Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Home again: Part Two

I'm sorry to say, I was one of those people who seriously mocked travelers who carried their pillows through airports.  I'm not talking about the pillows that fit around the neck.  I mean the pillows we sleep on at night. 

"You miss your pillow so much you can't leave home without it?"
"Do you know how dirty that pillowcase is going to be by the time you sleep on your oh-so-precious pillow?"

How many times did I cough out "loser" (to myself, of course) as I passed them at the airport gates?
I now eat my words.  Coming home and sleeping in my bed, I am now painfully aware of how important my pillow is to me.  Yes, sleeping next to my husband feeds my soul.  But, there is truly something about sleeping in my bed with my pillow that makes me cringe at the fact I made fun of those who carried their pillows from city to city.

I am sleeping deeply every night.  I know this because I am dreaming.  My dreams and I have a complicated relationship.  I have nightmares once or twice a year.  The rest of the time, I have strong and vivid dreams.  I like dreaming.  It's proof to me that I am going deep into my subconscious.  I like what I find in my dreams.  I discover meaning there.  Knowing my dreams have been incredibly intense over the past four nights since returning to Boston proves to me I'm sleeping deeply and processing.  This is good.

When the nightmares hit, I know to tell myself, in my dream, "this is a nightmare" and "it's okay to wake up."  I do wake myself up.  I leave the nightmare behind, and think of Sean Connery in his 007 gear saying things like, "Woman, you need to come with me."  Happy thoughts.  The only way I can allow myself to go back to sleep without fear of finding myself back in that nightmare is through Mr. Connery.  To whom I am very grateful, by the way. 

My husband and I, having shared the same bed for over twenty years, now also share what we call "dream transference."  If one of us has intense dreams through the night, the other usually does as well.  Is this a true psychological phenomenon?  We don't know.  We don't particularly care, either.  It's true for us.

It's not that I don't sleep well in Tokyo.  But, truly, the sleep I have had over the past four nights here in my bed and with my pillow is a much more relaxing, deeper kind of sleep, even with the dreams.

All this to say, I will no longer mock those whom I see walking through airports with their pillows, and I will be taking mine back with me to Japan.  I can't take my bed, mattress, and husband back with me, but here's to hoping I won't have to call upon 007 to rescue me from my nightmares once I return to Tokyo.  Will my pillow do the trick?  I'll let you know.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Home (?) again.

It all started the second time I went to Japan last year.  The locals whom I had gotten to know well, the gang of men who have taken me in as one of their own, said this to me at different times:  "Welcome home."  This greeting, reserved and used when someone close comes "home" has been repeated over and over.  In fact, every time I go back to Ofunato, indeed every time I go back to Japan, someone says this to me:  "Welcome home."

Part two of this happened last night.  At a meeting of women here in Boston, I hear it again:  "Welcome home."

In Japanese, the word is "okaeri."  Mothers say it to their children and husbands as people come home from school and work.  I grew up with it.  The translation I use is "welcome home" but it could just as easily be "you're back" (with the insinuation that follows "I'm glad you're back").  The concept personifies a lovely combination of politeness and endearment.  I like it.

I'm flattered I'm "welcomed back" whenever I return to Japan, and to Ofunato.  That people say this to me indicates to me I'm allowed to consider Japan home.  What happens then when the same okaeri phrase is used at me in Boston?  I'm welcomed home again.  So then, where's home?

I've long ago decided home is wherever I am at that time.  I can be living out of a suitcase, but for the time I'm there, that's home.  I also go home after living out of said suitcase.  That's also home.  This way of thinking works for me.  Convenient?  Perhaps.  I've learned to adopt and adapt. 

So, I'm welcomed home in Boston, and will surely be welcome back once I get back to Japan.  It's lovely to have homes all over the place.  The ability to consider home as wherever I am at any given moment, and then having that validated by the "welcome back"s I receive whenever I do return--I'm lucky. 

Thursday, February 16, 2012

"Why do you do this?"

This questions, phrased differently from many people has been asked over and over in the past year.

"Why are you helping us?"

Why did I go to a region of Japan I was completely unfamiliar with last March? What made me do something I was so profoundly uncomfortable doing?  I've tried several answers.
"Japan was home to me for many years."
"I thought I could help."
"I was in a position where I could.  My family was supportive, and I had the freedom in my professional life to take time off."

None of these responses have really convinced anyone.  The explanations I've offered are incomplete to those in Tohoku who simply don't understand why a gaijin would drop everything and do something, to them, so odd and yet meaningful.

I now have two answers, both of which (to me, at least) speak volumes.

Here's one answer.


This was given to me by a boy at a day care center back in December when I made the trip up as Mrs. Claus, handing out candy to kids.  After the kids had opened their stockings filled with bits of chocolate and candy canes, one boy came up to me from behind, tugging at my Mrs. Claus skirt.

"Give this to Santa," and he hands me these two sheets.
"What is it?"
"Money.  I want Santa to have it."  I look at the two "bills" and fight tears.
"Okay," I manage, and then "Thank you."
One of the men with me, seeing I'm about to lose it, asks, "How much are you giving Santa?" pointing to the amounts written on the origami paper.
"One hundred thousand million billion."  Or, it could just have easily been "a bajillion."
I laugh.  The boy laughs.  I thank him again.  He smiles and runs away.

Then there are the women.  Those who did not lose their homes in the tsunami have reached out to the women now living in temporary housing quarters.
"Let's knit together," is the invitation extended as they try to rebuild the sense of community and neighborhood lost to the women who don't know their new neighbors in the temporary housing complexes.

They need yarn.  They don't care what kind, color, amount, or quality.  I set up a site on Amazon.com (the Japanese site: amazon.co.jp) where people can send yarn to them.

Here's the link.
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/registry/wishlist/ref=wish_list

In sharing this story about women coming together, news spread to women in Fukushima who also now want to start their own knitting group.  I reached out to the "knitting teacher" in Ofunato, asking if her group would host the women from Fukushima.  Now women in Iwate are helping women in Fukushima.

This is why I do what I do.

Valentine's Day, gift-giving, and getting away with it.

Obligatory chocolate is what happens when a foreign and imported holiday meets Japanese culture.  Let me explain.

Valentine's Day in Japan is not about cards, roses, or gifts of jewelry and spa certificates.   This is a day where women give chocolate to men.  Period.  Secret crush?  Give him chocolate.  Love of your life?  Chocolate.  Willing to confess your love?  Do it through homemade chocolate.  Boss?  Ah, yes.  Here it is. You give those to whom you "owe" something chocolate as well.  It's not, evidently, just about love and like.  In Japan, giri-choco (giri = indebtedness) is given to someone to whom you want to create a favorable impression, or to whom you owe.  I contemplate this phenomenon and think about all the men I know in Japan, and which ones I might "owe" chocolate to.

Then I ask myself, "Aren't I exempt?"  I decide I'm not.  I, too, owe.  I have a list of whom I should be buying for.  It's long.  What to do....

I tell myself the men to whom I owe chocolate "don't eat chocolate" and "would prefer Japanese sweets instead" and "are married."  It's not that I'm in love with them.  This is obligatory-chocolate.  I owe them a gift.  I'm conveniently busy on Valentine's Day, except for one meeting.  If I don't see them, I don't have to buy for them.  Right?

February 14th, 3:30pm.  I'm sitting across from the man who got me to Japan.  If I owe anyone chocolate, it's him.  I didn't bring any.

"I didn't bring you any chocolate," I say.  "I know that was risky.  Are you mad?"
"Mad?  No.  You did the right thing."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really.  I used to get about 100 boxes of giri-choco every year.  What the hell am I supposed to do with all that chocolate?  Then, I have to give them something on White Day.  You know how much that's gonna cost me?  Do the math.  One hundred boxes for 5000 yen each?  No.  I told everyone last year, 'No more chocolate.'  I'm safe now."
"So, you really don't mind?"
"I wouldn't have accepted it."

Well then.  I guess I'm in the clear.

White Day, by the way, and men outside of Japan might want to jot this date down, is on March 14th, a month after giri-choco day.  On this day in Japan, men give giri-cookies to women who gave them chocolate the month before.  I kid you not.  I much prefer pearls, diamonds, opals, or cash, but it doesn't work that way.  Perhaps White Day needs to be exported?

So, all this to say, I got away with not giving chocolate this year.  Which also means I didn't get to buy myself a box (just in case I think of someone else at the last minute).  My first Valentine's Day without chocolate.  I will just have to make up for it some how.  This also means any cookies I might want to eat on March 14th must be purchased by yours truly.  Ah well.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

The Sidewalk Wars: When Bicycles and Pedestrians Collide (literally)

A routine errand run, including a trip to the dry cleaners (who charge way too much) turned into a lesson in  how to maneuver the streets of Tokyo.  More apt, it's the sidewalks that cause me grief, and challenge my skills on when to move out of the way, and when to stand my ground.

If we accept as fact space is a luxury in Japan, and thus sidewalks and streets are narrow, and then if we further accept as fact bicycles in Japan are ridden on sidewalks AND roads, then these facts allow those of us who do not ride bicycles to wonder (out loud at times) why it is pedestrians are the ones who have to duck and cover.  Case in point.

I turn the corner out of my apartment, and in a matter of ten seconds experience the following:

"Stop, stop."  A mother standing to my left says...to whom?  Me?  I look at her short, bobbed hair, notice she's a bit plump, admire her large, black-rimmed glasses (very Jackie O), and wonder what to do but not long enough to stop.

A boy, maybe two, comes out from behind a bicycle to my right.  A bicycle comes from behind me, also on my right, and hits the boy, knocking him down.  The front tire catches the boy between the legs, and pushes the boy forward a meter or so with the boy face down.

I freeze.  In hindsight, my next reaction made me realize I am very much a girl.  My first concern was for his face.  Assuming he dragged his face onto the pavement for the entire time he was being pushed forward by that bicycle tire, I expect scrapes and blood when the mother picks him up.  The boy is screaming, of course.  The mother rushes forward, while the man jumps off his bike, apologizing and asking if he should call an ambulance.  I'm still frozen.

The mother picks up her son, who has not a scratch on his face.  It's at this moment I realize the whole "I'm such a girl" thing.  The tire caught the boy between his legs.  Men probably cringed as they read that sentence earlier.  For me, the tire-in-the-groin thing didn't register until I saw his face was clean except for tears.  First things first??

I notice I'm still frozen.  My hand to my mouth, I haven't moved.  The "it happened so fast" phrase I often hear in police dramas goes through my head.

On any given day, on any given sidewalk, pedestrians and bicyclists battle for turf.  The bikes weave in and out of people, I guess assuming the pedestrians have the right of way?  I don't know these rules.  I tend to stand still when I see a bicycle coming my way, as I can't predict well enough who's doing what, and who's supposed to do what.  No one else seems to have this problem.  I also often wonder why bicycles get to ride on sidewalks and the roads.  Neither is safe for them.  The sidewalk makes it less safe for those of us who walk, and those who ride.  Surely there's a better way.  Isn't there?

I suppose I should say I'm not particularly fond of these cyclists.  Between riding with one hand carrying an umbrella, and the other on the handle I'm just not sure they're as careful as I'd like them to be.  Even more so, when they're talking on their cell phone.

In several months perhaps, I too will not be nearly as chicken and will assert my rights as a pedestrian.  Until that day comes, I think of that two year old boy every time I leave the house and wonder, "who's next?"

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Those Who Have and Those Who Don't

I really wanted to write "the haves and have nots" but in the spirit of keeping myself for being a plagiarizer, I'm going with something only slightly different.  In all seriousness, this is an important topic.  Allow me to explain.

Simply put, to this day, there is survivor guilt.  There is a sense of "not hurting enough" and "being spared" and "feeling bad about not feeling bad."  Is this a uniquely Japanese sentiment?  There is definitely a sense of obligatory responsibility.  Those who don't embrace it, and those who ignore it are considered rule-breakers.  Gaijins who "don't get it" don't get much done.

So, imagine this.  Your house is far away enough from the coast that it didn't experience any damage last March.  You know people, and you know people who know people who lost their homes, loved ones, jobs, and cars.  You, however, are fine.  As is your home.  And your car.  Your family members were all home on that day are are safe.  Your children go to school on higher ground and are to date, still safe.  You were all safe.  These are the people who have wondered for the past year, "why me?"  Rather, better phrased, "why not me?"

I cannot relate to this.  Pretending I can and do is insulting.  This is not my pain.  I am the outsider.  I am not from here.  What do I say then to those who feel guilt over surviving, living the same home, driving the same car, going to the same job site?

"If I don't go down towards the port, I don't see the devastation.  Technically, if I wanted to, I could live my life as if nothing has happened."  The person saying this looks up at me.  (I will not mention a name out of respect for their pain and guilt.)  I truly do not know what to say.

Up north, there is a clear sense of the differentiation between those who have lost, and those who have not.  Understandable, yes.  A whole new level of difficulty in community-relations, also yes.

I listen a lot these days.  Being one who "has" means I don't get to dispense advice nonchalantly.  My role for the foreseeable future is to listen more, and to speak less.  The former I can do.  The latter is a challenge.  Evidently, now is my time to be silent.  For that, I need the Serenity Prayer all over again.  "And the wisdom to know the difference."