Thursday, January 26, 2012

For once I sat and listened


I suppose the first fact I had to face was my own inconsistency.  Sometimes I enjoy listening to, and talking with people who have very different opinions, and other times I find them tedious, wind-baggish, arrogant, and a bore.  Today, the man whose opinions I was audience to was someone I liked.  That he made incredibly interesting points helped.  He also hit upon ideas that made me cringe uncomfortably.  Am I willing to accept these statements made contain more truth than not?  I let myself wander through his words wondering and knowing.

“Listen carefully because I’m going to say a lot,” and I know we’re off.  The one everyone emulates and respects in town is holding court far away from Tohoku.
“It’s simply not okay for people to pay to bus people from Fukushima to Tokyo to party.  Okay?  It’s not.”  No one else speaks.  The local legend from down south continues.
“They come down to Tokyo by the busloads.  People feel sorry for them, so they pay to take them out of Fukushima, let them get drunk first thing in the morning, and then go play pachinko all day.  You know how much money these pachinko parlor owners, these assholes, are making?”  Still, no one speaks.  We really dare not.
“I’m not saying they’re not having a rough time.  But, there are limits.  Really.  You can’t blow your government aid on pachinko, and expect me not to get pissed.”  Those of us listening are trying to figure out whether to nod, stay silent, ask a question, and not knowing the answer sneak glances at each other.
"It's not just that they play pachinko.  They want.  If you're going to live in a town destroyed by a tsunami and then go play pachinko everyday, you don't get to want.   Get off your ass and do something good.  It's not that hard.  No, I take that back.  It is.  But, that's what we Japanese are good at.  You take the easy way out?  That's it.  I hate," and here he shakes his head so vigorously I'm a bit worried, "I hate it when Japanese are weak.  We're not weak.  Look at all we've survived."  He clearly can’t contain himself in his seat anymore, grabs a pack of cigarettes, yanks one out, lights it, inhales deeply and starts pacing. 
“Look.  I lived through the war.  That war.  I was there when Tokyo was bombed.  Tokyo then looked like Tohoku now.  Except,” and here he lights another cigarette, “Except, we didn’t have insurance.  We didn’t have the government bailing us out.  We didn't have anyone sending us aid.   No, I take that back.  The yakuza guys helped.  They also helped in Kobe.  I know they're jerks but sometimes you wonder.  I won’t go into that today, though.”  Inhaling and exhaling, pacing and stopping, we follow him with our eyes still too afraid to speak.
“Shit.  I know it’s rough up there, but dammit!  Get a grip!  Pachinko?  I’m embarrassed to be Japanese if that’s what passes for Japanese these days.  Aren’t you?”  He jabs his cigarette towards one of his disciples who quickly nods.
“We’d come crawling out of our bunkers after the bombings, see nothing, except Mt. Fuji in the distance because everything between here and there was flattened.  We’d scrounge around for anything to build a make-shift shelter for the night.  No one gave us water.  No one sent us clothes.  Diapers?  Shoes?  Food?  Don’t make me laugh.  You know good these guys up in Tohoku have it?” 
I’m so uncomfortable right now that it’s hard for me to stay silent.  Lowering his tone, he then says, “I’m sick and tired of hearing ‘times are different.’  Don’t insult my intelligence.  I know times are different.  But, as a country, as a people, somewhere we got lazy.  This is a fact.  Don’t bother disagreeing with me.  I’ll beat the crap out of you.”  I don't doubt he means it.
Done with his cigarettes and pacing, he sits down again.
“I know people died.  I know life is hard there.  I’m not stupid, and I’m not a cold-hearted bastard.  I just miss the days Japanese were strong.  We’re just a bunch of whiney, spoiled brats these days.  I don’t want to be embarrassed to be Japanese.  Pachinko…..” And, with that he sighs, sort of cringes and laughs, looks around, and we’re done.  And, now.  And, now indeed.  What do I do with that?

Sunday, January 22, 2012

The New Japan: The color brown and the joy it brings

The New Japan: The color brown and the joy it brings: Tonight it’s Italian. “The food’s already been ordered. It’ll keep coming out. You just eat.” I’m given clear and specific ins...

The color brown and the joy it brings


Tonight it’s Italian.
“The food’s already been ordered.  It’ll keep coming out.  You just eat.”  I’m given clear and specific instructions from Kazu-san.
“Okay.  That’s good, ‘cause I’m hungry.”
“Did you eat today?” 
“Sort of.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Not really.”  And then he gives me a very proper brotherly speaking to.  I'm told in no uncertain terms "how-the-hell-do-you-expect-not-get-sick" and am chastised for my sloppiness.

The gang arrives in ones and twos.  The city council member is very late and makes his way in with a slew of “sorry”s.
“We knew that was you coming up the stairs,” Taro-san says, half drunk.
“Huh?”
“You shuffle,” and as if they’ve been keeping this secret to themselves all night and have just let it out, they all start to laugh.  I do, too.
“Hmmm, shuffling?”  The city council member is half-concerned and half-nonchalant.  Does he dare believe the not-quite-fully-drunk Taro-san's comment about him shuffling?

The food does keep coming out, and conversations fly across tables mixed with mock insults, gossip, and updates.  Someone whips out their phone.
“Facebook?”
“Yup.”
“What’s the latest?”

This is now how they keep tabs on each other.

“You still haven’t friended me,” Tomo-san says to Taro-san.
“Huh?  Really?”
“Not buying that act of yours,” and Tomo-san who is definitely drunk says, “you’re doing this on purpose.”
“Huh?” and Taro-san looks at me and smiles, knowing I know he’s absolutely doing this on purpose.

Shige-san who’s sitting next to me leans over and shows me a photo on his phone.
“What’s this mean?”  It’s the photo of crayons in various skin tone colors first (evidently) posted by George Takei and shared throughout Facebook.  Including me.



“Oh, right.  That symbolizes the fact the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday celebrates the various races in the US.”
“Interesting,” he says and then, “what’s this you wrote?” and points to the three lines I added under the photo.
“My family is very diverse which is why I posted the photo of the crayons.  I’m celebrating them,” I tell him, “and I was just telling them I love them and miss them.”
“Like who?” Kazu-san says from across the table.
“Like who what?” I’m confused.  Who am I saying I love in my family?
“Like who do you have in your family?”
“Oh.  Well, I have a Chinese sister-in-law and two half-Chinese nieces, a cousin who married a Lakota woman, another cousin who married a Jewish woman, a cousin who married an Egyptian, a cousin who’s half-Creole, several Korean cousins, an African-American uncle, several half-African-American cousins, two brothers-in-law from the Ivory Coast,” and pause, “I think that’s about it.”
“Yeah,” he laughs.  “I guess that’s diverse.”

***

Fast forward one day and I’m sitting around a table with ten kids, ages two to five.  “The flu is going around and it’s pretty bad, so there aren’t that many kids today,” the principal of the day care center tells me.
“That’s okay.  We can still play.  If that’s alright with you, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” and with that I follow her into an uncharacteristically very quiet classroom.

I ask if I can sit down on one of the miniature chairs, and am told “okaaay” in English by one of the boys.  I say “Hey, that’s good!” in reply, and offer up a high-five.  He takes it.  Soon other hands are asking for high-fives as well.  I hit all ten hands.  We’re all smiles.

I pull out the picture book of fruit and vegetables and I point and talk about the ones they know.  I get to the potato and ask, “Do you know what this is in English?  I bet you do.”  The kids can't decide if it's actually a potato, and after making sure the group actually agrees it’s a potato and not a gourd, I slowly say “po-ta-to” to which I get a table full of kids saying “Oh, I knew that!” and “like potato chips.”  I’m impressed all over again at how much of their vocabulary contains English words and tell them this.  Two year olds who have just been given a compliment they don’t quite understand are indeed a sight to see.  Simply put, they’re adorable.  They know something good just happened, but they have no idea what it is or why. 

Once we’re done with the fruit and vegetables I pull out the box of crayons I borrowed from the principal and go through the colors.  Again, they all know red, blue, white, black, yellow, pink, orange in English.  I get to brown, and ask if they know what it is.
“Chairo,” one boy says. 
“Right.  Now do you know how to say that in English?” 
Here he pauses a minute, and says in his best foreigner accent, “cha-ee-roh” which is so delightful, sincere, and hilarious that the adults immediately crack up.

“Let’s draw” one of the children says, and the teachers quickly stand and get paper.  I point to the apple and cherries in the book and ask the kids around me if they can draw me these.  I get shy looks in response but both kids pull out their red crayons and start drawing something resembling red circles.

I hear the boy who knew how to say brown in Japanese having a very animated conversation with one of the teachers at his end of the table.  Soon, I hear the teacher say, “Go show Amya-san.”  He gets up and brings his sheet over to me.  I see small blotches of beige, orange, and lots of brown. 

“Would you like some custard?” he says, holding out the sheet.  It is definitely a very good thing my son was an imaginative child as I caught on immediately I was being invited to play, right there and right then.
“Yes, please,” I say in English.  And then in Japanese, “What do you recommend?”
“This one,” he points to the beige one.
“All right,” I say.  “I’ll have that.”  He pinches the air above the beige splotch “picking up” the custard and puts his fingers in my mouth.  (I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu.)
“That was good!” I say and he grins.
“What’s this?” I ask, and point to the brown spots. 
“That’s chocolate.”
“Ooooh.  I like chocolate.  May I have this one?” and I point to the biggest piece (of course) and quickly add, “And, what color is this?”
He looks at me and I swear he’s enjoying this as much as I am, “brown.”
“Yup.”
“Yup,” he says back in English but it sounds more like “up” and I make sure my smile is really a smile and not another “you crack me up” grin.  I quickly look back down at the “chocolate” on the page.  When I look up, I see him grinning with that “gotcha” look of pure pride.
“Unfortunately, we’re sold out,” he then says.  Ooh, I did not see that coming, little stinker you.
“What?!”
“Sorry.” 
“No way!”  I’m just the slightest bit upset by the fact I have just been one-upped by a four-year old, and can’t help shake the feeling I’ve really been denied real chocolate.  I’m determined to get this chocolate, though, and so keep playing.
“When is your next chocolate delivery?
“When are you coming back?”
“In a few weeks.”
“I’ll have it by then.”  And, here I really want to say, “you better” but instead say, “thank you.”  I look down at the paper again.
“What else do you have?” But, while triumphant, clearly he’s bored now and walks back to his chair leaving me to now think about the faux chocolate I some how missed out on but now can’t get off my mind.

How the color brown single-handedly managed to become the most important topic at hand in Ofunato for both adults and children in one single weekend is beyond me.  I’m delighted, though.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

The honesty of children

The volunteer organization I first came to Iwate has come and gone.  They insert themselves into disaster zones, clean things up, and then leave.  I'm told over 1,000 volunteers, many of them foreigners, came to this area and did their thing.

"We've only seen foreigners in movies," one grandmother told me back in the spring.  "It's kind of strange to see you in person.  You're actually real."
"We are," I said, and tried very hard not to grin at the fact there are still those who think foreigners are some strange group of people that only show up on television.

The sense of "you're not quite real" is still present.  I stayed last night at a facility that hosts volunteers, foreign and domestic.  As I walked down the long hallway and passed an elderly man, I said hello.
"Hello," he says, and then looks at me long and hard.
"You're not from here."
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."  Evidently, we're still a bit of an oddity here.

My primary goal for this trip is to hang out with kids.  The sentiment held by some that while it's quite alright and appreciated for all these foreigners to have come in and dug out ditches, that they've now gone has left people feeling empty.

"It's a wrap," one volunteer wrote on Facebook.  No, it's not.  It's a wrap for you, but it's most definitely not a wrap for those left behind whose lives have changed in ways they still have difficulty articulating.

I was asked if I would be willing to continue the foreign exposure, focusing my time on being around children.
"Of course!"
"Really?" a principal of a local day care center asks.
"Really.  Use me.  That's what I'm here for."  Today was the first day I was "used."

We counted to ten.  We sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', we practiced "hello" and "good-bye" and "how are you?" and "see you soon."  I was then shuttled off to the class of five-year olds and was asked to go into more detail.  I held up a large colorful card of a cartoon renkon (a root) and told them "kids your age don't eat renkon in America."  I look down at the kids and see looks of shock and awe.
"Why?  Renkon is so good!" One boy says.

I hold up colored origami paper.  We're going to practice our colors.
"What color is this?" I say as I show them a sheet of red.
"Red!"  Several kids say in English, while others call out the word for red in Japanese.  We practice saying "red" in English and more boys pipe up and start talking about their favorite anime characters who are dressed in red.  I hold up pink, orange, yellow, green, black, white, and blue.  All the kids know the English words for these colors.  I'm impressed.
"What about siruba?" another boy raises his hand and immediately starts talking about his favorite anime character who is evidently silver.  I look for something silver in the room.  Finding it, I point and ask "What color is this?" to which the group of 20+ kids all scream out, "Siruba!"
"Yes!  Silver!"  I then point to something gold.  "What about this?"
"Gorudo!"
"Good!  Gold."  I'm impressed.  Thank god for anime!
In my twisted and perverse need to stump five-year olds I look for a color they won't know.  Finding one and feeling slightly triumphant in advance, I point to a boy's sweatshirt and ask, "What color is this?"  The room falls silent.  That was mean.  Really, woman.  That was not necessary.
"Oh, I know this," one girl says.
"Really?  Think.  Try.  Do you remember?"
"It starts with pa," she says and starts silently mouthing something I can't hear.  I start to say "purple" and mouth it to her, at which point she jumps in her seat, her hand shooting up and not-quite screams, "papuru!"  So much pride in that little body of hers.  It's oozing.
"Right!  Purple!  Good girl."  I smile down at her and she beams back at me.  Success.

I'm invited to share their lunch.  I'm given an adult-sized tray full of food after being asked several times if there are things I can't eat.
"I'm okay," I say and secretly hope they don't serve fried eggs or natto.  I chance it.
It takes the class of 20+ kids and three teachers another 15 minutes to serve everyone.  I'm famished.  I skipped breakfast to get her on time, and the food in front of me has me wondering when we're eating.  I pick up my chop sticks and stick one slice of carrot in my mouth.  I try to sneak it but am caught.  Totally and completely caught red-handed.
"She ate!" the girl next to me says, pointing, and I'm busted.
"Sorry....." I say and try to change the topic.  Not a chance.
"She did!  She ate!" the boy across from me now announces to the rest of the class.  Evidently this faux pas was a lot more of an issue than I thought.
"I promise I won't eat again." I bow to the five-year olds I just tried to teach colors to.  They seem satisfied and we're silent for awhile.

Four kids in chef's hats and white smocks line up at the front of the class and lead the class in what seems a very elaborate ritual of before-we-partake-of-our-food sing-song chant.  I say the right things when I'm supposed to (making it up as I go along, sort of) and am finally allowed to eat.
"You had to wait for that," the girl next to me whispers.
"Okay," I whisper back.

So begins the first of many trips to Ofunato to hang with kids.  I will learn to mind my manners.  I'm sure I will continue to be impressed at how much energy they have, the English they already know, and their ability to call me out when I step out of line.  It's most definitely not a wrap.  There's much to do.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Was that an earthquake? There's an app to find out.

It took me several days to figure out the constant shaking in my apartment came from my chair.  There's a reason it was on sale.  The thing moves every time my fingers hit the keyboard of my laptop.  I am not someone who bangs at keys.  I prefer the image of my fingers flying as opposed to thumping.  Thus, I attribute my confusion over the assumption the phantom aftershocks were my brain and body playing tricks on me, when it was in fact my defective office chair.

None of this should make anyone assume aftershocks are a done deal here in Japan.  Quite the contrary.  This has me just the slightest bit wigged out.

There's an iPhone app that I've downloaded.  It signals every earthquake, giving me the location and strength.  Lately, my phone has been buzzing multiple times daily.  The aftershocks are hitting mostly the same areas:  Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, Chiba, Ibaragi.  Every now and then one will hit Hokkaido, Kyoto, Kyushu, Tokyo, or some other random prefecture.  The rest?  The same coastline that was hit last March, and that has continued to be pounded since.

What do I do with this information?  The 4.2, 4.7, 3.5, and occasional 5.2 jolts have me concerned.  Am I overly sensitive to these aftershocks because I have the app?  I don't always feel them.  I know there's been an earthquake because my phone buzzes.  That the buzzing has been non-stop lately, meaning earthquakes are happening one after the other after the other, means the plates are moving still.  So, I ask myself again, what do I do with this information?

There is talk of "the next big one" here in Tokyo.  Part of the time the assumption is it will hit Tokyo, and the other half of the time, the thought is "it will hit somewhere" but that where, no one can predict.  Not being a geologist or a seismologist I honestly don't know what to believe.

"We can't live our lives fearing this," my ex says.
"True," I say, "but does that mean we just pretend it's not going to happen?  What about you?  Have you stockpiled water?  Food?"
"Water, yes.  Food, no."
I wonder whether or not to tell him every time I leave the house in heels I secretly ponder whether I shouldn't be taking a pair of flats in my bag.  The idea of walking home for miles in heels on Tokyo's sidewalks makes me cringe.  I have yet to carry my flats with me, though.  What does that say about me?  Am I in denial?

If I deleted the app that makes my phone vibrate with every new earthquake, I could argue I suppose, I would be less bothered by the knowledge Japan is still shaking.  That logic doesn't quite work for me.  So, in the mean time, I will buy a bigger purse so I can fit my flats in the bag I carry with me always.  That logic does work for me.