Life and Death at 17

I've often said here in Tohoku, the difference between who's a "local" and who's from "away" is pretty drastic.  Introductions are peppered with "I'm so-and-so's child" and "my dad owns the such-and-such store."  This places people.  Pecking order, family feuds, whether or not business transactions will take place, if friendships will be established, these are all set by these pronouncements of placement.  Exempt from this, I tell people I am from the outer most layer of the onion.

The onion is comprised first of family, then local block, neighborhood, city, locality, prefecture, region, country, and the rest of the world.  I'm from the "outer, outer, outer, outer, outer" layer.  The number of "outer"s I say out loud isn't the point.  It's more about the fact I'm from "way, way, way out there."

I long ago learned how much of an advantage this is.  Locals don't complain as it is, much less to their neighbors.  "We're all in the same boat," I've been told, over and over.  Everyone here is a victim of disaster in one way or another.  I'm not.  That I represent the furthest place out people can imagine means I'm safe to complain to.  That I can't possibly relate makes it easy to identify me as someone who can listen.  Most of all, that I'm anything but a "local" means it's okay to say to me what can't be said to family and friends.

There's another sort of "outsider."  There are several locals who have been anointed with this sacred bond of trust.  The unwritten credo of not complaining to anyone "from here" is broken, and blatantly at that with these few.  Takayuki Niinuma is one of the chosen.

His job description on Facebook is "Mayor of the Night in Ofunato."  If you knew him you'd see how perfect this was.  He drives a flashy car with tinted windows.  He swaggers just a bit.  He projects "bad." For those who can't see through to his inner core, he's feared.  Shunned.  He has a past worthy of this reputation.  A trouble-maker in town since he was a kid, his language is coarse.  He doesn't mince words.  People walk the other way when they see him coming.  This makes him, for some, the perfect confidant.

Those who are truly at the bottom, who don't know how to keep going, who've lost the will to go on, who have such tragic stories they can't possibly be real--these people find Taka.  The stories people tell him are nightmarish.  This is one such story.

The sports center in Rikuzentakata with its large gymnasium was a designated evacuation spot.  In the case a tsunami hit the city, residents were to come here.  Hundreds of people gathered here a year ago on March 11th to wait out the tsunami warning.  No one, no one ever expected the wave to be high enough to flood the gym.

"When the tsunami came, it blew in the front door, water poured in from the second story windows, and next thing they knew everyone who wasn't already dead fought their way up to these beams," Taka tells me.

"This 17-year old girl and her friends, they were all hanging on to these beams on the ceiling.  Below them is this whirlpool of water with crap in it.  They know if they let go they're dead."  I think back to what I saw in the gym when I visited last time, and I start to shake.

"Then the wall blew out."  The pressure from the water and the wave continuing to crash in did indeed blow out a wall.  "This meant the water that was holding them up, they're hanging onto the beams, right?  This water got sucked out through the hole in the wall with real force.  People couldn't hang on.  Some got swept out along with the pull of the water flowing out, and others clung on for dear life.  This girl clung.  This girl saw this.  She saw all this.  There's more.  Those who are hanging on just with their hands, they're hanging onto these beams by their hands, right?  They're wet.  They're freezing.  Some couldn't hang on anymore.  They started to drop.  One by one.  They fell down onto the floor of the gym where all this debris was.  Her best friend from childhood fell, too.  She heard the thuds.  She heard them scream.  She watched her friend lay on the floor, twitching, bleeding out.  Her friend finally died.  This girl saw all that."

The reason the girl telling the story survived is another unbelievable tale.  While others hung onto the beams with only their hands, she clung on with her hands and feet, her back to the floor.  After seeing and hearing everyone else around her fall to their deaths, she made her way down a beam, slithering essentially, moving inch by inch until she reached the end.  What the photo doesn't show is that the end of the beam hits a wall, and there's still a three-meter jump to the floor from there.  I follow each beam with my eyes, wondering in silent awe how this was possible.  Could I do this?  To save my own life, could I, would I do this?  Or, would I give up?  Would I let myself die?

At seventeen, I had boyfriends, snuck out of the dorm at night evading the headmaster that lived next door, riding around on motorcycles avoiding the eyes of any teacher that might be out for a nightly stroll.  I played, shopped, sometimes studied, and enjoyed being a teenager.  I've wondered over and over what I would be like today if I went through what this girl experienced--at seventeen.

The gym still looks like this, today, 16 months after the tsunami.  I'm not allowed into the gym but ignore the "Do Not Enter" signs.  These images need recording.  These stories need repeating.  Unimaginable pain and horror experienced by this 17-year old girl brings me to my knees.

That she sought out Taka to tell her story is a testament to his stature.  The trust she placed in him to unburden herself, to sob, to say she will never ever go back to Rikuzentakata is all a gift he has, "bad" as he may be.  In telling me these stories he's unburdening himself as well.  By writing this, I'm letting my grief out, too.  Here in Tohoku we support each other as the rings of friendship expand overlapping from person to person.  This is a key reason I'm here.  For this, I'll stay.

How Unintentionally Misquoting the Bible Led to a Revelation

I collect quotes.  I have lists of them.  One such list is to be read at my funeral.  It's sealed, and my husband knows not to open the file it until the day comes.  As much fun as I've had reading books and articles compiling this list, I've found myself unable to recite any of these quotes without actually reading them from paper.  This means I refrain from repeating them out loud from memory lest I butcher it, misquote the author, losing any opportunity of conveying the zing they so often have.  The list for my funeral is one I'm especially proud of, but it's tucked away in my husband's office.  I won't try to share the quotes with you now.  You will just have to wait.

I read somewhere recently, one of my favorite quotes from the Bible "God helps those who help themselves" is not actually in the Bible.  Well now.  That's a bit of a problem.  Evidently, I've been misquoting someone for quite some time.  That I've been mistaken in this quote, one that has to do with God at that is even more problematic.  Needless to say I've stopped citing the Bible lest I misquote, say, God this time.  Clearly, there's something to not quoting people or books unless I know it was really said.  Really written.

Which made me think of another verse from the Bible (this time I looked it up) about the "gong."  This is also a quote I've liked over the years.  The verse is from I Corinthians 13.  "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal."  Often read at weddings (including ours), it always makes me smile.  I particularly like the "I am only a resounding gong" part.  I conjure up loud-mouthed gasbags who don't know when to stop talking, and people who stood on a box (I only imagine it to be a box) in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, reading something out to the masses.  Resounding gong, indeed. 

The idea of being a resounding gong, or being thought of as a resounding gong, going on and on about the plight of people and communities in Tohoku has been on my mind lately.  A lot.  How long can I keep this up?  How long will people listen?  How many have stopped listening?  What am I doing?  Am I just making noise?  Am I a gong?

I had lunch with one of my best friends from university recently.  She made a joke, what she thought was a joke, about me being in Tohoku.  It hit a nerve.  It was the proverbial straw.  I told her I was "done talking."  If she didn't "get it" there was no way I could get anyone else to understand.  Apologizing, trying to get me to hear her out, she said, "You never told me why you're there.  You never explained.  I've supported you, but I honestly can't say I understand why you keep going back."

Ah yes.  The question I am still, to date, unable to answer adequately.  Why do I go?  I've tried explaining my reasons using analogies, examples, logic, emotion, and humor.  Most people nod politely.  Most people don't understand.  The question will be asked again.  And again.  I will likely still remain unconvincing.

I gave my speech.  She listened, trying to understand.  "I think I get it," she mused.  I wasn't sure I believed her.  We sat in silence for awhile, both of us frustrated.  The next thing she said ended up being an explosive statement, opening up years of pent up frustration.

"You're bilingual.  You're bi-cultural.  You can do things in Japan because you're white, female, foreign.  I get that.  You know the rules.  You get things done.  I understand that.  What you don't understand is that you're much more than that.  You have a unique world view.  Things make sense to you that many of us don't understand.  A lot of us just don't get you."  

She was right.  I am often misunderstood.  I am comfortable with who I am.  But, I know, rather I have known for decades, many aren't.  Take for example, my last two undergraduate years.  I look back now and can say I was bullied.  There was no physical violence.  I wasn't hit, beaten, or cornered in the bathroom.   There was, however, stupid and mean-spirited nastiness.  From women.  I didn't understand where it was coming from for a long time.  It hurt.  That it went on for two years took a toll on me.  I loaded up on classes, hoping to graduate early.  I wanted out.  Significantly more polite and timid than I am now, I didn't push back.  I didn't know how.

Then one day I had a break-through.  I was sitting in class.  I don't remember what it was anymore.  Three of the "mean girls" sat several seats down from me.  Evidently, I was clicking my pen.  It wasn't a conscious act.  Just something people do, right?  Click down once, the tip sticks out.  Click down again, it retracts.  I must have been bored.  I guess the noise I made with the pen annoyed these women.  I looked over and saw one of the women nudge her head over towards me.  They all looked at me.  One woman sighed out loud.  Another shook her head and rolled her eyes.  Passive-aggressive and catty they were.  Here we go again.  What can I do wrong today?

I smiled.  Had I not been in class I would have laughed.  The ridiculousness of it came crashing to the forefront.  Then, right there, I decided I was "over it."  Enough was enough.  I understood it then.  Something "clicked" (no pun intended).  I don't know what it was that made it so clear that day.  But, clear it was.  I was being bullied because I was "different."  You don't "get" me?  Fine.  Honestly?  I didn't care.  I put the pen down and ignored them.  I continued to ignore them for the remainder of my time at school.  Life became easier starting that day.

Here's the thing.  I look American.  I sound American.  But, evidently, I am not American enough.  This isn't a problem I have in Japan.  I don't blend.  I can't.  I look different.  I'm taller and heavier than almost all women there, and some men even.  I look foreign.  There's nothing I can do to change the fact I am not "one of them."  I'm totally and completely at peace with this.  In the US, I am expected to be American.  One of the gang.  That I'm not made me the target of bullying.  Today, it makes my choices harder for people to understand.

What is difficult to explain is how being different benefits my work in Japan.  I get things done precisely because I am not "one of them."  Doors open to me that don't for others.  Add to this, I know the language, play by their rules (for the most part) and I'm good to go.  I am uniquely qualified to be a gong right now.  So long as I pepper my reports, this blog included, with stories about life in Japan in general, not just Tohoku, I simply have to hope I'm not one of those annoying gongs that people tune out.  I like to think I make a gentle "booooong" as opposed to a loud clang.   

So, gong as I may be, I will keep telling stories, making every effort to quote people accurately.  This is my job right now.  While I will continue attempting to explain why I am there, why I keep returning, for now I am content with the knowledge I'm okay being a gong because there is love in what I do.

Hell and the Evil Called "Spider"

Why a book read to me by my first grade teacher has stayed with me all these years is a true mystery.  Books by Ayn Rand, the  Brontë sisters, and Charles Dickens are all lodged somewhere in my subconscious, but seem to have left significantly less of an impression than this one book.  How is that?  What triggers such a strong reaction to a book read to a group of six year olds?

The Japanese folk tale "Kumo no Ito" or in English, "The Spider's Strand" as in the single strand of silk it ejects when getting from place to place, is a story about a spider (God) lowering one lone strand down to earth to bring up the good people into heaven.  The good people of earth do indeed climb up, sharing the space single-file.  Pleased, God the Spider decides to do this again, at which point a bad man climbs up the strand of spider silk kicking down those who try to make their way to heaven behind him.  Displeased, God the Spider sends this bad man down into hell where the Japanese version of the devil, red, big, mean, surrounded by fire awaits this man.

That was all it took.  Spiders and Hell were forever connected in my mind.  Six year olds can be convinced of pretty much anything, and in my case this meant I began to believe spiders (God) some how have the power to send people to hell. 

Fast-forward to the no longer six year old me, I don't actually believe spiders are that powerful, or that there's some yet to be proven connection between spiders and god.  My point is broader than that.  I walked into a single strand of spider silk last night, connecting the staircase bannister to the wall.  I always find myself fascinated by the fact spiders actually get from point a to point b.  Do they fly?  Do they just float through air waiting to land on something?  Spiders lowering themselves downward, that I can understand.  It's this sideways movement, the strand that can measure many meters at times, how they do this is what confuses and fascinates me.

My fear of spiders and the horrible Japanese version of the devil all came back to me in that one instant as I frantically batted this strand off me.  Knowing I would feel this strand on me the rest of the night in the same way I feel non-existent spiders on my skin all day when I find one crawling on me in the morning, the miracle of horizontal spider-flight, amazing as it is, would be overshadowed by the fact I would toss and turn trying to rid myself of the strand I just walked through.  I really don't like spiders.  I am not proud to say I scream and flail when I feel one me.

This latest spider-thread incident has brought back how much of what I grew up with, all that is buried in my psyche untapped and ignored, is still very much a part of me regardless of whether I give it any time or energy.  Indeed, all it takes is walking into spider silk, and I'm taken back decades to the classroom where I trembled at the power of what is surely the evil called "Spider."

Perception, Fukushima, and Modern-day Seppuku

My first encounter with what I call "modern-day seppuku" was at age 12.  Our sixth grade had three homerooms.  Our teachers must have been in cahoots, testing us, telling us all specifically not to do something and wondering if we would obey.  All three classes did exactly what we were told not to do.  All three classes were caught.  Busted.

An emergency meeting was held.  The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather.  From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended.  Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility.  I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that,  "you're not going to resign."  I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on.  We will fix this.  We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."

I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do.  Why was he running away?  You don't resign.  You fix your mistakes.  You stay and fight.  Right?

I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style.  He was supposed to resign.  As was I.  Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement.  I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition.  This is how Japan apologizes.  This is how Japanese take responsibility.

Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years.  Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously.  They apologize.  They resign.  It's done.  This is modern-day seppuku.

I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did.  But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves.  Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional.  Perception matters.  It really matters.  I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do.  Nice beats mean.  It just does.

The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up.  People lied.  TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied.  Politicians lied.  To what extent?  About what?  That will come out.  Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll.  Can anyone prove these lies?  Can anyone prove there was no lying?  Finding those answers is important, yes.  The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful.  How did this happen?  How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this?  Again?

Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer.  This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission:  "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.'  Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity.  Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)

These are incredible words.  I've never seen anything like this.  The Commission in its report calls out all of Japan, its culture, people, ways of thinking and essentially says "this must stop."  No modern-day seppuku.  No resignations.  No new prime minister.  These powerful words bear repeating.  Mr. Kurokawa goes on to say that the emphasis should not be "blame" but "to fix."  I could not agree more.  This is the new "perception" of Japan I've been waiting for all my life.

The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year.  It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree.  When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year.  Eight weeks later this tree is huge.  Why does this matter?  Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown.  It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring.  I asked around.  "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"

The answer, mathematically at least, is eight.  The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago.  However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me.  Eight is the wrong number.  People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker.  But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong.  It's perception again.  While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right.  That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.

Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan.  It's hardly working in Japan.  The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world.  The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this."  It's bad enough the problem is enormous.  How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance.  If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.

Blogging: A Problem?

Nora Ephron has been on my mind lately.  The news of her death last week has occupied quite a bit of mental space.  I liked her.  I still do.  Her writing-style, wit, humor, observations, and willingness to put herself "out there" inspired me, pushed me, and made me want to keep writing.

I spent the weekend reading her essays, books, and watching movies she wrote and directed.  It was my private send-off for her.  Except....

I didn't like the movie "Julie & Julia."  More specifically, I didn't like the Julie character.  Julia Child has always been an inspiration.  Here again was a woman with biting wit, fearless, and willing to try new things.  I like women who reinvent themselves. Wanting to cook like Julia Child, I bought her cookbooks.  I can cook, but realizing I don't have the love of cooking Julia Child was blessed with, I long ago gave up wanting to be her.

Julie, the woman in the movie who blogged about her year of cooking from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, wrote about her trials, experiences, feelings, and frustrations.  This, I found tedious.  I couldn't relate.  Herein lies my latest concern.

Why do I blog?  What does blogging accomplish?  I tell myself I'm sharing news about the tsunami that hit Tohoku last year, that keeping this news on someone's radar screen is my mission.  It's my job. 

But...

Just as I got tired of Julie in less than two hours, I have to assume there are plenty of people in the world who are sick of hearing about Tohoku.  No.  I know there are people sick of hearing about Tohoku.  Immediate family members, good friends, so-so acquaintances have told me as much.

"Your poor husband."
"Japan can take care of itself."
"You're leaving your family behind.  For what?  Why?"

For better or worse, we are dependent upon the media for our news.  News stories, what's considered "Breaking News" changes with each new event.  Sexy stories stay on the front pages a bit longer than the rest.  Since March of last year when the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan, the media reported on Libya, Bin Laden's death, the whole Weiner-gate thing,  Arnold Schwarzenegger's love child, the floods in Thailand, the typhoon and subsequent floods in the Philippines, tornadoes, Olympic atheletes, the upcoming US Presidential election, and the Colorado wildfires.  That's not even a partial list.


I went to Japan because I have an emotional connection to the country.  The only news story from the aforementioned list I have such a connection to (a remote one at that) is the Presidential election.  All the rest are stories that took place somewhere else.  I can't relate to the other stories.  I don't have that "emotional connection" so necessary to be able to continue reading.  How then can I expect people without this attachment to relate to what's going on in Japan?


Before leaving for Japan last March, I sent out a series of e-mails telling people I was going to Japan, and that I was taking donations.  A pastor from a local church wrote saying she was "disappointed" and wished I had given the congregation more time to donate items.  I wrote back saying I would have given the church more time if I myself had known sooner I was going.  When she asked for the two duffel bags she donated to be returned, I said I'd ask someone else for duffel bags.  (I wasn't going to ask people who hadn't worn clean underwear in three weeks to return a donation.)  When she wrote this past February saying she couldn't and wouldn't disseminate my report to the congregation because it sounded like I was asking for money, I gave up.  Sadly, this is a classic example of what happens when people are detached from a story.


While I will keep blogging about Tohoku and Japan in general, I realize putting myself out there to the world, the unknown world at that, comes with a price.  I could be just as tedious to some as Julie was to me today.  While this concerns me, greatly mind you, I hope you are able to think bigger and broader, be less picky and critical, more open-minded and willing to hear just what's needed, what's going on, and why this is important.  For those who do not share my emotional connection to Japan, I realize I'm asking a lot.  I trust your maturity takes you beyond where mine took me today.


I questioned myself today as to whether I should keep blogging.  I really didn't like Julie.  In the end, I decided to trust in the goodness of humankind.  Surely, just as those who read Julie's blog and liked it, there are those who aren't tired of hearing about Tohoku.


So, for now, I will keep blogging, hoping as I write my dislike of Julie is not an accurate barometer of people in general.