Enter gaijin girl (me), my host, and the housing complex chairman's wife, our local point of contact. In a small room is a table with six grannies sitting on all sides. Hanging on clothes lines on all four walls is the most delicate, beautiful, intricate origami creations I've ever seen. I'm speechless.
I introduce myself, explaining my visit. The grannies are not shy.
"You really want to take this back with you to America?"
"Yes, I do."
Several conversations take place at once, the gist of it being whether Americans "get" origami, will like what's made, how to get it there, etc. Satisfied with the consensus they've reached (it's a go), one of the grannies asks my local host, "Is it really okay for us to sell this stuff? Won't we get in trouble?"
"No, you won't get in trouble. Remember the socks that we sold over the new year? We made money off that, too."
More side conversations. The "hens clucking" image comes to mind and I smile.
"You're sure?" Another granny asks.
"Of course she's sure. She's the chairman's wife. If she says it's okay, it's okay." They all laugh. Cackle might be more accurate.
"So, I can take these?" I say, looking around at the various pieces of art hanging.
"Sure. Take whatever you want," I'm told.
I wander over to the various kusudama (intricately folded origami made into a ball) and decide to ask one more time.
"I can really takes these kudusama? As many as I want?"
"Take them," the same granny says.
"You can have all the tama you want," another adds. (Tama is singular; dama is plural. Literal translation: Ball.)
"I've got no need for tama," yet another granny says, and the room explodes with laughter.
Let me explain: That sentence, literally translated, would read "I've got no need for balls." As in those balls. Kusudama balls, too, supposedly, but we all know what granny meant.
God forbid I would have to explain how a properly raised gaijin girl would know the Japanese word for "balls" I decide to put my head down, face the floor, and keep my grinning and laughter to myself. I swear. These women are something else.
I walk around the room taking down one display after another, hauling them over to another table. Soon I have a big pile. I make arrangements to have them sent to the US to be sold in Boston at a Japan Festival sale in late April.
"Can you make more?" I ask.
"Of course we can make more," I'm scolded. Touche. These women have nothing else to do. Farmers' wives, they can't farm because of the radiation in the soil. They sit together and fold one beautiful piece of work after another. I vow to find a way to get these items to as many people as possible.
"Granny," I pause, "Can we take some photos? I want to show people who you are."
"Oh no, you don't!" The most outspoken of them all gets up and marches over to the sliding door. We all beg her to come out. She doesn't.
"Just take the picture," the chairman's wife says. We do, while hearing from behind the door, "Are you done yet?" I have to ask another granny to turn around, so we can see her face. How they can be shy after all the spicy talk from before is a question I can't answer. That they use the masculine term for "me" when they speak is also noteworthy. I like them. I like their spunk.
I make plans to come back in May, after I return from the US.
"I can't promise you how much they'll sell for," I caution.
"We don't care. Just tell them about us."
"Not me, though," camera shy granny says.
"You, most of all," I tease.
"Oh you," and she comes towards me about to give me a motherly scolding slap.
"I'm kidding! I'm kidding!" I half run away. They all laugh again.
Being adopted into their circle of craftswomen would be an honor. I need to earn that, and will do what it takes to earn their trust.
No comments:
Post a Comment