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.