pieces of plaster fallen from the ceilings are the only debris on the floor.  Someone is taking great care to keep this place clean.  It's all unreal.   It's so quiet.

I leave the classroom and find myself outside again.  It's a bit of a maze, this design.  I would have loved that about this school had I been a student here.  I would have found hiding places--closets, nooks, secret passages--escaping pirates and evil men on horseback.  Outside, I see pillars holding something up that are broken at the base.  This is wrong.  I feel tears.  Fair enough.  I was told I would bawl.

Making my way back to the group of people I'm here with, I frantically wipe away my tears.  I don't want to make a scene.  They're sitting on a concrete wedge.  A tour bus pulls up.  This is a tourist spot.  We all stare.  Sixty or so elderly people get off, all huddling around the altars listening to a tour guide explain in a low voice what happened here.  We talked later about this.  Is this a good thing?  It's good to be remembered.  It's another thing to be a spot on a tour.  They mill around, and we overhear them.  "Why didn't they just escape to that hill over there?"  Pointing to the hill behind the school, an elderly man heads towards it.  My host whispers, "See that tree?  That one right behind the white truck?"  I see a tree with branches shaped like Ys.  Is it a sycamore?  "There was a kid stuck in that tree for days."  We all look at him, the same question we dare not ask.  "Dead, of course.  They couldn't get heavy machinery in here to get him down."  We all stare back at the tree.  "The families of the kids hate that question.  That 'Why didn't they run up the hill' question.  Ten out of eleven teachers died.  The kids, they're kids, how do you not panic?  They did run there.  It's just that most of them didn't make it."  We don't say anything.  "The bodies of the kids were laid here..." and he gestures over to the right, "Here on the ground for days.  The police and firefighters didn't have extra blue tarp to place the kids on or cover them up with.  Relief supplies wouldn't come in for days."

I'm introduced to one of the parents and the groundskeeper.  The mother lost her daughter and is still searching for the remains.  She says she has something to show me.  We walk in silence to a classroom.  She points up to the wall.  "That's when it hit," and for a minute I don't know what she's talking about.  Then it becomes obvious.  The clock stopped when the tsunami hit the school.  "Is it alright if I take a photo?" I ask.  "Please do.  We want people to know."

I decide to walk through the rooms again.  I notice again how all the floors are swept.  In one larger classroom up against the wall I see what surely must be items belonging to the kids.  Unicycles?  These kids rode unicycles?  How cool is that? 

The mother and the groundskeeper and I walk back to our group.  There's another tour bus.  More elderly people crowd the altars praying.  I see a grandpa wiping away tears.  They fan out.  I see one of the men walking towards the hill.  He stands at the foot of the hill facing it.  He's urinating.  We all stare.  What do we do?  What do we say?  Don't pee?  My host again starts to speak.  "The kids who climbed that hill were found on the other side of it several days later by residents of the town over here."  These are stories we don't hear unless the speaker knows for a fact this is what happened.  He heard it from the parents of the kids.

It was an exhausting day.  I came away drained.  Glad I went, grateful to be given an insider's perspective on what happened and how those left behind feel about those of us who come to visit, but I'm crushed by what I saw.  The pain was palpable, real, and still raw.  On days like this, I still don't know what to say.  "I'm sorry for your loss" seems wrong, hollow, and too simple.

If you go to Ohkawa Elementary School, and I suggest you do, know the parents of the children need to know you're there out of respect.  If at all possible, avoid the tour bus that takes you there.

記憶の力。ちょっとしたきっかけでまた思い出す震災後の日々。

その夜の出来事はまったく思いがけないものだった。簡単に夕食を食べ、楽しむつもりで外出した私たちは、5人で陸前高田のラーメン屋さんに入った。私を養母と慕ってくれ、私も我が子のように可愛がっている女の子ふたりとその両親とでテーブルを囲み、何杯注文するかを話し合っていた。

「一杯が大きいのよ」とママが女の子たちに言った。「絶対食べきれないわよ」

「食べられるよ」と妹が言い返し、「うん。ママ、お願い！」と姉も加勢する。

「絶対だめだね。食べきれるわけないさ」とパパが言うと、「この子たちが残したらあなたが食べることになるのよ」とママ。

「またかよ？」

ここで一同大笑いとなった。

「餃子も頼んでいい？」妹は今夜はとことん食べるつもりだ。

「アミアさん、明日は何か予定がある？」と聞かれ、私は面くらった。

「予定？　どうして？」

「この店の餃子はすごくニンニク臭いんだ」とパパが言った。

「あら」と言って私は少し考えた。明日は確かにミーティングが入っている。ニンニク臭いってどのくらいだろう？

「ひとつだけ食べることにするわ」

おいしい餃子を逃すわけにはいかない。

私たちは注文をすませ、またおしゃべりに戻った。ラーメンが運ばれてきたとき、私はその大きさにびっくり仰天。こんなに大きなラーメンはこれまで見たことがない。

私は「うーっ」と声を上げ、目の前を見降ろした。そして女の子たちのほうを向き、「本当にこれを全部食べるつもり？」と聞いた。

「な？食べれるわけない」とパパが言うのと同時に女の子たちが「食べれるよ〜！」と答え、また大笑いした。

ラーメンをすする音のほかは静かで、カウンター席に座っているおじいさんのことには誰も気がついていなかった。突然、ざわめきがして、厨房から人がどやどやと出てきた。スタッフの一人がおじいさんのそばに立って声をかけている。おじいさんが倒れたのだ。

「どうしたの？」と姉が立ちあがろうとした。

「座っていなさい」とママ。

「すぐ戻ってくるから」と言ってパパは立ちあがり、おじいさんとその周りの人だかりに向かって行った。

おじいさんからは応答がない。厨房スタッフがおじいさんの口にスプーンで砂糖を押し込んでいる。「糖尿病性機能障害よ」とママが言い、私は頷いた。

まもなく救急車のサイレンが聞こえてきた。ママと私は顔を見合わせた。

ママの視線は私の両隣りにいる娘たちに注がれている。私も女の子たちを見た。まず左、そして右。妹は涙を浮かべ、動揺を隠そうとしている。姉は青ざめている。こんなに蒼白な顔をしている人を見たのは久しぶりだ。

「大丈夫よ」とママが娘たちに声をかけた。姉は強がって見せようとして頷いた。妹が私の隣で急いで涙を拭く気配がした。

私は彼女の頭を撫ぜ、「私の膝に座る？」と聞いた。頷いた彼女を抱きあげ、それまで見ていなかったテレビの前に移動し、おじいさんに背を向けて座った。

「あなたもアミアさんの膝に座ってきなさい」とママが姉に言った。私は妹を左の膝に移し、姉を右膝に引き寄せた。彼女は震えていた。

「大丈夫よ。」私はこう言ってさらにテレビに近寄り、画面に映るAKBに話題を移した。

救急車が到着し、おじいさんをストレッチャーに乗せ、急いで出発した。女の子たちは救急隊員を盗み見しようとしていたが、私はそのたびにテレビ画面に注意を引きもどした。

店内がまた静かになると、私たちはまたテーブルに戻った。女の子たちは食欲をなくしてしまっていたみたい。

「救急車を見ると怖いのよね。パパが消防隊の活動をしていたのを思い出すんでしょう？」ママがやさしく言った。

女の子たちは頷いた。パパは消防団に入っていて、津波のあと何日も家に帰らずに生存者を捜し、遺体を回収していたのだった。女の子たちはパパが何をしていたのか十分理解はしていなかったが、ひどく心配していた。そういうわけで、緊急車両が怖いのだ。

ちょっとしたハプニングから楽しいはずの外出がトラウマ的体験になってしまい、記憶のもつ力を改めて思い知らされた。ここでは、痛ましい大惨事後の父親の安全に関する心配が、その夜の私たちの外出を台無しにしたばかりか、覆い隠されていた痛みを呼び戻すきっけかにもなった。

東北の人たちのため、継続的な癒しをもたらす現実的で頑強なメンタルヘルスプランが見つかりますように。それまではこの子たちを、そしてママとパパを、私がずっと抱きしめておく。

Baby Names Japanese Style

Hanging out with kids in Japan over the past nineteen months, I've learned a thing or two about trends in kids' names.  Parents of every generation tend to gravitate towards the same names thinking they've some how picked the most unique name out there.  Japan is no exception.  Perhaps all parents in all countries go through a "let's-name-our-kid-this-incredibly-different-sounding-name" thing, only to find out other parents had that exact same idea.  This was certainly the case for us.  We thought the name for our son was so special, unusual, new, and bold.  It didn't take long for us to find out there were boys in every class with the same name, K-12.  How does this happen??

Japanese parents seem to have found a new crop of names for the kids of this generation.  I'd not heard of most these until I started spending time here.  Here's a partial list of the most unusual names I've come across to date.

Girls

Kokoro (heart)
Lin
Minto (mint??)
Hina
Juli (Julie?)
Miyu
Luna
Noai
Lea
Anon
Nagi
Karen
Sherin (Sharon?)
Kokoa (Cocoa?)
Kokona
Yubi

Boys

Shion
Linku (link?)
Alen (Allen?)
Taiyo (sun)
Kaze (wind)
Noa (Noah?)
Ren
Ginga (galaxy)

...and so on.

Step aside, Emily, Alexander, Brittney, Jake, and Ava.  These new Japanese names, some made up, some borrowing (presumably?) from other languages make western names sound bland.  Not a criticism of parents who borrow heavily from the Bible or any other What To Name Your Baby book mind you.  Just my random Sunday musings.

The Worst Possible Catch 22

This is one of those I-can't-make-this-up scenarios.  Honestly, I don't know how I would handle being in a situation like this.  I don't know how I'd keep going.  It's bad.  It's really bad.  Let me explain.

Homeowners in Tohoku whose houses were either totally destroyed (washed away or deemed unlivable), or partially damaged (still livable but needing repair) have the following options:  move into temporary housing (if they qualify), rebuild their home, or repair their home.  This post is about the latter two.

Here are the facts.  If a house was categorized as "completely destroyed" or "partially destroyed" but the owner has an outstanding mortgage, they are still responsible for paying that off.  Not having a livable home does not mean the loan magically disappears.  Now let's say they want to rebuild or repair their home.  They are responsible for repayment of the loan they take out for that, too.  That means they now have dual-mortgages.

There's good news.  Sort of.  Not really, actually, but there is an option pitched to these dual-mortgage homeowners that's meant to alleviate their financial burden.  Let me break it down for you.

If Mrs. W owes 20,000,000 yen (let's just say $200,000) on her original loan (for the house that's now gone), she can have her debt forgiven.  Again, sort of.  She can keep up to 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) of her own money (savings, if she has it).  Any other savings she might have goes to repay the original loan.  The bank will forgive the remainder of the loan if she hands over whatever savings she has beyond 5,000,000 yen ($50,000).  If she has land, say she owns the land the home was on, she must also give the bank that land.  She can buy that back from the bank over five years.  If she can't buy it back in that time, she loses it forever.  Any other land she might own (place of business) also goes to the bank.  She's left with the loan for the repair/rebuilding of the new house, plus the 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) she has in savings.  That's it. 

Here are some more stats.  The government initiated this program with the assumption 10,000 Tohoku homewoners would be interested in taking part.  To date 84 people have signed up.  There are two things wrong with this picture.  First, with hundreds of thousands of people displaced, the government created a debt-forgiveness program that would attract only 10,000 people?  Why?  Why not make it something that would appeal to 500,000 people?  Second, only 84 people have taken part?  Why?  Here's why.  Initially, the amount of money homeowners were allowed to keep from their savings was 990,000 yen ($9,900).  Everything else they had in savings had to go to bank.  Again, including land.  How are people supposed to live on $9,900?  Get a job?  Where?  What if they were fishermen or farmers?  To say the program had a very bad reputation from the start is being generous.  Add to this, most people don't know they are now allowed to keep 5,000,000 yen and not the originally reported 990,000 yen.  Why?  Many people, many people up north don't have a laptop, much less internet access.  They use e-mail only on their cell phones.  How would people who don't routinely surf the web ever find out about options available to them?  Then there's the problem of farmers getting up the courage to sit down in front of a banker to negotiate.  I'm most certainly not implying farmers are less intelligent.  I'm saying bankers have a tendency (generalizing here) to use big financial terms, throw around numbers and "Here's Plan A" and "Here's Plan B" as if it's no big deal.  Bankers are not knowing as the most empathetic bunch around.  For those who spend their days on a boat or in mud, the prospect of sitting down in front of a finance person is intimidating.

There's so much wrong with this, the worst possible catch 22.  I honestly don't know where to begin.  Let go of land and cash to have one mortgage forgiven?  Or, hold a dual-mortgage and work to pay it off (how?) over the remainder of their lives?  How and why isn't there another more creative solution?

The Japanese Government created this option and then handed it over to the banks with a "You handle this" message.  What's in it for the banks?  They can write off the loan they're forgiving, but is that enough incentive?

I find this catch 22 the worst example of inability to think outside the box.  Perhaps civil servants and bankers aren't the most creative group of people around, but the lack of empathy for those who have lost so much--even in a country as Japan with its rigid and strict adherence to rules--this is not okay.  I listen to those around me who honestly don't know what to do next and I ache for them.  I'm speechless all over again.

Flashback

None of us could have anticipated the events of that night.  Our outing was meant to be a fun, casual dinner.  The five of us were at a local ramen shop in Rikuzentakata.  The two girls, my adopted daughters whom I love like my own, and mom and dad all sit around the table negotiating how many bowls to order.

"It's a big bowl," mom says to the girls.  "I don't think you can finish it."
"Yes we can," younger sister protests.  "Yeah.  Mama, please?"  Older sister chimes in.
"You never do," dad objects.  "You'll have to finish what they don't eat," mom says to dad.
"Again?"  We all laugh.
"Can we have gyoza, too?"  The younger one is determined to eat tonight.
"Do you have any appointments tomorrow, Amya-san?"  I'm taken back my mom's question.
"Appointments?  Why?"
"The gyoza here is really garlicky," dad says.
"Oh."  I think for a minute.  I do have meetings tomorrow.  How garlicky are they?
"I'll just have one," I reply, not one to pass up good gyoza.

We order, continuing to chat.  When the bowls arrive I am shocked at the size.  This is possibly the biggest bowl of ramen I've ever seen.
"Woooow," I say, looking down at what's in front of me.  Turning to the girls, "You're really going to eat all that?"  "No," dad says as the girls say, "Yes!"  We laugh again.

Silent except for the slurping, none of us notice grandpa sitting at the bar.  Suddenly, there's a buzz.  The chefs come out from the kitchen, moving quickly.  One of the servers is standing near grandpa, calling out to him.  Grandpa is slumped over.

"What's going on?" The older girl starts to get up.
"Sit," mom says.
"Be right back," and dad jumps up heading towards grandpa and the small crowd.

Fast forward three minutes, we piece together what's happening. Grandpa is unresponsive.  A chef is spooning sugar into grandpa's mouth.  "Diabetic shock," mom says to me.  I nod.  Soon we hear an ambulance.  Mom and I exchange looks.  I see mom looking at the girls sitting on either side of me.  I look down at them, first left and then right.  The younger one is in tears, trying hard not to show how upset she is.  The older one is pale.  It's the first time I've seen someone this white in a long time.

"It's alright," mom says to the girls.  The older one nods, trying to be brave.  I sense the younger one on my left quickly wiping her tears.  I touch her head and say, "Do you want to sit on my lap?"  She nods.  I pick her up, move myself in front of the television we've all been ignoring, and turn my back towards grandpa.  "You sit on Amya-san's lap, too," mom says to the older one.  I move younger sister onto my left knee, and pull older sister onto my right.  She's shaking.
"It's alright.  Everything is going to be okay," I say and turn them more towards the television, talking about the AKB girls we see.

The ambulance arrives, puts grandpa on a stretcher and quickly leaves.  The girls try to sneak glances towards the paramedics, but I bring their attention to the television screen each time.

Once the restaurant is quiet again, we all sit around the table.  The girls are no longer hungry.  Mom says in a very soft voice, "I know it's scary for you to see ambulances.  It reminds you of daddy being away with the fire brigade, right?"  They nod.  Dad is a volunteer firefighter, and was out for days following the tsunami, looking for survivors, recovering bodies.  The girls don't fully understand what dad was doing, but were worried sick.  Emergency vehicles now scare them.

How an unexpected incident can turn an otherwise happy outing into a traumatic experience is a stark reminder of the power of memories.  In this case, the fear over a father's safety in the aftermath of a tragic and terrible disaster ruined not only our night out, but served as a trigger bringing back buried pain.

I hope for those in Tohoku we are all able to find a realistic and robust mental health plan that allows for lasting healing.  In the mean time, I will keep hugging these girls.  Mom and dad, too.

Hug, Bow, Shake, Peck, or Kiss?

Public displays of affection (referred to as PDA, not to be confused with PDAs--the techno-gadgets that you're supposed to use to remember your schedule) ... see, I'm digressing already ...

Public displays of affection in Japan have become more and more visible.  I snuck a photo of a couple, early retirement age perhaps, who were walking down a sidewalk hand in hand.  I've snapped others on the sly.  Young couples cling.  Even people my age, I passed two yesterday, walk around with open and public displays of affection.  I don't remember seeing much of this growing up.  And, that's putting it mildly.

I've long taught Westerners to bow when doing business in Japan.  If you can bow and shake at the same time, that's even better.  "Don't do the double peck-on-the-cheek thing," I've had to tell many Europeans. 

Publicly showing affection, while more prevalent in Tokyo, in Tohoku is another story entirely.  Most up north know from movies and television foreigners are touchy.  "You gaijins hug a lot" I was once told by someone in Rikuzentakata.  I laughed and replied, "I guess we do."

This makes it all the more interesting that eighteen months after I first set foot in the disaster zone, my friends, friends of friends, and family members of friends are now starting to explore the idea of physical expression.  Not in a sexual way, mind you.  The jabs I get in my ribs (literally) from one man up north happen only when he's drunk--this is the only uncomfortable physical contact I've experienced in Tohoku.

Men and women now want to say hello and good-bye with a hug.  The first one is awkward.  We stand there both with a mental message "You go first" but neither of us move.  I don't want to be pushy by leaning into hug, and they want to but are shy (they don't hug anyone else in public) and yet still are hoping to connect.  Once we get past that first hug, awkward moments and all, greetings are now more physical.

To be sure, there are those whom I will not hug (it's not appropriate), and those who are uninterested in hugging.  I can just picture several of my male friends in Tohoku saying, "It's not manly."  It's not.  Where men are men, strong and stoic, there's no room for public hugging or pecks on the cheek.  That's okay.  For those who want to incorporate a more physical expression of affection, there's now a whole new method open to them.  On my trips to Tohoku I hug children, men, and women.  With big smiles and shy grins, they reach back.

Physical touch is a bigger deal in Tohoku if for no other reason, emotional healing is still a process many are going through.  Hugging creates warmth.  It bonds.  It leads to a faster, deeper connection.  The bonds of friendship become intense quicker and lasts longer, too.  Just yesterday, I hugged a woman and she gripped back, not letting go.  Touch is the fastest way to reach those wanting to feel whole, healthy, and loved.  I think back to the sensation of my grandmother's hand on mine, a peck on the cheek from a niece, my son jumping into my arms.  I smile.  Of course this is good.

Where rules are still rigid with predetermined expectations on who bows lower and raises their heads up first, hugging, holding hands, and kissing is still new.  Combine these, especially all at once (i.e. hug and peck, shake hands but then turn it into a "whassup" grip, bow and shake, etc.) and it's challenging to those here who want to experiment but don't know what to do with whom, or how, or when.

Except they're trying.  With more freedom to show love in public, old rules are changing with new ones being made up as life unfolds.  It's really fun to watch.  It's even more fun to be a part of.

A Quick Note to American Voters

My Facebook friends are and have been fighting over who is better suited to be US President.  For months.  Nasty words are posted.  Tea Partiers think Liberals are evil terrorists, ungodly, and love to kill babies.  Liberals think Tea Partiers are ignorant, narrow-minded, gun-loving people who stand around at funerals holding signs condemning gays and lesbians to hell.  I might be exaggerating.  Then again, you haven't seen my Facebook page.

I have a simple point to make.  Japan is discussing the pros (not as much the cons) about changing prime ministers.  Again.  If this happens, Japan will have had eighteen prime ministers in 24 years.  Read that line again.  This is reality in Japan.

Here's the kicker.  The public doesn't get to vote.  Read that line again, too.  None of the regular voters go to the poll to cast their ballot for prime minister.

I was asked over the weekend for my thoughts on Japanese politics.  I decided to be honest.  "If Great Britain had seventeen prime ministers in 24 years, would Japan take the British Government seriously?  Wouldn't the press mock them each time they brought in a new person?  What do you think people overseas think of Japan when you can't seem to keep a person in office for more than a year?"  We didn't end up having much of a discussion.  I don't think they were too happy with my statement.

So, to all my American friends, if you don't vote in November I don't want to hear any crap about who gets into office.  At least we have the option.  Take it.  Use it.  Try living in Japan where everyone I speak to is embarrassed about the revolving door of politicians who seem to, at the end of the day, get very little done.   And, while we're at it, let's please cut the nastiness, the mocking, the accusations, and the making fun of what the wives are wearing.

Mayor Dad

I'm not one to shamelessly plug anything, but I'm always willing to make an exception.  If you have a moment and $9.95 to spare, please considering logging onto Amazon.com and look for Mayor Futoshi Toba's (Mayor of Rikuzentakata) book about the days and months post March 11^th as he experienced them.  Entitled, “Let’s Talk About It:  What Really Happened In The Disaster Area” this is book is brutally honest (at times painfully), emotional, real, and a must-read for anyone (politicians especially) who need to understand disaster prevention, relief, and management.  That yours truly translated the book isn’t the point.  Mayor Toba’s humanity, the decisions he made and now questions, his resolve, and dedication are something to behold.

But this is not why I’m writing about him.  At least not solely.  In a recent conversation we had, he shared the following story with me.  Again, it’s one of these I-can’t-make-this-up vignettes.  This one will make you love him all the more.

“So, my son, the older one, comes to me the other morning and says, ‘Dad!  My uniform is still wet!’  Not knowing what he’s talking about, I wander into his room where he’s packing for his basketball tournament that he has to leave for in about 30 minutes, and he’s holding up this clearly wet uniforms.  I don’t know what to do with this.  How do you dry something quickly, as in 30-minutes quickly?  Clothes dryer, right?  I’m annoyed, but I go into dad-mode, and take the uniform tops and shorts and stick them in the dryer.”  He looks at me here.  I nod.  Yeah.  What’s the big deal?  I’m not seeing where the drama is in this story.
“Except, I didn’t hit the ‘dry’ cycle.  I hit ‘wash’ and not just any ‘wash’ but the ‘long wash.’”  I laugh.  “Hey!”  I stop laughing.  Sort of.  “It’s not funny!” I swear that’s a mock pout I’m seeing.
“I’m sorry.  You’re right.  It’s not funny,” I say and know I’m not the least bit convincing.
“I didn’t know what to do.  My son’s standing in the bathroom looking at me with this, ‘Daaaad!’ look, and I know I’ve screwed up, and I know I can’t drain the washing machine and get it to spin and dry and all that in 30 minutes.  Rather, I don’t know how to.”  I’m grinning, but don’t say anything because after all, it’s not funny.  Right?
“So, I make some calls to get suggestions on how to dry this right now.  The consensus from the mothers I trust not to repeat the story,” and now he’s grinning too (sort of) “was that there’s no way to dry the uniform in 30 minutes.  I tell my son to get on the bus, that I’ll deliver his uniform before the game.  He’s annoyed with me, but shuffles off and now I’m in pretty much serious panic mode.  Can I microwave clothes?  Iron them?  I mean, they’re soaked.  I’ll end up with some major steam bath if I do that, won’t I?”  I’m not being asked so I keep grinning.  Smiling.  Not grinning.  Just smiling.
“Long story short, I ironed them.  I got all the tops and bottoms to him in time, too.  I called the mothers to thank them.” 
 He pauses.  “This is when I miss my wife.”  Then, quickly correcting himself, “It’s not just that I miss her when I don’t know how to run the washing machine.”
“I know.  I know that’s not what you meant.”
“ I relied on her so much.  It’s hard being both mayor and dad.”   

We’re both silent for awhile.
 “Your sons love you.  They respect you.  They get it.  They may not always like it, but they get it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
With that, we’re both quiet agian.  I bring up another topic in another minute or so, and we spend the rest of our time together working through projects, strategizing, and getting things done.  The Mayor or Rikuzentakata, of the city essentially wiped off the map, is an incredible father and dedicated mayor.  For his friendship and trust I’m grateful.  I hope you can meet him some day, through his book if not in person.  He’s one of the good guys.

The ramen dilemma

Having eaten ramen since I was a child, my version of macaroni and cheese in Japan, you'd think I'd know how to eat it by now.  Not so.  The problem?  Broth, the cheese equivalent, part of what makes or breaks the meal, this I manage to spatter all over my shirt.  I've long since given up wearing white when I eat ramen.  I leave the restaurant with little brown stains all over myself.  I honestly don't know what I'm doing wrong.

Or, perhaps I do.  A simple answer would be the fact I don't slurp the noodles.  Any type of noodle in Japan--ramen, pasta, soba, udon--these are eaten with a loud slurp.  I just can't bring myself to do this.  I get away with it because I'm foreign.  People who don't know me assume I don't know the rules.  People who do know me often ask, "You don't slurp?  It's considered bad manners in America, right?"  I nod and sneak a glance down at my shirt.  Have I stained it yet?

I decide to ask for advice.  I'm with two men, one the owner of a restaurant, another a friend.  I bring up my dilemma.

"What am I doing wrong?  I notice all these businessmen in crisp white shirts eating ramen over the lunch hour and I never see stains on their shirts.  I know I don't slurp, but doesn't slurping actually make the noodles wiggle more?  Why don't you guys have stains on your shirts?"

They contemplate this for awhile and decide women decidedly have a more difficult time with noddle-based meals because surely breasts must get in the way.

"Hang on," I protest.  "That can't be right."
"You're right," the restaurant owner says.  "If this were true, we'd have stains all over our stomachs."  We all laugh as he pats his larger-than-average Japanese gut.
"I don't know," my friend says.  "Clearly you're doing something wrong.  Maybe you need to slurp."

Now we contemplate Japanese slurping methods.  I argue the noodles must flip back and forth as they get sucked in.  "Doesn't that make the noodles jiggle, and doesn't that make them spatter the broth?"
"No," my friend argues.  "You slurp straight up."  Ah.  Straight up.  I mentally picture this and wonder to myself how much my mouth can hold at one time.  I decide to put it out there.

"I think my mouth is smaller.  I don't think I can put that much into my mouth at one time."
"Oh, come on," the owner isn't buying this.
"Try it sometime," my friend pushes.

I will, but until then I vow to wear black until I master the art of stain-free slurping.

What chivalry?

Not all women like, want, or appreciate the sentiment of "ladies first."  I can appreciate that.  Antiquated, sexist, implying women are the weaker sex, I've heard women say they don't need doors held open for them, to enter/exit the elevator first, or have chairs pulled out for them.  I can appreciate this, too.

To these women, I'd suggest a trip to Japan.  Certainly, chivalry here is an anomaly.  Sorry guys.  It's the truth.  While many would argue the role of, and the rights that come with change have improved the lives of women in Japan, there's more truth that women here rank second to men.  

Arriving in Japan yesterday, I'm hit with this reality even before I get off the plane.  The flight attendants fuss over the man sitting next to me.  Fuss is absolutely the right word here.  I, on the other hand, am not fussed over.  Is he a celebrity?  Is he special?  Perhaps.  Or, perhaps he's male.
No one offers to take the bag down for me from the overhead compartment.  It's more rare in the US that I get no offers for help from men to drag down my carry on.  As we exit the plane, I'm assuming we'll file out zipper-like, letting people in the rows in front of us exit first.  Nope.  Men push past me, no space for me to cut in.  None of them stop and offer to zip the zipper.

Dropped off at my apartment, I maneuver (and not well) my two suitcases and two carry on bags up the stair case while two men stand nearby and continue talking.  I'm this close to saying, "Really?  No help whatsoever?  Am I making this look easy?"

The gods and stars, making sure I thoroughly understand this is not an isolated incident, point me to a news show last night where two men, an expert of some sort, and a well-known television host discuss why women with strollers should ride the train less.  Simply put, they're in the way.  Presumably, to make sure they're not perceived as being completely out of touch with reality, they pepper their statements with, "But of course they do need to be able to leave the house."  The conclusion the two men come to is this:  women with strollers shouldn't ride the train during rush hour.  They take up too much space.  The rest of the time, the Japanese should be more sensitive to the fact that these should be allowed to leave their homes to run errands.  To run errands.  Right.  Got it.

Try running this segment on television in another country.  I know I'd be on the phone to the news outlet saying, "Did your guys really just say this?  You're okay with this?"  How many groups can you name that would never let this go by without pointing out its absurdity?  Women should stay home during rush hour because baby strollers get in the way of commuters?  Really?  Japan has to ask people to have good manners?

And, food for thought here, people:  Tokyo wants to host the Olympics in 2020?  Good luck with that.  You don't have a chance, especially if women and foreigners start spreading the word tourists and athletes with bags and gear aren't welcome on trains during rush hour.

Death in Syria, Japanese Politicians Fail Again, and the Myth (?) of Energey Conservation

Blame insomnia.  Or, perhaps it's the combination high-temperatures and humidity.  I'm cranky.  For my self-imposed Japanese lessons, my attempt to keep up with current events while adding to my vocabulary, I turn to my "trusted" news source:  TV.  The coverage of the news over the past several days is anything but happy.  Grim, stupid, and disappointing, I struggle to keep from turning it off.

Pick a channel, any channel, the news being reported focuses on the death of Ms. Mika Yamashita, by all accounts an incredible, brave, and well respected journalist who was shot to death in Syria.  Those around her are adamant in saying she was in Syria to cover the plight of women and children.  I keep seeing myself in her.  Not the whole "incredible, brave, well respected" part.  I'm not that arrogant.  That there are other women out there who do things few understand, following a drum beat perhaps only they can hear, that she will no longer do this, that some asshole took her life, I really can't describe the sadness and rage I feel.  What a waste.  What an incredibly stupid, stupid act of violence.

Then there are the politicians and those who feel entitlement in commenting on the acts (or lack thereof) of said politicians--here I'd like to make a suggestion.

The gist is, foreign policy in Japan is in shambles.  It's in shambles because the prime minister and his cabinet are busy fending off those who want a new group in power (again), and because there have been four foreign ministers in three years.  The ever-revolving door of politicians is tiresome.  This, too, is stupid.  I understand the consequences of what I'm saying.  I stand by it.  It's not rocket science.  With new people at the top every year or so (sixteen prime ministers in 23 years) how can they possibly be effective?

Here's my suggestion.  Stick it out, folks.  People want your head?  Say you won't go.  No more "I take responsibility, and I'll resign."  No.  Show some umph.  Show the country and the rest of the world you have the courage to fend off criticism.  Fight.  I mean it.  Fight.

Because, and here's a biggie, mothers are taking their children to protest Japan's nuclear energy policy, standing outside the Prime Minister's residence in the heat.  The Japanese are taking to the streets.  There are real protests, perhaps unlike anything seen here since students made noise about the Viet Nam War right around the time I was born.  These protests are a big deal.  I've stayed away from the nuclear issue, especially as it pertains to Fukushima, as it's a highly emotional topic for both sides, pro-, and anti. 

But, I will say this.  After the Fukushima Plants went down last year everyone in Tokyo was bombarded with daily reminders to conserve energy. (Tokyo got its energy from these Fukushima Plants.)   Trains cut their air conditioning, turned off lights, and used fans to circulate air.  Not well, mind you.  Department stores used giant fans.  All we could get was sort of cool, very stale air.  I can't think of anywhere I could go last summer to experience real air conditioning.

Not so this year.  Some buildings are almost cold.  Trains and subways are back blowing cold air, most welcome.  Air conditioning is back.  Which begs the question.  Where is Tokyo getting its energy?  Not Fukushima, of course.  There's energy left to spare?  Since when?  Where's it coming from?  Japan does or does not have an energy crisis?

Between the senseless murder of an otherwise incredible woman half way around the world, politicians who just don't get it, mothers who are teaching their children to speak up, and confusion over whether we get to or don't use this energy that may or may not exist--you can see why summer in Japan makes me a bit cranky.  Let's see if fall changes anything.

Summer Joy

It only makes sense, and this is truer if you can visualize what Tohoku looks like today seventeen months after the tsunami tore it apart.  Seasons change.  The only constant element is nature.  Life, growth, death, and rebirth is all around.  In nature, those of us in Tohoku see this daily.  While nature destroys, it also recreates.  My last trip up north made me realize this all the more.

Outside the apartment where I stay in Ofunato I see this everyday.  I only wish they could sing, a chorus of songs only sunflowers could manage to voice.  I would gladly wake up to singing sunflowers.  I would even wake up without complaint.

The reminder "life goes on" has never been clearer.  We want beauty in our lives.  I don't know anyone who doesn't want a bit of color in our daily routine.  Bright is good.  Cheerful is better.  Sunflowers capture summer joy like I've never felt before, and evidently I'm not alone.

Tohoku is awash with sunflowers.  The streets are lined with rows of their strong yellowness.  

Someone planted them, and I find this reassuring.  They're beautiful.  Tall, proud, showing off their colors, they bring joy.  Their faces scream, "Look at me! I'm pretty."  Summer is about the culmination of growth, what was planted in spring.  We harvest, appreciate, and admire what the season has done for us.

It's impossible not to grin around these flowers that exude happiness.  Clearly I am not alone in feeling this way.  Wanting to return to a sense of normalcy, that nature can bestow and not just ruin, the choice (deliberate or subconscious?) of many in Tohoku to plant flowers of joy, the epitomy of summer has not gone unnoticed.  I see grandmothers stopped on the sidewalk admiring the mustard-yellow petals.  They point at the bees on the brown faces of these flowers.  I stand back and watch, grinning once more at the fact there is joy once again here in Tohoku.