The innocence of babes, of children who do not know the impact their words have, is something we've all likely experienced. Facebook postings are riddled with the comments our children make, heartwarming, uplifting, genuinely kind, and unprompted. We're proud parents when we share our children's words. It's beautiful. It's love in its purest form. I firmly believe these acts of kindness bear repeating. Often is better.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
How Urban Legends Begin
Insomnia is my latest night-time companion, and one I'm not particularly fond of. In Ofunato, Insomnia (I feel I need to refer to him/her as a person) is more of a problem, as there's no noise at night. This is a problem for me. Tokyo nights are filled with traffic noises, sirens, and the occasional loud quarrel. In Ofunato, there's no noise. That means I hear everything.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
An Open Letter to People of Faith
Dear Friends,
I credit my parents. If you disagree with me, you will likely replace "credit" with "blame." I can handle that. I believe my parents can as well.
It's not as if somewhere in my childhood my parents sat me down and laid this out for me. I picked this up through the way they lived. Their lifestyle personified their beliefs and their faith through the actions they took. For this, I have the utmost respect for them.
It comes down to this: If you are a person of faith, if you have chosen to state you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or Hindu, if people know you as someone who holds a set of faith-based beliefs you are responsible for your actions. More so than those who do not openly state their faith. This is even truer for people of the cloth. If by looking at you I know you are a priest, nun, monk, rabbi, or if I know you as a pastor, I get to hold you to a higher standard. I just do. Your choice to openly, publicly, and formally announce your faith through your profession or clothing gives me permission to raise the bar in how I look at you. I do. You asked for it.
Which is why crimes committed by people of faith like the sexual assaults on children by some of the Catholic "cloth" infuriate me. The same goes for people of faith who are nasty, unkind, passive-aggressive, and rude. You know better. Knock it off. Shame.
Faith is not like poker. You don't get to "fold" or call "all in" when it suits you. Faith is like parenthood. Once a parent always a parent. This is what I learned from my parents. You're either always "all in" or you're not. My choice to live a life based on faith was not something I undertook lightly. Here in Japan where I stick out as it is my actions are noted, and my moves observed. I take this very, very seriously. People have made assumptions I'm here to spread the gospel, teach and preach, or convert. I'm not. I'm here because there's a need to find ways to put food on the table. My "mission" here is not about the after-life. It's about the day-to-day life.
A recent e-mail brought up in me this feeling of living an "all in" life. My job, now and for the foreseeable future is to spread the word about what's going on in Tohoku, post the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011. I understand there will come a point where people are tired of hearing of this. Some are already tired of news about Tohoku. I've heard, "Japan can take care of itself," and "Move on," and "Japan is rich," and "Japan is not a third-world country, so we don't need to help." If you can live with these statements, more power to you. Not being here, not seeing what happened, not living among those whose pain is still very, very real, it's probably easy to arrive at those conclusions. I can't force you to help.
But, I can cry foul, especially for those whose faith teaches them to help people in need regardless of how well-off that country or region might be. The e-mail I received this morning told me a faith-based publication "didn't have space" to print a feature article on Tohoku. How do I respond to a statement like that? Where do I begin? If it weren't a faith-based group, I would have let it go. I would have judged them as small and petty people, but I would have let it go. My reply, a nasty one I'm afraid, said "MAKE space." I'm guessing that probably didn't go over well.
Pick a spot on the map preferably along the ocean and now draw a line extending 300 miles. It doesn't matter whether you go north, south, east, or west. Now, imagine EVERY SINGLE city, village, and town on that line has lost people, sometimes thousands at a time. Buildings and homes are destroyed. If it wasn't made of concrete, it's gone. Imagine some towns are almost entirely wiped off the map. Now, tell me how (first-world country aside) you "don't have space" to print an article about the millions of people whose lives have been turned upside down. Really?
Today, I'm disappointed in these believers who don't know how to make space in a publication to tell an important story. Tomorrow, I will disappoint someone. The difference is, I'm trying.
I credit my parents. If you disagree with me, you will likely replace "credit" with "blame." I can handle that. I believe my parents can as well.
It's not as if somewhere in my childhood my parents sat me down and laid this out for me. I picked this up through the way they lived. Their lifestyle personified their beliefs and their faith through the actions they took. For this, I have the utmost respect for them.
It comes down to this: If you are a person of faith, if you have chosen to state you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or Hindu, if people know you as someone who holds a set of faith-based beliefs you are responsible for your actions. More so than those who do not openly state their faith. This is even truer for people of the cloth. If by looking at you I know you are a priest, nun, monk, rabbi, or if I know you as a pastor, I get to hold you to a higher standard. I just do. Your choice to openly, publicly, and formally announce your faith through your profession or clothing gives me permission to raise the bar in how I look at you. I do. You asked for it.
Which is why crimes committed by people of faith like the sexual assaults on children by some of the Catholic "cloth" infuriate me. The same goes for people of faith who are nasty, unkind, passive-aggressive, and rude. You know better. Knock it off. Shame.
Faith is not like poker. You don't get to "fold" or call "all in" when it suits you. Faith is like parenthood. Once a parent always a parent. This is what I learned from my parents. You're either always "all in" or you're not. My choice to live a life based on faith was not something I undertook lightly. Here in Japan where I stick out as it is my actions are noted, and my moves observed. I take this very, very seriously. People have made assumptions I'm here to spread the gospel, teach and preach, or convert. I'm not. I'm here because there's a need to find ways to put food on the table. My "mission" here is not about the after-life. It's about the day-to-day life.
A recent e-mail brought up in me this feeling of living an "all in" life. My job, now and for the foreseeable future is to spread the word about what's going on in Tohoku, post the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011. I understand there will come a point where people are tired of hearing of this. Some are already tired of news about Tohoku. I've heard, "Japan can take care of itself," and "Move on," and "Japan is rich," and "Japan is not a third-world country, so we don't need to help." If you can live with these statements, more power to you. Not being here, not seeing what happened, not living among those whose pain is still very, very real, it's probably easy to arrive at those conclusions. I can't force you to help.
But, I can cry foul, especially for those whose faith teaches them to help people in need regardless of how well-off that country or region might be. The e-mail I received this morning told me a faith-based publication "didn't have space" to print a feature article on Tohoku. How do I respond to a statement like that? Where do I begin? If it weren't a faith-based group, I would have let it go. I would have judged them as small and petty people, but I would have let it go. My reply, a nasty one I'm afraid, said "MAKE space." I'm guessing that probably didn't go over well.
Pick a spot on the map preferably along the ocean and now draw a line extending 300 miles. It doesn't matter whether you go north, south, east, or west. Now, imagine EVERY SINGLE city, village, and town on that line has lost people, sometimes thousands at a time. Buildings and homes are destroyed. If it wasn't made of concrete, it's gone. Imagine some towns are almost entirely wiped off the map. Now, tell me how (first-world country aside) you "don't have space" to print an article about the millions of people whose lives have been turned upside down. Really?
Today, I'm disappointed in these believers who don't know how to make space in a publication to tell an important story. Tomorrow, I will disappoint someone. The difference is, I'm trying.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Kindergarten Memories
It all started last spring when I first came to Ofunato. One encounter after another I heard the same words. "We've only seen foreigners on television. You're real." We would laugh. "Yes, I'm real."
Fast forward to my latest work in Tohoku. There are many ways to make a difference. One way is to show children who've witnessed pain and loss there's still something fun in life. It's okay to laugh. It's okay if I'm the one being laughed at. It certainly wouldn't be the last time.
I was five when I went to a nearby kindergarten in Obihiro. The only foreigner, of course (unless you count the one Ainu boy) my days were filled with drawing, running, eating the lunches my mother made, begging her to replace the raisins with chocolate chips.
I liked my teacher, and I was comfortable at kindergarten except for one thing. The lone male teacher (even a rarity back then) loomed large in the halls carrying kids on his back piggyback style, three at a time. We called him "Amano Gorilla Sensei." I still remember his black, curly hair. He seemed huge, and definitely very gorilla-like. I was scared of him. Really scared.
It was the memory of Mr. Gorilla that led me to ask the local municipalities if I could play with kids in pre-schools and after school programs. If I remembered Mr. Gorilla from when I was five years old, there was a good chance the kids I was playing with would remember Auntie Amya. Hopefully, with fondness. Not like the gorilla memories I have.
I have many goals. I want to show them the foreigners they'd only seen on television to date were indeed real, not scary, and possibly even fun. I want them to know English isn't hard. If this led to them wanting to explore the world, so much the better.
Kids are amazing. I've learned a lot from them, many lessons coming completely out of the blue. Don't wear black (it makes them cry). Bright colors get comments ("Your shirt matches your lipstick"). Bulky shirts end up with hands exploring what's underneath (don't wear these). Hands find pockets (snap them shut ahead of time). Earrings are tugged, fingernail colors critiqued. The lack of socks is a topic of discussion (couldn't have guessed this).
Taking the sting out of the assumption learning a foreign language is difficult is not as hard as it seems. The kids already know English, French, Portuguese. They just don't know they know.
"What's this?" I show them a photo.
"Lion!" In unison.
"That's English!" I wish I could capture the squeals that follow. I continue with tomato, pool, piano, truck, ice cream, toilet paper. They know all these words, and when I tell them these are all English words, they start to get it.
Then come the numbers. And colors. After all this, I tell them "See. You do speak English!" They beam.
And so it continues. Spreading cheer one kid at a time.
Fast forward to my latest work in Tohoku. There are many ways to make a difference. One way is to show children who've witnessed pain and loss there's still something fun in life. It's okay to laugh. It's okay if I'm the one being laughed at. It certainly wouldn't be the last time.
I was five when I went to a nearby kindergarten in Obihiro. The only foreigner, of course (unless you count the one Ainu boy) my days were filled with drawing, running, eating the lunches my mother made, begging her to replace the raisins with chocolate chips.
I liked my teacher, and I was comfortable at kindergarten except for one thing. The lone male teacher (even a rarity back then) loomed large in the halls carrying kids on his back piggyback style, three at a time. We called him "Amano Gorilla Sensei." I still remember his black, curly hair. He seemed huge, and definitely very gorilla-like. I was scared of him. Really scared.
It was the memory of Mr. Gorilla that led me to ask the local municipalities if I could play with kids in pre-schools and after school programs. If I remembered Mr. Gorilla from when I was five years old, there was a good chance the kids I was playing with would remember Auntie Amya. Hopefully, with fondness. Not like the gorilla memories I have.
I have many goals. I want to show them the foreigners they'd only seen on television to date were indeed real, not scary, and possibly even fun. I want them to know English isn't hard. If this led to them wanting to explore the world, so much the better.
Kids are amazing. I've learned a lot from them, many lessons coming completely out of the blue. Don't wear black (it makes them cry). Bright colors get comments ("Your shirt matches your lipstick"). Bulky shirts end up with hands exploring what's underneath (don't wear these). Hands find pockets (snap them shut ahead of time). Earrings are tugged, fingernail colors critiqued. The lack of socks is a topic of discussion (couldn't have guessed this).
Taking the sting out of the assumption learning a foreign language is difficult is not as hard as it seems. The kids already know English, French, Portuguese. They just don't know they know.
"What's this?" I show them a photo.
"That's English!" I wish I could capture the squeals that follow. I continue with tomato, pool, piano, truck, ice cream, toilet paper. They know all these words, and when I tell them these are all English words, they start to get it.
Then come the numbers. And colors. After all this, I tell them "See. You do speak English!" They beam.
And so it continues. Spreading cheer one kid at a time.
Friday, June 8, 2012
"You can't do that here."
I've learned the hard way since a year ago March I am not made of stone. Neither am I made of glass. I'm strong, and yet also vulnerable to pain. I'm made of steel, but when exposed to strong heat, I melt.
On my last trip back home to Boston, I realized I missed my husband when I was home more than when I was a continent and ocean away. It was all I could do not to call him at work and ask, "When are you coming home today?" Having him near, or the possibility of having him near meant when he wasn't immediately present the void was that much larger. This wasn't good.
Good-byes at the airport never get easier. Ever. I miss my family terribly. A friend's comment on Facebook, "You can't always expect your husband to be your knight in shining armor" was the smack I needed. Something in my life here in Japan, in Tohoku and Tokyo, something here had to change.
I decided to get counseling. There's an English-language counseling service aimed at foreigners in Tokyo, and looking them up, I asked for help. Taking this step alone, I already feel better.
Which then got me thinking. The stigma associated with counseling in Japan is real. I've known this. Would it help those in Tohoku, those who could really use counseling, to hear I too am talking to a counselor?
In Japan, counseling is very much reserved for the mentally ill. You need to have a "problem" in order to need it. Or, so people think. So people say. I find this a very unfortunate phenomenon, especially at a time where there's such a mass need to unload, ask for help, cry, get guidance. The "taboo" as people in Tohoku call it--can we some how undo this? If I'm open about getting counseling, would people say to themselves, "Well, she's not mentally ill and she's getting counseling. Maybe I will, too."? Will they make that leap?
I've been asking around. "So, if I say I'm getting counseling, if I'm not shy about saying this, do you think people might try it, too?" The answers, to date, are unanimously against.
"People will think you don't have friends."
"They'll think it's some 'American' thing."
"You'll be labeled."
"You can't do that here."
My reply to all of these statements has been "Why?" and here people get stuck.
"Just because," is what I most often hear.
I get it. I do. It's hard in a small town to be known as the person who breaks the mold and tries something new, especially when those who "get counseling" are thought to bee some how "off."
"You might get away with doing that, but we can't." I hear this over and over.
Determined to some how find a way to make the idea of counseling less taboo and more acceptable, I keep talking to people. Just today, I spoke with a young woman in town to get her perspective.
"I'd first wonder 'why' and then assume you shop." Shop? That's a first. I ask her to explain.
"You know. Some people, when they are having a hard time, they shop. Compulsively." Ah. Right.
"I'd wonder if you were 'one of those.'" I don't know how to respond. To make sure she clearly understands I'm not getting counseling to alleviate my non-existent shopping "problem" I say, "I wish I could shop more." We both laugh. I hope to myself that made sense to her.
I ask another woman for her opinion as I hang out at her store.
"It's the word 'counseling' that's the problem. You know? It's the same thing with 'therapy' and 'mental health.' You know what I do?"
"No," and I'm genuinely curious.
"I call over an astrologer."
"Really?"
"It works. You wouldn't believe what people tell astrologers. I've had women here bawling their eyes out, telling the astrologers their deepest fears and concerns. That's therapy, too. People will talk if we don't call it 'counseling.'"
I ponder this. "So, even if I'm open about talking to a counselor, people here won't try it?"
She sighs. "It's the word. It's just a bad word. Astrology is safe. It's fun. Counseling isn't, well, fun. It's serious. I don't think it will work even if you say you're doing it."
I need to think this through. It's sad knowing the need for counseling is so real, and yet the possibility of getting help through a counselor is so unreal. With a bit more thought I hope to find a way to explain in a way people will understand there's nothing wrong with what I'm setting out to do. I hope living by example will help someone step up and take the leap.
On my last trip back home to Boston, I realized I missed my husband when I was home more than when I was a continent and ocean away. It was all I could do not to call him at work and ask, "When are you coming home today?" Having him near, or the possibility of having him near meant when he wasn't immediately present the void was that much larger. This wasn't good.
Good-byes at the airport never get easier. Ever. I miss my family terribly. A friend's comment on Facebook, "You can't always expect your husband to be your knight in shining armor" was the smack I needed. Something in my life here in Japan, in Tohoku and Tokyo, something here had to change.
I decided to get counseling. There's an English-language counseling service aimed at foreigners in Tokyo, and looking them up, I asked for help. Taking this step alone, I already feel better.
Which then got me thinking. The stigma associated with counseling in Japan is real. I've known this. Would it help those in Tohoku, those who could really use counseling, to hear I too am talking to a counselor?
In Japan, counseling is very much reserved for the mentally ill. You need to have a "problem" in order to need it. Or, so people think. So people say. I find this a very unfortunate phenomenon, especially at a time where there's such a mass need to unload, ask for help, cry, get guidance. The "taboo" as people in Tohoku call it--can we some how undo this? If I'm open about getting counseling, would people say to themselves, "Well, she's not mentally ill and she's getting counseling. Maybe I will, too."? Will they make that leap?
I've been asking around. "So, if I say I'm getting counseling, if I'm not shy about saying this, do you think people might try it, too?" The answers, to date, are unanimously against.
"People will think you don't have friends."
"They'll think it's some 'American' thing."
"You'll be labeled."
"You can't do that here."
My reply to all of these statements has been "Why?" and here people get stuck.
"Just because," is what I most often hear.
I get it. I do. It's hard in a small town to be known as the person who breaks the mold and tries something new, especially when those who "get counseling" are thought to bee some how "off."
"You might get away with doing that, but we can't." I hear this over and over.
Determined to some how find a way to make the idea of counseling less taboo and more acceptable, I keep talking to people. Just today, I spoke with a young woman in town to get her perspective.
"I'd first wonder 'why' and then assume you shop." Shop? That's a first. I ask her to explain.
"You know. Some people, when they are having a hard time, they shop. Compulsively." Ah. Right.
"I'd wonder if you were 'one of those.'" I don't know how to respond. To make sure she clearly understands I'm not getting counseling to alleviate my non-existent shopping "problem" I say, "I wish I could shop more." We both laugh. I hope to myself that made sense to her.
I ask another woman for her opinion as I hang out at her store.
"It's the word 'counseling' that's the problem. You know? It's the same thing with 'therapy' and 'mental health.' You know what I do?"
"No," and I'm genuinely curious.
"I call over an astrologer."
"Really?"
"It works. You wouldn't believe what people tell astrologers. I've had women here bawling their eyes out, telling the astrologers their deepest fears and concerns. That's therapy, too. People will talk if we don't call it 'counseling.'"
I ponder this. "So, even if I'm open about talking to a counselor, people here won't try it?"
She sighs. "It's the word. It's just a bad word. Astrology is safe. It's fun. Counseling isn't, well, fun. It's serious. I don't think it will work even if you say you're doing it."
I need to think this through. It's sad knowing the need for counseling is so real, and yet the possibility of getting help through a counselor is so unreal. With a bit more thought I hope to find a way to explain in a way people will understand there's nothing wrong with what I'm setting out to do. I hope living by example will help someone step up and take the leap.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
No Shame in Asking
Over the past 14 months, I've become pretty good at asking for favors. Not for me, mind you. With each trip to Tohoku, with each story I hear, I think of ways to give a little something to those I meet, those who've lost so much.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
When Playing By The Rules Means Defeat
Last year I wrote saying I had the answer to why there was no looting in Japan after the tsunami and earthquake. My answer? Taxi drivers. They personify the politeness and calm the Japanese are known for. Except for the one or two I've come across who have been not rude as much as unhelpful, I stand by my observation. While the "no looting at all" statement no longer holds water, that's not the point today.
If I know why politeness prevails in Japan, I also know why recovery in Tohoku is slow-going. Yes, that's a bold statement. I know. I also believe I'm right. The dots I've connected are not difficult to find. They're all over the place. Go talk to to any bureaucrat, go to government office and the place is covered in these dots.
Take today for example. I have my paperwork. For once. I'm at the license bureau to apply for my Japanese driver's license. The sign above where I take my papers reads "This is the busiest license office in Japan. Be prepared to wait two hours." Great.
My number is called. I hand them my US license, translation, passport, and Alien Registration card. The officer looks at my passport and sighs.
"This says you were issued this passport in March."
"Yes. My other passport was stolen." I hand over the police report outlining what was stolen and when.
"Ah, but this means you can't prove you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." He brings out a paper which says, of course, I must be able to show I've lived in the US for three consecutive months after having my license issued.
I go over what he said in my mind. Having a passport issued in March means I haven't lived in the US for three consecutive months? Ever? How does one reach this conclusion?
"We need something showing you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." Three consecutive months. Yeah. I got that part.
"Like what?"
"An electric bill. Your tax returns. A mortgage statement." None of which prove I've lived in the US for three consecutive months, mind you. I could live in London and file my taxes in the US. I could own a house in Boston but not live there. But, this is what they want. The rigidity and stupidity of these rules baffle me. There is no thinking outside the box.
"How about if I have someone from your headquarters call and vouch I've lived in the US for three consecutive months." I try not to be sarcastic. I do have a friend who can vouch for me. Clearly, this is not something the official's heard before. He calls over his supervisor. I repeat myself.
"But, how can he prove that?" I'm asked. As in, how can he prove I've lived in the States "better" than my electric bill? I know I won't win this one, either. They want what they want.
Having just completed the translation for Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm reminded of something he wrote. In the immediate days following the tsunami last year when Rikuzentakata was in shambles, the city received a shipment of gasoline from the Self Defense Forces. The town had no electricity, little food, few locations with running water, no cell phone coverage, and certainly no operational gasoline stations. The gasoline would be used for cars as well trucks delivering much needed food to the evacuation centers where people were staying. When it came time funnel the gasoline into the vehicles, the Self Defense Force guys received instructions from higher up.
"You can't fuel the cars."
"Why?"
"Your job is to deliver. You don't have permission to actually put the fuel in the cars."
This, dear friends, is Japanese bureaucracy at its worst. The mayor had to go find someone with the proper license to handle "hazardous material" and call them over to put the fuel in the cars. When lives are at stake, this kind of adherence to rules, the lack of flexibility is inexcusable. Fighting cops over the protocol (albeit ridiculous) for a driver's license is one thing. Being told "you can't do that" because of regulations in place, which "sorry, can't be bent" is simply not okay in a time of crisis. This attitude and sentiment exists all throughout bureaucratic Japan, and this is a key factor in why it's taking so long for life in Tohoku to get back to normal.
This is a side of Japan I'm not fond of. Tomorrow I will go back and fight the cops who, today, wouldn't give me my license. If pushed, I will call my friend at headquarters. I will point out the absurdity over their rules. I will make them pick a regulation and stick to it, even if this means I have to make a stink about the inconsistency.
So, tonight I'm not happy. Tomorrow I will be. I will take so many documents they can't possibly prove otherwise. Three consecutive months? My ass.
If I know why politeness prevails in Japan, I also know why recovery in Tohoku is slow-going. Yes, that's a bold statement. I know. I also believe I'm right. The dots I've connected are not difficult to find. They're all over the place. Go talk to to any bureaucrat, go to government office and the place is covered in these dots.
Take today for example. I have my paperwork. For once. I'm at the license bureau to apply for my Japanese driver's license. The sign above where I take my papers reads "This is the busiest license office in Japan. Be prepared to wait two hours." Great.
My number is called. I hand them my US license, translation, passport, and Alien Registration card. The officer looks at my passport and sighs.
"This says you were issued this passport in March."
"Yes. My other passport was stolen." I hand over the police report outlining what was stolen and when.
"Ah, but this means you can't prove you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." He brings out a paper which says, of course, I must be able to show I've lived in the US for three consecutive months after having my license issued.
I go over what he said in my mind. Having a passport issued in March means I haven't lived in the US for three consecutive months? Ever? How does one reach this conclusion?
"We need something showing you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." Three consecutive months. Yeah. I got that part.
"Like what?"
"An electric bill. Your tax returns. A mortgage statement." None of which prove I've lived in the US for three consecutive months, mind you. I could live in London and file my taxes in the US. I could own a house in Boston but not live there. But, this is what they want. The rigidity and stupidity of these rules baffle me. There is no thinking outside the box.
"How about if I have someone from your headquarters call and vouch I've lived in the US for three consecutive months." I try not to be sarcastic. I do have a friend who can vouch for me. Clearly, this is not something the official's heard before. He calls over his supervisor. I repeat myself.
"But, how can he prove that?" I'm asked. As in, how can he prove I've lived in the States "better" than my electric bill? I know I won't win this one, either. They want what they want.
Having just completed the translation for Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm reminded of something he wrote. In the immediate days following the tsunami last year when Rikuzentakata was in shambles, the city received a shipment of gasoline from the Self Defense Forces. The town had no electricity, little food, few locations with running water, no cell phone coverage, and certainly no operational gasoline stations. The gasoline would be used for cars as well trucks delivering much needed food to the evacuation centers where people were staying. When it came time funnel the gasoline into the vehicles, the Self Defense Force guys received instructions from higher up.
"You can't fuel the cars."
"Why?"
"Your job is to deliver. You don't have permission to actually put the fuel in the cars."
This, dear friends, is Japanese bureaucracy at its worst. The mayor had to go find someone with the proper license to handle "hazardous material" and call them over to put the fuel in the cars. When lives are at stake, this kind of adherence to rules, the lack of flexibility is inexcusable. Fighting cops over the protocol (albeit ridiculous) for a driver's license is one thing. Being told "you can't do that" because of regulations in place, which "sorry, can't be bent" is simply not okay in a time of crisis. This attitude and sentiment exists all throughout bureaucratic Japan, and this is a key factor in why it's taking so long for life in Tohoku to get back to normal.
This is a side of Japan I'm not fond of. Tomorrow I will go back and fight the cops who, today, wouldn't give me my license. If pushed, I will call my friend at headquarters. I will point out the absurdity over their rules. I will make them pick a regulation and stick to it, even if this means I have to make a stink about the inconsistency.
So, tonight I'm not happy. Tomorrow I will be. I will take so many documents they can't possibly prove otherwise. Three consecutive months? My ass.
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