"My husband said, 'You've changed,'" and she looks at me for a response.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.
I just did the math last night. A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience. So, yes. I've changed, too.
The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother. She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house. You know. Wifely things." What comes to mind immediately is her energy level. Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day. Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite. Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.
My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions. I much preferred to complain. Energy? I have plenty of that. Right?
Wrong. Mothers are more often than not right. I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite. I often tap my reserves. Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.
Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us. My respect increases with every visit. The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength. To say they can handle anything is not fair. It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met. I want to learn from these Tohoku women. How do I harness their energy? Is there a secret? There must be. If so, what is it? Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?"
With each visit I have more questions than answers. Sometimes this is daunting. At times, it's invigorating. On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers. They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it. I'm determined to find out what it is.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Working Mothers: Part 1
Surely there will come a day when I learn not to chip my nail polish two days after getting a new coat of color. To date, that day has not yet arrived. Monday morning, rushing to the train station to make my way up to Ofunato, I stuck my hand in my purse looking for the train ticket that always seems to disappear. My pointer finger hit something. I pull my hand out looking at the nail, and sure enough. Big chunk of color missing. I curse.
On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato. I haven't recorded it. Of course. I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail. Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?" The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry! I'm all booked tomorrow!" While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased. She's busy. This is great news. I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty. We've had bad news for such a long time, you know? I've sat here and listened to women from all over. We've cried together. We've laughed, too." Here she looks up at me and we both smile.
That she's booked s a good thing. Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty. She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown. The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.
The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger. I must keep snagging it on something. My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working. I smudge everything I touch. I decide to beg.
"I promise I'll do it myself even. I just need the color. Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow. We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon. What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again.
Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me. The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"
Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain. It's the word for the English language.
"I am," I reply. "I'm English." She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her. Crap. This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles. As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me. Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time? Your day's done, isn't it? I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no. It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight. As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams. I start singing with her. Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody. Then she starts counting to ten. I count with her.
My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection. I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick. You need to go, don't you?"
The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies.
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter. He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor. The black and white checker design is bold.
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend. "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really? It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is. Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know. You're good. It works. It suits you."
Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs." The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.
"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say.
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal. I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one. You want to try?" Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder. I'll bet you can say it though. You ready?" They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait. The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh. She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says. "That's easy." Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers. They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know. Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."
I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again. I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.
On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato. I haven't recorded it. Of course. I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail. Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?" The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry! I'm all booked tomorrow!" While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased. She's busy. This is great news. I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty. We've had bad news for such a long time, you know? I've sat here and listened to women from all over. We've cried together. We've laughed, too." Here she looks up at me and we both smile.
That she's booked s a good thing. Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty. She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown. The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.
The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger. I must keep snagging it on something. My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working. I smudge everything I touch. I decide to beg.
"I promise I'll do it myself even. I just need the color. Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow. We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon. What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again.
Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me. The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"
Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain. It's the word for the English language.
"I am," I reply. "I'm English." She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her. Crap. This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles. As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me. Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time? Your day's done, isn't it? I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no. It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight. As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams. I start singing with her. Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody. Then she starts counting to ten. I count with her.
My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection. I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick. You need to go, don't you?"
The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies.
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter. He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor. The black and white checker design is bold.
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend. "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really? It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is. Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know. You're good. It works. It suits you."
Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs." The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.
"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say.
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal. I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one. You want to try?" Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder. I'll bet you can say it though. You ready?" They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait. The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh. She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says. "That's easy." Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers. They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know. Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."
I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again. I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.
追悼式
喪中の意を象徴する黒の服に身をつつんで、男性女性、少年少女、あらゆる年齢や背景の人々が、追悼式会場となっている大きなコンクリート建物に入ってくる。大勢の人たちがいるにもかかわらず、コンサート会場は静寂につつまれている。中に入ると、菊で出来た大きな花輪が私を出迎える。私たちが懇親にしている市議会議員が会場内にいて、私の腕をとると受付に案内してくれる。
受付では「お住まいの市町村名と、あなたのお名前をお願いします。」と、黒い服を着た若い男性に聞かれる。東京と言う代わりに「ボストン」と伝える。両方とも私の故郷であるから、実質的に嘘をいったことにはならない。
ここ数日間、町で見かけた人たちが立ち止まって深々とおじぎをする。私が出席したことに感謝してくれている。おじぎを返し、「もちろん、お伺いさせていただきました。今日、他の場所にいることなど考えられません。」と答えると、相手は笑顔を返してくれる。私も微笑を返す。
特別招待者やスピーチ予定者以外の一般参加者は二階席に座る。二階へ行き、座ってからステージを見おろす。ステージ中央には木製の大きな長方形の柱が建っていて、どことなく墓石を思い出させる。「東日本大震災で亡くなった方々のご冥福を祈って。」柱を囲んでさらにたくさんの菊。黄色に白、上品だがシンプルな飾りつけ。これがステージほぼ全体を埋めつくしている。
来賓たちが会場を埋めていく。私が知っている顔もいる。式は１０時きっかりに始まる。まずは黙祷。全員が起立しておじぎ、一階最前列右のコーナーに席をとっているマスコミ陣のカメラシャッター音を覗いては物音ひとつしない。このシャッター音については複雑な感情がある。彼らも黙祷すべきではないんだろうか。犠牲者に敬意を払うことよりも、よい写真を撮ることのほうが大切なんだろうか。
役員たちのスピーチは大体似たようなものだ。市長、知事、市議会議長、復興庁代表者、皆がとても政治的で形式的。それも悪くはない。ただ、感情に訴えるスピーチではない。
そして、遺族代表の言葉。彼と以前会ったような気がするが思い出せない。彼は起立して、参列者全員に向かっておじぎ、ステージに向かっておじぎ、ステージに向かって歩いていきさらにおじぎをする。そして、スピーチを読み始める。
彼は震災で妻と母親を失った。地震が襲った後、自宅に戻り母親に高台へ逃げるようにうながした。そして、二階へ駆け上がり、妻にも早く逃げるように伝えた。ここで、彼の声がつまる。すこし間をおいてから、消防団の仲間の元へもどろうとする彼を、妻が涙のたまった目で見上げながら「気をつけて」といったことを話す。
母親は高台への避難が間に合わなかった。妻もそうだ。よく家をあけていたことを二人に対して申し訳ないと思う、と言って誤っている。彼ひとりを残していなくなってしまうことを二人が気にかけていることもよく分かっている、とも言う。「二人に会いたい。」彼はスピーチの途中に何度も呼吸を整え、声がつまらないようにする。でも、やっぱり声がつまってしまう。聞いている皆が、彼が泣いていることを知っている。
参列者も皆泣いている。鼻をすすり上げるのが聞こえる。私の前にいる男性三人の背中を見つめると、涙を拭いているのが分かる。自分も声出して泣き出さないように気持ちを抑えようとするが、呼吸が出来ない。呼吸困難になったのかと思い、ゆっくり息をする。ゆっくり吐いて。吸って。また吐いて。
そして献花。参列者ひとりずつに花一本がくばられる。参列者は千人以上。全員に花が配られるのにどのくらい時間がかかるのだろう、と思いながら、バルコニーから見下ろしていると、驚くほどの速さで人々が動いていくのが見える。私も階下におりて前方にすすみ、白手袋をはめた女性から花を受け取り、ステージへ持っていき、おじぎをしてから、綺麗につみあげられてある花の山に自分の花を置く。
こうして追悼式が終わり、大きな花輪のほうへ向かって歩いていくと、そこに首相から贈られたものがあるのに気付く。会場を出るときに市長に挨拶すると、市長も微笑みながら挨拶をする。
確かに疲れた。でも、重荷のような疲れではない。そして、何より、自分が東北支援に貢献したいことを改めて強く感じている。
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
What's on TV in Tohoku
Having relied on my computer-guru husband for all things electronic for the past twenty years, I've evidently become quite the techno-dud. Case in point: I can't get my television to work. Now that I'm back in Ofunato and have a television at my disposal, I'm watching. I call it research. Getting caught up on local news is an important part of my information gathering. I'm more surprised than not by what I'm seeing.
Two things strike me immediately. First, the commercials are anything like what I've seen on television in Tokyo (when I actually have access to TV). In the past thirty minutes, the commercials have shown the following: a cemetery plot in a nature park (twice), a new apartment complex inland, a vegetable-delivery service (twice), a pharmaceutical company ad, and a car dealership. There are the requisite coffee commercials, sports drinks, cosmetics, and ramen ads interspersed among the more locally relevant services being provided. The former list is unique to Tohoku, or so I'm guessing. Cemeteries for those who are no longer here, an apartment inland far away from the coast, fresh vegetables unlike those under suspicion, new or used cars for those whose were washed away. These commercials are airing a year after the tsunami?
I have yet to see a commercial in Tokyo advertising a cemetery. Or a we'll-make-sure-your-vegetables-are-safe promotion, targeting the fear of--dare I assume--radiation in locally grown produce?
Then there are the news programs highlighting areas hit by last year's tsunami. The news is, for the most part, not uplifting. The focus is on how much any given town was destroyed, how slow-going the recovery is, mayoral meetings discussing who can assist whom, damaged buildings and hospitals, the continued need for medical expertise (actually mentioning PTSD).
It's been over a year since the tsunami hit destroying city after city, town after town. Surely there's a feel-good story out there. I'm baffled by why there isn't more focus on these. If depression is an ongoing concern here, then why continue to focus on the negative?
Then I heard it. "It will be almost a year since the great disaster." What? They're airing a tear-jerker story from several months ago? Are the reporters on strike? Did the editors play the wrong clip? What's going on?
This is followed by Richard Gere hugging a kid as he drinks a bottle of Orangina. That's followed by an ad for the new show "Let's Make Tohoku Happy" starting April 7th. So there is good news. I'm baffled all over again as to why the focus on the negative, all while images of Richard Gere run through my brain.
Television content in Tohoku is not what I expected. I decide to continue my "research" and vow to keep monitoring the news and commercials to see what those around me are watching. Perhaps someone here can help me make sense of the negativity and commercials unlike those in Tokyo.
Two things strike me immediately. First, the commercials are anything like what I've seen on television in Tokyo (when I actually have access to TV). In the past thirty minutes, the commercials have shown the following: a cemetery plot in a nature park (twice), a new apartment complex inland, a vegetable-delivery service (twice), a pharmaceutical company ad, and a car dealership. There are the requisite coffee commercials, sports drinks, cosmetics, and ramen ads interspersed among the more locally relevant services being provided. The former list is unique to Tohoku, or so I'm guessing. Cemeteries for those who are no longer here, an apartment inland far away from the coast, fresh vegetables unlike those under suspicion, new or used cars for those whose were washed away. These commercials are airing a year after the tsunami?
I have yet to see a commercial in Tokyo advertising a cemetery. Or a we'll-make-sure-your-vegetables-are-safe promotion, targeting the fear of--dare I assume--radiation in locally grown produce?
Then there are the news programs highlighting areas hit by last year's tsunami. The news is, for the most part, not uplifting. The focus is on how much any given town was destroyed, how slow-going the recovery is, mayoral meetings discussing who can assist whom, damaged buildings and hospitals, the continued need for medical expertise (actually mentioning PTSD).
It's been over a year since the tsunami hit destroying city after city, town after town. Surely there's a feel-good story out there. I'm baffled by why there isn't more focus on these. If depression is an ongoing concern here, then why continue to focus on the negative?
Then I heard it. "It will be almost a year since the great disaster." What? They're airing a tear-jerker story from several months ago? Are the reporters on strike? Did the editors play the wrong clip? What's going on?
This is followed by Richard Gere hugging a kid as he drinks a bottle of Orangina. That's followed by an ad for the new show "Let's Make Tohoku Happy" starting April 7th. So there is good news. I'm baffled all over again as to why the focus on the negative, all while images of Richard Gere run through my brain.
Television content in Tohoku is not what I expected. I decide to continue my "research" and vow to keep monitoring the news and commercials to see what those around me are watching. Perhaps someone here can help me make sense of the negativity and commercials unlike those in Tokyo.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Reliance, Whining, and Being True
To say the choice my parents made to raise me in Japan had a profound impact on my life is an incredible understatement. To say it has made me who I am today is putting it mildly. Total immersion into another culture combined with genealogical traits resulted in me having the unique ability to pick up on subtle nuances, the meaning behind what people meant to say. It should be no surprise then to reflect upon the fact even as a bilingual and bi-cultural child, I saw and heard things others may have missed. The easiest place to find these misses were in the mistranslations I saw around me--something said or written that wasn't quite right. That I turned into an interpreter/translator as an adult is really no big leap to make, under the circumstances.
My first real memory of seeing a translation that didn't quite cut it came at a young age. My parents had books. Some interested me, and those I would read or browse. One such book, the catalyst that perhaps turned me into a critic of language was 甘えの構造 (Amae no Kozo) by Takeo Doi. Translated by John Bester and titled Anatomy of Dependence, I remember thinking how the title did little to capture the spirit of amae.
Even back then, I had strong opinions. Not shy about voicing them, I probably spouted off to my parents about how "wrong" this translation was. My objection wasn't with amae. I took part in amae along with the many others I knew. Where I felt the translation did this concept little justice was to focus on the academic definition of the word. Surely amae was much more than "dependence"?
To be fair, it isn't inaccurate to translate amae as "dependence." Amae, however, much more than that. It's the child who whines to the parent asking for a new bicycle. It's the reliance upon others to cater to our desires. Selfish ones at that. It's trying to get others to do what we want. It's batting eyelashes. It's being able to be true. Using the word "dependence" to encapsulate all of these meanings, while linguistically and academically correct, misses a huge part of what lies beneath. This perceived mistranslation, the omission, was what I objected to as a child.
I remember thinking if I were translating the title of the book, it would read something like "What Whining is Really About" or "How Whining Works" with the caveat "in Japan" added with an asterisk at the end. This was the 12-year old me looking at the title, offering a critique my vocabulary allowed. The adult me would now put more time into what the title should be, but I would still focus on capturing the spirit of amae in a way I see missing.
These days there's very little amae around me. Those with whom I work in Tohoku don't have the emotional luxury to whine. There are too many still suffering, and there's a real sense of "keep it to yourself." To find myself lonely in Tokyo, missing my family and friends back home pales in comparison to what my friends up north are going through. This means I don't get to project amae I would otherwise. That I have very few people around me here who would tolerate any sort of amae coming from me means, yet again, I don't whine.
If there's any truth to amae allowing one's true self to come through, not being able to show that side to anyone implies a problem. That an entire region, en masse, is holding things in can't be good. That I can't and thus don't complain about anything to those around me can't be good either. There's a whole lot of "push it down" going on. With this, comes the hiding of one's true feelings, thoughts, grief, and wants. The stiff upper lip, the sense of perseverance, the spirit of "just keep going" has its merits. As does amae. This, many in Japan need more of these days. It's okay to depend on others. Someone else will always have it worse. But, it's still okay to whine. That not everyone has the emotional capacity to listen is a problem, yes. Certainly there are those who will push you away if you whine. Go find those who can and will listen. It's worth the search, and they're worth keeping.
My first real memory of seeing a translation that didn't quite cut it came at a young age. My parents had books. Some interested me, and those I would read or browse. One such book, the catalyst that perhaps turned me into a critic of language was 甘えの構造 (Amae no Kozo) by Takeo Doi. Translated by John Bester and titled Anatomy of Dependence, I remember thinking how the title did little to capture the spirit of amae.
Even back then, I had strong opinions. Not shy about voicing them, I probably spouted off to my parents about how "wrong" this translation was. My objection wasn't with amae. I took part in amae along with the many others I knew. Where I felt the translation did this concept little justice was to focus on the academic definition of the word. Surely amae was much more than "dependence"?
To be fair, it isn't inaccurate to translate amae as "dependence." Amae, however, much more than that. It's the child who whines to the parent asking for a new bicycle. It's the reliance upon others to cater to our desires. Selfish ones at that. It's trying to get others to do what we want. It's batting eyelashes. It's being able to be true. Using the word "dependence" to encapsulate all of these meanings, while linguistically and academically correct, misses a huge part of what lies beneath. This perceived mistranslation, the omission, was what I objected to as a child.
I remember thinking if I were translating the title of the book, it would read something like "What Whining is Really About" or "How Whining Works" with the caveat "in Japan" added with an asterisk at the end. This was the 12-year old me looking at the title, offering a critique my vocabulary allowed. The adult me would now put more time into what the title should be, but I would still focus on capturing the spirit of amae in a way I see missing.
These days there's very little amae around me. Those with whom I work in Tohoku don't have the emotional luxury to whine. There are too many still suffering, and there's a real sense of "keep it to yourself." To find myself lonely in Tokyo, missing my family and friends back home pales in comparison to what my friends up north are going through. This means I don't get to project amae I would otherwise. That I have very few people around me here who would tolerate any sort of amae coming from me means, yet again, I don't whine.
If there's any truth to amae allowing one's true self to come through, not being able to show that side to anyone implies a problem. That an entire region, en masse, is holding things in can't be good. That I can't and thus don't complain about anything to those around me can't be good either. There's a whole lot of "push it down" going on. With this, comes the hiding of one's true feelings, thoughts, grief, and wants. The stiff upper lip, the sense of perseverance, the spirit of "just keep going" has its merits. As does amae. This, many in Japan need more of these days. It's okay to depend on others. Someone else will always have it worse. But, it's still okay to whine. That not everyone has the emotional capacity to listen is a problem, yes. Certainly there are those who will push you away if you whine. Go find those who can and will listen. It's worth the search, and they're worth keeping.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
地震の心理学：その必要性
みなリストを用意しておくべきだと思う。大きな地震のとき、電話をかけて無事を確認すべき人たちのリスト。
去年の4月、マグニチュード7.4（程度）の地震が数週間前に被害を受けたばかりの沿岸地方をまた襲った。その地震は午後11時ごろ起こった。私は就寝中だった。私を含め、同じ部屋で寝ていた全員が目を覚ました。私は半分眠ったままでラップトップを開け、地震の発生場所と大きさを調べた。日本気象学会は最新情報を即座にアップしてくれるので、私はいつも気象学会のサイトをチェックすることにしていた。そのとき電話が鳴った。
「大丈夫？」 日本で私のいちばん好きな人（名前は伏せておく）からだった。
「ええ」
「寝てたの？」
「うん」
「そこから避難する必要がある？」
「まだわからないわ」
「ラジオを見つけて情報を集めて。津波について何を言ってるかチェックして」
「わかった」
「こら」
「ん？」
「寝るなよ。深刻な事態なんだから」
「わかってる。寝ないでおこうとしてるんだけど」
そのとき、彼が苛立っていることに気がついた。彼は私が事態を深刻にとらえていないと思っているようだが、そうではない。私は単に目覚めが悪いだけ。電話を切り、私は階下に向かった。すでに停電していて、みなラジオの周りに集まっている。津波警報が出ているが、50センチ程度らしい。ひょっとすると1メートルか。いずれにしてもここまでは来ない。友人に電話をかけ直そうとしたが、電話はもう通じなかった。
今週東京でマグニチュード5.4の地震が起こったとき、この友人からまた電話がかかってきた。
「どこにいるの？」
居場所を告げると「何してるの？」と聞く。「いったいぜんたい何でそんなところにいるんだよ！」と言わんばかりの口調だ。
「晩御飯を食べているところ」
「大丈夫？」
「ええ、大丈夫よ」
「誰と一緒なの？」
「どうしてそんなこと聞くの？ やきもちでも焼いてるの？」
「バカなこと言うなよ。そんなこと俺には関係ないよ。俺が心配してるのに冗談なんか言って。誰か頼りになる相手と一緒かどうか知りたかっただけだ」私は申し訳ない気持ちになった。やきもちなんかじゃない。かけなくてもよい電話をかけてくれているというのに。
「ごめんなさい。私は大丈夫。今からここを出るわ」
「ハイヒール履いてる？」
このことについて最近話したばかりだ。1年前の3月11日、何時間もかけて徒歩で帰宅した東京の人たちの記事を読み、ハイヒールで歩いて帰ったという女性たちの話は読むたびに恐れ入った。私はもうずっと前からぺたんこ靴をバッグに入れておくことにしていたが、今日は入っていない。私はいつもこうだ。
「ええ」と答えてから急いで付け加えた。「でも大丈夫。これから帰るわ。本当に大丈夫よ」
「タクシーに乗れよ」提案というよりは命令に近い口調だ。
「大丈夫だから」と私は抵抗した。
「タクシーに乗れよ」
「わかった。そうする」
今ではマグニチュード5を超える地震があれば、東北の人たちに電話することにしている。かけなくてもよい電話をかけてくれる人がいるというのはうれしいし、元気づけられる。日本ではひとりだから、私のことを気にかけてくれている人がいるとわかっているだけでとてもうれしい。私も同じ寛容さを人に示すべきだと思うし、今は実際にそうしている。
親切を先に渡そうというのは絆の概念の一部でもある。去年一年間大きく広がったつながりや絆、友情、思いやりは今もしっかりと残っている。私の名前が誰かのリストに載っているように、今では私も電話をかける人のリストをもっている。あなたのリストには誰の名前が載っている？
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Seismo-Psychology: The Need Thereof
Everyone should have a list. Who do you call when a largish earthquake hits? Whom do you check up on?
Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior. The earthquake struck around 11pm. I was already asleep. Everyone in the room woke up, myself included. Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was. The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports. It was my go-to source. Then the phone rang.
"You okay?" It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio. Get an update. See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up. This is serious."
"I know. I'm trying."
And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me. He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate. I'm just not very good at waking up. We hang up, and I head downstairs. The electricity is already out. People are huddled around the portable radio. A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm. Maybe a meter. We're safe. By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.
When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.
"Where are you?" I tell him. I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes. Really. I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why? Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That's your problem, see. You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned. I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you." I feel bad. No, he's not jealous. He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm leaving now."
"Heels?" We just had this conversation recently. I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels. I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag. I didn't today. Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine. I'm leaving now. I'll be fine. Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay. I will."
I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5. That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting. Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me. I need to offer that same generosity. I now do.
Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept. The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today. I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list. Who's on yours?
Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior. The earthquake struck around 11pm. I was already asleep. Everyone in the room woke up, myself included. Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was. The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports. It was my go-to source. Then the phone rang.
"You okay?" It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio. Get an update. See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up. This is serious."
"I know. I'm trying."
And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me. He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate. I'm just not very good at waking up. We hang up, and I head downstairs. The electricity is already out. People are huddled around the portable radio. A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm. Maybe a meter. We're safe. By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.
When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.
"Where are you?" I tell him. I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes. Really. I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why? Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That's your problem, see. You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned. I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you." I feel bad. No, he's not jealous. He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm leaving now."
"Heels?" We just had this conversation recently. I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels. I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag. I didn't today. Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine. I'm leaving now. I'll be fine. Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay. I will."
I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5. That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting. Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me. I need to offer that same generosity. I now do.
Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept. The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today. I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list. Who's on yours?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Seismology 101
If you haven't experienced an earthquake, or if you haven't experienced multiple earthquakes this might come as a surprise to you. In short, not all earthquakes are alike.
Case in point, the M5.2 that hit near Tokyo earlier this morning was what I call a "shaker." My building moved side-to-side. Then there are the "zingers." This is like a rubber band being pulled back and let go. There's one or two large "bangs" or "zings" with little else. It's a jolt. Then there are the "jumpers" which bounce buildings up and down as if 1000 people on one floor are all jumping up and down in sync.
This all has to do, presumably, with how the plates are moving underneath us. I'm no seismologist. I understand the gist of it, know that it happened (or that it's happening), and can at times hear the earth rumbling under me just a few seconds before the shaking begins. It's all getting rather annoying, tiresome, and is still a bit scary.
Not scary enough, however, to get me out of bed at 5am when I'm aware another earthquake is hitting us. My body wakes up, and my mind knows what's going on. I make myself think through how much the building is shaking, and if it's "not that bad" I roll over. This bothers me.
When there have been this many earthquakes in Japan in the past year, I argue we've all become so used to movement, complacency is a natural consequence. We can't possibly freak out with every jolt, big or small. Right? Really? How much do we have to shake before we become truly concerned? Many people would answer, "We'll know it when it happens." It's a survival tactic. We would all become nervous wrecks if we allowed ourselves to be concerned each time another aftershock hit.
All this to say, assigning cute names to the types of earthquakes aside, Japan is still shaking. Not being able to do anything to stop them, we live with them daily. They're like the really annoying relative who just won't leave the table after a meal. How long he's staying is anyone's guess. This too shall pass, yes?
Case in point, the M5.2 that hit near Tokyo earlier this morning was what I call a "shaker." My building moved side-to-side. Then there are the "zingers." This is like a rubber band being pulled back and let go. There's one or two large "bangs" or "zings" with little else. It's a jolt. Then there are the "jumpers" which bounce buildings up and down as if 1000 people on one floor are all jumping up and down in sync.
This all has to do, presumably, with how the plates are moving underneath us. I'm no seismologist. I understand the gist of it, know that it happened (or that it's happening), and can at times hear the earth rumbling under me just a few seconds before the shaking begins. It's all getting rather annoying, tiresome, and is still a bit scary.
Not scary enough, however, to get me out of bed at 5am when I'm aware another earthquake is hitting us. My body wakes up, and my mind knows what's going on. I make myself think through how much the building is shaking, and if it's "not that bad" I roll over. This bothers me.
When there have been this many earthquakes in Japan in the past year, I argue we've all become so used to movement, complacency is a natural consequence. We can't possibly freak out with every jolt, big or small. Right? Really? How much do we have to shake before we become truly concerned? Many people would answer, "We'll know it when it happens." It's a survival tactic. We would all become nervous wrecks if we allowed ourselves to be concerned each time another aftershock hit.
All this to say, assigning cute names to the types of earthquakes aside, Japan is still shaking. Not being able to do anything to stop them, we live with them daily. They're like the really annoying relative who just won't leave the table after a meal. How long he's staying is anyone's guess. This too shall pass, yes?
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Long Black Coat
"We knew it was you when you were at the other end of the block." One of the socialite women I'm taking up north says to me as I hand her husband my bag that has created permanent creases in my hand.
"Oh?" I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me. None. Right? Of course they knew it was me.
"How did you know it was me?" I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat. It's too long." And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in. "It's not too long. It's just very long. None of us in Tokyo dress like that." Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag. "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds. "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me. "You look nice. Very east coast America. Very New York. Very Boston. Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent. My confusion is still with me. They evidently now pick up on it.
"But, it's good," I'm reassured. I decide to believe them.
Or so I thought. One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center. The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato. They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals. I was their tour guide.
Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books. It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side. The kids have long since stopped listening. I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me. I just brought them here. They're the ones bringing books. I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san. You speak, too."
I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice. They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back. I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food." And then it happens. One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing. I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher. The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap. Everyone laughs. I'm mortified.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.
This is a first. I'm stunned. I made a girl cry? Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium? And spoke English? Wow. This has really, truly never happened before.
We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry." More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?" Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat. It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.
Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this. At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip.
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first. I high five, pat heads, smile. And then I hear it. Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."
Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan. Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos." Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?" I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.
For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire. (I did actually put thought into this.) None of my other coats would have been appropriate. My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again. All this over a coat! Living in learning in Japan. Still. One day at a time.
"Oh?" I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me. None. Right? Of course they knew it was me.
"How did you know it was me?" I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat. It's too long." And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in. "It's not too long. It's just very long. None of us in Tokyo dress like that." Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag. "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds. "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me. "You look nice. Very east coast America. Very New York. Very Boston. Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent. My confusion is still with me. They evidently now pick up on it.
Or so I thought. One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center. The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato. They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals. I was their tour guide.
Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books. It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side. The kids have long since stopped listening. I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me. I just brought them here. They're the ones bringing books. I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san. You speak, too."
I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice. They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back. I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food." And then it happens. One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing. I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher. The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap. Everyone laughs. I'm mortified.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.
This is a first. I'm stunned. I made a girl cry? Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium? And spoke English? Wow. This has really, truly never happened before.
We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry." More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?" Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat. It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.
Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this. At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip.
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first. I high five, pat heads, smile. And then I hear it. Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."
Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan. Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos." Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?" I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.
For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire. (I did actually put thought into this.) None of my other coats would have been appropriate. My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again. All this over a coat! Living in learning in Japan. Still. One day at a time.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Memorial Service: March 11, 2012
Dressed in black mourning attire, men and women, boys and girls, people of all ages and backgrounds enter the large, concrete building where the memorial service is being held. I'm in Ofunato again. It's quiet in the concert hall even with people milling around. A large display of chrysanthemums greets me as I enter. Our favorite city council member is inside the door, grabs my arm and moves me towards the registration desk.
"Your city and name, please," a young man in black tells me. I decide to put Boston as my city as opposed to Tokyo. I'm from both. Technically, I'm not lying.
People I've seen in town over the past several days stop and bow deep. I'm thanked for attending. I bow back and say, "Of course I'm here. I wouldn't be anywhere else to day." They smile. I smile.
Regular people, not the invited guests and speakers are to sit upstairs. I head up, sit, and look down at the stage. There's a tall, wooden, rectangular pillar in the center of the stage reminding me of a grave stone. "Honoring the souls of those who died in the Great East Earthquake." All around the pillar are more chrysanthemums. Yellow and white, it's an elegant yet simple display. This covers almost the entire stage.
The honored guests file in. I recognize some. The service begins at 10am sharp. First on the agenda is a moment of silence. We all rise, bow, and everything is silent except for the clicking of camera shutters from the press corp cornered into the front right section down below. I'm not sure how I feel about this noise. Don't they need to be silent, too? Does getting a good photo trump paying their respects?
The speeches from the officials all sound the same. The mayor, the governor, the chairman of the city council, an official from the Ministry of Reconstruction sound political and formal. This isn't bad. It's just not touching.
Then comes the representative from the victims' families. I've seen him somewhere before but I can't place him. He stands, bows to the crowd, bows to the stage, walks towards it, bows again. He then starts to read.
He lost his wife and mother. After the earthquake hit, he rushed home and told his mother to get to higher ground. He then went upstairs and told his wife to leave as quickly as possible. Here his voice cracks. Pausing, he says she looked at him with tears in her eyes and told him to be careful as he went to join the fire brigade.
His mother didn't make it to high ground soon enough. Nor did his wife. He apologizes to them for being gone so often. He tells them he knows they feel bad for dying and leaving him behind. He says he misses them. He pauses often, trying to keep his voice calm. It doesn't work. We all know he's crying.
As are those in attendance. I hear sniffles. I look down at the backs of the three men sitting in the row in front of me, and see them quickly wiping tears away. I'm trying not to openly bawl, and find myself not breathing. Worried I'll hyperventilate, I start breathing slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
Then come the flowers. Each person in attendance is allowed to give an offering of a single flower. There are probably 1000 people there. Wondering how long this is going to take, I watch from the balcony and marvel at how quickly people funnel through. I go down to the front and take a flower given to me by a white-gloved woman, take it to the stage, bow and add it to one of the many neatly stacked piles.
Just like that the service is over and we head out past the large displays of flower bouquets, and I see one from the Prime Minister. I bow to the mayor as I exit, and he bows back, smiling.
I'm exhausted, but it's not a burdensome exhaustion. And, after all that, I know I've just committed myself to Tohoku all over again.
"Your city and name, please," a young man in black tells me. I decide to put Boston as my city as opposed to Tokyo. I'm from both. Technically, I'm not lying.
People I've seen in town over the past several days stop and bow deep. I'm thanked for attending. I bow back and say, "Of course I'm here. I wouldn't be anywhere else to day." They smile. I smile.
Regular people, not the invited guests and speakers are to sit upstairs. I head up, sit, and look down at the stage. There's a tall, wooden, rectangular pillar in the center of the stage reminding me of a grave stone. "Honoring the souls of those who died in the Great East Earthquake." All around the pillar are more chrysanthemums. Yellow and white, it's an elegant yet simple display. This covers almost the entire stage.
The honored guests file in. I recognize some. The service begins at 10am sharp. First on the agenda is a moment of silence. We all rise, bow, and everything is silent except for the clicking of camera shutters from the press corp cornered into the front right section down below. I'm not sure how I feel about this noise. Don't they need to be silent, too? Does getting a good photo trump paying their respects?
The speeches from the officials all sound the same. The mayor, the governor, the chairman of the city council, an official from the Ministry of Reconstruction sound political and formal. This isn't bad. It's just not touching.
Then comes the representative from the victims' families. I've seen him somewhere before but I can't place him. He stands, bows to the crowd, bows to the stage, walks towards it, bows again. He then starts to read.
He lost his wife and mother. After the earthquake hit, he rushed home and told his mother to get to higher ground. He then went upstairs and told his wife to leave as quickly as possible. Here his voice cracks. Pausing, he says she looked at him with tears in her eyes and told him to be careful as he went to join the fire brigade.
His mother didn't make it to high ground soon enough. Nor did his wife. He apologizes to them for being gone so often. He tells them he knows they feel bad for dying and leaving him behind. He says he misses them. He pauses often, trying to keep his voice calm. It doesn't work. We all know he's crying.
As are those in attendance. I hear sniffles. I look down at the backs of the three men sitting in the row in front of me, and see them quickly wiping tears away. I'm trying not to openly bawl, and find myself not breathing. Worried I'll hyperventilate, I start breathing slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
Then come the flowers. Each person in attendance is allowed to give an offering of a single flower. There are probably 1000 people there. Wondering how long this is going to take, I watch from the balcony and marvel at how quickly people funnel through. I go down to the front and take a flower given to me by a white-gloved woman, take it to the stage, bow and add it to one of the many neatly stacked piles.
Just like that the service is over and we head out past the large displays of flower bouquets, and I see one from the Prime Minister. I bow to the mayor as I exit, and he bows back, smiling.
I'm exhausted, but it's not a burdensome exhaustion. And, after all that, I know I've just committed myself to Tohoku all over again.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Random post-hinamatsuri musings
March 3rd in Japan is Girls' Day. All my girlfriends had these dolls. All of them. We didn't. "We aren't Japanese and we're not going to spend thousands of dollars on dolls that you see only several weeks a year. You can't even play with them." Something similar to this was my parent's reasoning for why my request was denied every year. In its place, just to be sure they knew I, too, should be properly celebrated as their one and only daughter, we made our own hina-ningyo. I remember this as one of the mostly truly horrific and unfair experiences of my childhood. Why? Tell any 8-year old girl to maker her own dolls out of eggs, and I guarantee she will cry foul. Everyone knows dolls made out of eggs, clothed in origami are just plain lame.
Opinionated and strong-willed as I was even as a child, there was nothing I could do to persuade my parents of the injustice they were making me go through. Dolls made out of eggs? Really. Truly pathetic. Not given a choice, I sat and poked small holes in two eggs (I only got to make the lord and lady--the two sitting on the top shelf--yet another injustice). I drained the eggs, let them dry, and drew faces on the shells, and then folded them clothes. Several eggs were "accidentally" crushed as I drained them, and I "pressed too hard" on the shells more than once in an attempt to make faces. This passive-aggressive act of "rebellion" did nothing, of course. I was most definitely being celebrated, regardless of how many eggs it took. I simply drained more eggs, and painted more faces.
Now that I'm an adult I realize with pain and regret just how right my parents were. I would never spend several thousand dollars on dolls for my (albeit non-existent) non-Japanese daughter--dolls she never actually played with, only because all of her girlfriends had them. I don't know that I'd make her paint eggs, but I know now I'd sure as hell not buy her these dolls.
Funny how I've never actually told my parents this before now.
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