I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor. He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter. An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me. In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working. Work. I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here." Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation. I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Hell Ramen, Umami, and Chocolate of the East
Just so we're clear, I did not write "hellish ramen" or "ramen from hell." Hell ramen is a type of ramen available in Ofunato up in Tohoku. I'd heard the rumors, something about the tongues of those who eat this burning off, or some hell-like analogy of hotness and pain and fire. One night last week I ended up at the restaurant serving this boiling, steaming, red broth of noodles. The gang I am with was determined to eat this famed dish.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Crows, Blowing Winds, and Conspiracy Theories
The wind has been fierce for the past three days in Rikuzentakata. Stepping outside means noses run, eyes tear, cheeks burn, and hair requires rearranging. It's hard to walk. It's hard to stand upright. Window panes rattle causing an eerie whine.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Reflections on the Fire
I have preached passionately about the need to prepare. I have implied not thinking through how one will react in a disaster is stupid and irresponsible. Having spent over two and a half years with those who suffered through the tsunami that hit Japan in 2011, I was in a position to know what happens when preparation is shoddy. I live and work with those who even today feel the after-effects of the consequences of their actions.
I had a plan. I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery). I knew what I would do. I was prepared. I was confident.
Last night I proved myself wrong.
If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one. What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.
Here's what happened in chronological order.
I'm asleep. It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock. The intercom from downstairs rings. I'm annoyed. Who's at my door in the middle of the night? I don't ignore it. (Why?) No one I know is going to come visiting this late. I get up and answer it.
"Yes?"
Nothing. No, that's not right. There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise. Asshole. You must be drunk. Why did I get up? Why would you type in my room code? Why didn't you wake up someone else?
I hear someone banging on a door. The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too. Who let him up? I hear noise. I hear more banging. I hear more noise. Someone bangs on my door. I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so. I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something. Is this the emergency alarm system? Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm. I open the door. There's a firefighter.
"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."
If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong. Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.
1). He's looking at me up and down as he says this. Why? Is my hair standing on end? Is it my bathrobe? Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2). The firefighter is short. I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me. Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to? I think not.
3). There's a fire?! Holy shit.
I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire. We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.
David is looking for his jeans. I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening. I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes. (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf. I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening. I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm. I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.
I walk back to the bed and look at the clock. It's just before 3am.
I go to the bathroom.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.
I put on my leather slip-ons.
David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.
I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut. I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire. David slides open the door. The elevator is there. I see three people inside. We get in and it descends. We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five. We see and smell smoke. Why are we in the elevator? Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator? Who takes the elevator in a fire?
The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses. I see red flashing lights outside. David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go. I see the crowd. There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call. I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby. I stand with my back to it. My feet are cold. I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though. I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes. I'm wearing slip-ons. These would be the shoes to wear socks with. I don't have to tie these." I pause. I'm talking to myself more than I am to him. "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything. He looks up. Billowing is the right word. We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment. It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say. "Now our apartment will smell like smoke." Yes. That's what I thought, and that's what I said.
Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room. My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests. My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything. I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day. I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught. The doorman likes me. He won't tell, right? David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe. He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit. I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.
I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket. They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter. Is she okay? What do they do with the dog? They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog. Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her. Does the dog go to the vet? Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance? I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it. Does the dog ride in some other vehicle? Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?
Oh my god. I can't believe I'm thinking this.
There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around. (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.) There's yellow tape blocking off our street. One of the cops is old. Old, as in over sixty. He's in full uniform. Is he a senior official? I wonder how fast he can run.
My feet are cold.
Now it hits me. The only thing I have with me is my cell phone. I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food. Then there's a new thought. I have cash in my apartment. I had completely forgotten about this. Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate. "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.
Why did I bring my cell phone? If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.
I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.
Clearly there is something wrong with me. How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?
What I learned is this: whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.
Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment. We both agree it smells like a camp fire. I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me. I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.
The last thought I remember is this: I want my firefighters big and rude. I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.
It is now the morning after the fire. I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street. Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying. The firefighters have long gone. The yellow tape has been removed. Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.
Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.
I had a plan. I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery). I knew what I would do. I was prepared. I was confident.
Last night I proved myself wrong.
If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one. What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.
Here's what happened in chronological order.
I'm asleep. It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock. The intercom from downstairs rings. I'm annoyed. Who's at my door in the middle of the night? I don't ignore it. (Why?) No one I know is going to come visiting this late. I get up and answer it.
"Yes?"
Nothing. No, that's not right. There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise. Asshole. You must be drunk. Why did I get up? Why would you type in my room code? Why didn't you wake up someone else?
I hear someone banging on a door. The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too. Who let him up? I hear noise. I hear more banging. I hear more noise. Someone bangs on my door. I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so. I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something. Is this the emergency alarm system? Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm. I open the door. There's a firefighter.
"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."
If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong. Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.
1). He's looking at me up and down as he says this. Why? Is my hair standing on end? Is it my bathrobe? Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2). The firefighter is short. I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me. Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to? I think not.
3). There's a fire?! Holy shit.
I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire. We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.
David is looking for his jeans. I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening. I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes. (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf. I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening. I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm. I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.
I walk back to the bed and look at the clock. It's just before 3am.
I go to the bathroom.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.
I put on my leather slip-ons.
David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.
I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut. I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire. David slides open the door. The elevator is there. I see three people inside. We get in and it descends. We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five. We see and smell smoke. Why are we in the elevator? Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator? Who takes the elevator in a fire?
The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses. I see red flashing lights outside. David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go. I see the crowd. There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call. I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby. I stand with my back to it. My feet are cold. I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though. I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes. I'm wearing slip-ons. These would be the shoes to wear socks with. I don't have to tie these." I pause. I'm talking to myself more than I am to him. "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything. He looks up. Billowing is the right word. We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment. It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say. "Now our apartment will smell like smoke." Yes. That's what I thought, and that's what I said.
Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room. My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests. My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything. I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day. I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught. The doorman likes me. He won't tell, right? David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe. He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit. I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.
I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket. They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter. Is she okay? What do they do with the dog? They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog. Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her. Does the dog go to the vet? Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance? I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it. Does the dog ride in some other vehicle? Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?
Oh my god. I can't believe I'm thinking this.
There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around. (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.) There's yellow tape blocking off our street. One of the cops is old. Old, as in over sixty. He's in full uniform. Is he a senior official? I wonder how fast he can run.
My feet are cold.
Now it hits me. The only thing I have with me is my cell phone. I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food. Then there's a new thought. I have cash in my apartment. I had completely forgotten about this. Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate. "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.
Why did I bring my cell phone? If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.
I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.
Clearly there is something wrong with me. How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?
What I learned is this: whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.
Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment. We both agree it smells like a camp fire. I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me. I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.
The last thought I remember is this: I want my firefighters big and rude. I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.
It is now the morning after the fire. I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street. Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying. The firefighters have long gone. The yellow tape has been removed. Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.
Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion
To each their own. Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong? I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine. Hard is just hard. Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that. Let's not compare. Let's not one-up each other.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories
Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once. Even today, I feel cheated. Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew. Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist. No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Lonliness, Weight Gain, and the Sociopath
I'm back in the US visiting my husband. Life could not be better. I sleep well, laugh, mix work with pleasure, shop, and visit with family and friends. My time is my own in the best way possible.
And, I've lost weight. To many in Japan this makes little sense. The Land of the Obese as the US is known to many Japanese, wouldn't I gain during my visits home? No. Why? It's simple really. I'm not lonely whereas in Japan I am.
There. I said it. The longer I spend time away from my husband the lonelier I feel. Nights are especially troublesome, as insomnia, my latest BFF (unrequited love, a one-sided attraction) will not leave me be. Around midnight when I've exhausted shows on television that waste my time and I can't think of anything else to do I eat. It's the worst time to do so, yes, I know. Blah blah blah. That it's not good for me, that this is when all the junk food I eat (because I can't eat anything good for me) goes to parts that don't need more padding is not the point. I eat because I'm lonely. Food comforts me.
Not having this problem in the States I shrink. My clothes fit better and I will return to Japan with people surely commenting on this noticeable weight loss. All this because when all is said and done, it's okay for people to comment on my weight in Japan. The "You've gained weight" remarks flow too easily for my taste, but short of not eating at 2am I don't see an end in sight.
Which reminds me of a story.
I used to work with a git. A sociopath really, he thought manners were for sissies. A genius in his field, he completely disregarded behavior most of us would consider normal, and because of his knowledge and skill his outbursts of everything otherwise unacceptable was tolerated. He reveled in making people squirm. He lived to make people writhe in discomfort. I really couldn't stand him.
He traveled with an entourage: a personal secretary, personal interpreter, and anyone else he could wrangle into accompanying him, they were all doomed and knew it. On this particular Monday morning we were all waiting in the lobby of the most expensive hotel in town to greet the great man. My job was to interpret for a new executive vice president who was to "learn the ropes" from this madman-ass. I didn't need to interpret for the evil genius, just the new guy. No problem. Bring it.
The elevator doors opened and people started bowing. He'd say something to those who were before us in queue making his way down the line. Patiently waiting our turn, I decided to have some fun. "Twenty dollars, sir, and I'll bet you the first words out of his mouth to me are, 'You got fat.'"
"No way," the executive said.
"Twenty dollars."
"He won't even say 'hello'?"
"No. He won't. Are you in?"
"I'm in. I don't believe you. Yeah. I'm in."
People around us heard this exchange and joined in. Soon I had three other men all agreeing to pay me twenty dollars each if I was right. Suckers.
The terrible man is now standing in front of us. I start in with, "I'd like to introduce Mr. So and So, the new executive vice president of such and such group." The man next to me extends his hand which jerk-face ignores. He grunts instead and then looking at me, cue the quickest $80 I've ever made, he says the words.
"You got fat."
I laugh knowing he hates this because I just beat him at his own game. Never mind I just added money towards my expanding shoe collection, I'm a happy girl even with the totally incorrect observation of my weight.
Shrinking as I have, I'll return to Japan in a few days and this time enjoy the comments I hear about how and why I've lost weight when surely, with all the food I've had access to I shouldn't have. Notice if you must. Too bad I can't make money off this particular prediction.
And, I've lost weight. To many in Japan this makes little sense. The Land of the Obese as the US is known to many Japanese, wouldn't I gain during my visits home? No. Why? It's simple really. I'm not lonely whereas in Japan I am.
There. I said it. The longer I spend time away from my husband the lonelier I feel. Nights are especially troublesome, as insomnia, my latest BFF (unrequited love, a one-sided attraction) will not leave me be. Around midnight when I've exhausted shows on television that waste my time and I can't think of anything else to do I eat. It's the worst time to do so, yes, I know. Blah blah blah. That it's not good for me, that this is when all the junk food I eat (because I can't eat anything good for me) goes to parts that don't need more padding is not the point. I eat because I'm lonely. Food comforts me.
Not having this problem in the States I shrink. My clothes fit better and I will return to Japan with people surely commenting on this noticeable weight loss. All this because when all is said and done, it's okay for people to comment on my weight in Japan. The "You've gained weight" remarks flow too easily for my taste, but short of not eating at 2am I don't see an end in sight.
Which reminds me of a story.
I used to work with a git. A sociopath really, he thought manners were for sissies. A genius in his field, he completely disregarded behavior most of us would consider normal, and because of his knowledge and skill his outbursts of everything otherwise unacceptable was tolerated. He reveled in making people squirm. He lived to make people writhe in discomfort. I really couldn't stand him.
He traveled with an entourage: a personal secretary, personal interpreter, and anyone else he could wrangle into accompanying him, they were all doomed and knew it. On this particular Monday morning we were all waiting in the lobby of the most expensive hotel in town to greet the great man. My job was to interpret for a new executive vice president who was to "learn the ropes" from this madman-ass. I didn't need to interpret for the evil genius, just the new guy. No problem. Bring it.
The elevator doors opened and people started bowing. He'd say something to those who were before us in queue making his way down the line. Patiently waiting our turn, I decided to have some fun. "Twenty dollars, sir, and I'll bet you the first words out of his mouth to me are, 'You got fat.'"
"No way," the executive said.
"Twenty dollars."
"He won't even say 'hello'?"
"No. He won't. Are you in?"
"I'm in. I don't believe you. Yeah. I'm in."
People around us heard this exchange and joined in. Soon I had three other men all agreeing to pay me twenty dollars each if I was right. Suckers.
The terrible man is now standing in front of us. I start in with, "I'd like to introduce Mr. So and So, the new executive vice president of such and such group." The man next to me extends his hand which jerk-face ignores. He grunts instead and then looking at me, cue the quickest $80 I've ever made, he says the words.
"You got fat."
I laugh knowing he hates this because I just beat him at his own game. Never mind I just added money towards my expanding shoe collection, I'm a happy girl even with the totally incorrect observation of my weight.
Shrinking as I have, I'll return to Japan in a few days and this time enjoy the comments I hear about how and why I've lost weight when surely, with all the food I've had access to I shouldn't have. Notice if you must. Too bad I can't make money off this particular prediction.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."
Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns. The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II. Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions. They come from a time where modesty was the norm. I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share. He's already one of a kind. I consider him a total and complete exception.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Parents Who Snap At Their Kids: What Post-disaster Recovery Looks Like Today
I am in no position to diagnose. With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what. What I can say is this: I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku. Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm. Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.
Kazu is drunk. The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes. Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons. His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.
"They're just too well behaved," he says. "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem. We snap at the kids. We're all tense. We've got short fuses. We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids. It's not right but we do it anyway." He sips his drink. How many has he had? I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out. They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry. Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile. When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. "I did it, too," he says. "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him. "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb. It's true I was mad. Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device. "I hate those things," he says. "I had told Yuuki to go to bed. He didn't, of course." Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh. "So I yelled at him. Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed. We're all like that, us parents. We're all stressed."
It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety. Do some? Yes. Do many? Perhaps. Probably. The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too. Why wouldn't he be? Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy. "People are giving up," he tells me. "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting. Change and improvement, it's so slow. It's taking so long. Too long." He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.
In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year. Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available. It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going. In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors. The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents. Or so Kazu says.
Clearly I don't have the solution. I listen. I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them. I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him. I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.
Kazu is drunk. The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes. Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons. His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.
"They're just too well behaved," he says. "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem. We snap at the kids. We're all tense. We've got short fuses. We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids. It's not right but we do it anyway." He sips his drink. How many has he had? I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out. They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry. Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile. When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. "I did it, too," he says. "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him. "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb. It's true I was mad. Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device. "I hate those things," he says. "I had told Yuuki to go to bed. He didn't, of course." Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh. "So I yelled at him. Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed. We're all like that, us parents. We're all stressed."
It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety. Do some? Yes. Do many? Perhaps. Probably. The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too. Why wouldn't he be? Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy. "People are giving up," he tells me. "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting. Change and improvement, it's so slow. It's taking so long. Too long." He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.
In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year. Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available. It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going. In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors. The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents. Or so Kazu says.
Clearly I don't have the solution. I listen. I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them. I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him. I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
On Dental Hygienists and National Healthcarre
No, I don't floss. Certainly not every day twice. Pathologically honest that I am, when dental hygienists ask me whether or not I floss I answer with the truth. I am promptly given a lecture which I ignore. I'm an adult. If I don't floss it's on me. Back off, sweetheart. I know what I'm doing.
Several months ago my husband announced he was through with our dentist. "I've never been so insulted in my life," he said. "We're switching dentists."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll leave it up to you."
Soon after, he tells me we now have a new dentist, one who came highly recommended. "You should go see her while you're here," he suggests on one of my trips home, and I agree. I make my appointment and head to the office. Fast forward to the dentist's chair, I lean back, open my mouth and let the hygienist start her inspection. She pokes, she counts, and she pokes some more.
"Do you floss?" she asks me.
"Not always."
"You should. Twice a day."
"I know."
We're not off to a good start. If this were a first date there wouldn't be a second. Add to this she's very young and I'm not one who's fond of being told what to do by someone barely older than my son, so I tune her out.
"You have angry gums," she says. I sit up in the chair.
"I have what?"
"Angry gums," she replies a bit hesitant. I don't think she's accustomed to having people sit up to ask in the middle of an exam challenging her diagnosis. I decide she's new, that she takes her job a bit too seriously, and that she has difficulty picking adjectives. None are reasons for me to take her seriously. Before I leave the office she brings out a skull with a mouth full of crooked teeth and shows me how to brush properly. She also tells me if I don't use a specific toothbrush and a certain mouthwash "you might as well not be brushing." I come home and tell my husband I don't like the new dentist.
Back in Japan I decide it's time to visit a dentist here. Since moving to Japan two years ago I have yet to set foot into a doctor or dentist's office. There are two truths: I haven't been sick enough, and I don't like going to health care specialists unless it's really necessary. Both were reasons to avoid the scent of rubbing alcohol that so often fills the halls of hospitals and the offices of all things medical. Deciding if for no other reason I should find out how good my health insurance is, I ask a friend to recommend a dentist. Her husband happens to be at the dentist's office "right now" and she calls him. A few minutes later she receives a call back.
"Here," she says, giving me her cell phone. "It's the dentist."
I'm a bit surprised by this sudden call and especially that it's the dentist himself on the other end but I say my proper hellos and thank yous and make an appointment for a few months out there on the spot. While I found out the hard way at my subsequent cleaning Japanese dental hygienists are just as annoying as those in the US, I came away without insults hurled at my gums. I'll go back. Oh. And, the whole thing cost less than 900 yen.
In the US there's been a debate regarding nationalized health care. This is nothing new, and indeed there have been proponents preaching the benefits of national health care for decades. The latest mud-hurling seems to based on "If it came from Obama it must be bad" (a sentiment I find very tiresome and completely unoriginal), but alas politics are not always based on reason, and politicians on both sides are not always the brightest of the bunch.
For those who have not had the pleasure of taking part in nationalized health care, here is how it works for me in Japan. The amount I pay for my health insurance depends upon my income from the year before. This means in 2012 I didn't pay anything for my insurance as I made nothing in Japan in 2011. What I pay this year is based on last year's salary, and since my son makes more than me (I'm still essentially a volunteer) I pay very, very little. For that, I get to pick my doctors and hospitals, I'm not required to get permission to see a specialist, and it cost 900 yen to clean my teeth.
It's not a perfect system. I do believe, however, that I get extremely good care for the money I pay into health insurance. (That said, dental hygienists seem to receive the same training, at least in the US and Japan.) There's something very refreshing about having freedom and control over my own medical care. If I don't like a doctor I'll find another and not have to pay the fee with a kidney. I know I only have one experience in Japan to stack up against the years of doctor's visits back home, but I am pleased by my trip to the dentist, and I don't think I've ever said that in my life. So it is.
In closing, just because someone decided to call it Obamacare doesn't make it bad. I'm not saying everything this American president does is good, but neither am I saying everything he does bad. Living in a country where I'm finding out what joy there may be in having more control over my own health care (all without having to worry whether I can indeed afford it), let's just say I might just be a believer yet.
Several months ago my husband announced he was through with our dentist. "I've never been so insulted in my life," he said. "We're switching dentists."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll leave it up to you."
Soon after, he tells me we now have a new dentist, one who came highly recommended. "You should go see her while you're here," he suggests on one of my trips home, and I agree. I make my appointment and head to the office. Fast forward to the dentist's chair, I lean back, open my mouth and let the hygienist start her inspection. She pokes, she counts, and she pokes some more.
"Do you floss?" she asks me.
"Not always."
"You should. Twice a day."
"I know."
We're not off to a good start. If this were a first date there wouldn't be a second. Add to this she's very young and I'm not one who's fond of being told what to do by someone barely older than my son, so I tune her out.
"You have angry gums," she says. I sit up in the chair.
"I have what?"
"Angry gums," she replies a bit hesitant. I don't think she's accustomed to having people sit up to ask in the middle of an exam challenging her diagnosis. I decide she's new, that she takes her job a bit too seriously, and that she has difficulty picking adjectives. None are reasons for me to take her seriously. Before I leave the office she brings out a skull with a mouth full of crooked teeth and shows me how to brush properly. She also tells me if I don't use a specific toothbrush and a certain mouthwash "you might as well not be brushing." I come home and tell my husband I don't like the new dentist.
Back in Japan I decide it's time to visit a dentist here. Since moving to Japan two years ago I have yet to set foot into a doctor or dentist's office. There are two truths: I haven't been sick enough, and I don't like going to health care specialists unless it's really necessary. Both were reasons to avoid the scent of rubbing alcohol that so often fills the halls of hospitals and the offices of all things medical. Deciding if for no other reason I should find out how good my health insurance is, I ask a friend to recommend a dentist. Her husband happens to be at the dentist's office "right now" and she calls him. A few minutes later she receives a call back.
"Here," she says, giving me her cell phone. "It's the dentist."
I'm a bit surprised by this sudden call and especially that it's the dentist himself on the other end but I say my proper hellos and thank yous and make an appointment for a few months out there on the spot. While I found out the hard way at my subsequent cleaning Japanese dental hygienists are just as annoying as those in the US, I came away without insults hurled at my gums. I'll go back. Oh. And, the whole thing cost less than 900 yen.
In the US there's been a debate regarding nationalized health care. This is nothing new, and indeed there have been proponents preaching the benefits of national health care for decades. The latest mud-hurling seems to based on "If it came from Obama it must be bad" (a sentiment I find very tiresome and completely unoriginal), but alas politics are not always based on reason, and politicians on both sides are not always the brightest of the bunch.
For those who have not had the pleasure of taking part in nationalized health care, here is how it works for me in Japan. The amount I pay for my health insurance depends upon my income from the year before. This means in 2012 I didn't pay anything for my insurance as I made nothing in Japan in 2011. What I pay this year is based on last year's salary, and since my son makes more than me (I'm still essentially a volunteer) I pay very, very little. For that, I get to pick my doctors and hospitals, I'm not required to get permission to see a specialist, and it cost 900 yen to clean my teeth.
It's not a perfect system. I do believe, however, that I get extremely good care for the money I pay into health insurance. (That said, dental hygienists seem to receive the same training, at least in the US and Japan.) There's something very refreshing about having freedom and control over my own medical care. If I don't like a doctor I'll find another and not have to pay the fee with a kidney. I know I only have one experience in Japan to stack up against the years of doctor's visits back home, but I am pleased by my trip to the dentist, and I don't think I've ever said that in my life. So it is.
In closing, just because someone decided to call it Obamacare doesn't make it bad. I'm not saying everything this American president does is good, but neither am I saying everything he does bad. Living in a country where I'm finding out what joy there may be in having more control over my own health care (all without having to worry whether I can indeed afford it), let's just say I might just be a believer yet.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
On Women and Bags (It's Not What You Think) and All Things Chinese
Fury and tact. One I feel, the other I will now attempt to muster up.
My three-hour layover in Beijing was not something I looked forward to. It's a long story, but let's just say today I was indignant because of the treatment of the airline en route to Beijing by one of China's airlines. Yes, I am one of those travel snobs. I've not yet mastered the art of lowering my expectations from airlines where my status is supposed to make travel more pleasurable. Because it was Air China that said "No" to things most other airlines says "Yes, of course" to flying into China I was already seething. Cue three hours in Beijing where nothing is open (I landed at 5am) I plunk myself down in a chair ready to vent. In e-mails, on Facebook, writing, I wanted to air my angst. Having done so, I wanted a good cup of tea, some food, and to browse the news online. Of those six items on my list, I got two: e-mail and food.
I get my access code for free Wi-fi by giving some large Chinese organization (government?) my passport number. I wonder after the fact if that was a good idea (will they now track all of what I read/write/browse?), will they have my passwords? Am I being paranoid? Yes, likely to all. The tea is Lipton (no), the peaches hard, the sandwiches iffy, so I go for bottled water and ... what are these?
Wife cakes. Cakes made of wife? Hang on. The characters actually read "old bag cakes." Here we go again.
My husband finds it hilarious (because he knows finding humor in this irks me) I struggle not to refer to him in public in Japan as my lord person, the word Japanese women commonly use to refer to their husbands. I've asked him not to refer to me as his inside-the-house, the typical word for wife in Japanese. I've shared with him our son is allowed to refer to me as honorable bag, but he's not actually to do so. Not in my presence. I make a quick mental note. At least in Japanese mothers are honorable bags. In Chinese, evidently, it's not the mother who's an old (but not honorable?) bag, but wife. When did women become bags? (Note: no typo here. The word is bag and not hag.)
Is it because we carry bags? We were gatherers when our men were hunters back in the day, and the bags we carried then turned into our purses today? Surely not. Are we kangaroos, carrying our young inside our "bags"? Is this a good thing, being thought of as a vessel, a holder if items, precious and sacred? Do bags symbolize our wombs? Am I reading too much into this?
I have the time to contemplate all this because from Beijing's airport I cannot access Facebook. The links from Washington Post, CNN, and other major news outlets also don't work. Is the Chinese mega-machine that is airport-government-and more controling what I have access to? Wanting a good cup of tea but not willing to settle for Lipton, I make my way back to the small food stand and decide the old bag cakes warrant a photo, if for no other reason, my husband will get a kick out of this. I take out my phone from my bag (my most honorable), open the glass door where the bag-cakes are kept cool, and snap a photo. "Sorry, please. No photo," the young woman standing next to the case tells me. I look around. This display of food is the only one with a guard. Why no photo? Because I'm surely not the only foreigner who thinks food should not be referred to as old, or baglike, or made from parts of a spouse, thus I'm forbidden to take the photo. Someone like me will surely post it on Facebook once they get to a place where accessing social media is allowed.
"Uh huh," I tell the pretty, young, professional, but clearly intimidated guard-of-all-things-pastry and walk away, thinking "If you really don't want me to have this photo you should be asking me to delete it," or hide those old-bag/wife cakes. But, that's the Air China flight fury residue talking.
Remembering back to the security line where only non-Chinese were taken aside for a pat-down I decide this is China. When in China cakes are wife-bags, internet access is limited, the country where one would think I would have access to wonderful tea is clearly not the case, it simply is what it is.
Some day I will ask a Chinese friend, lightheartedly mind you with no judgment attached, what those old-bag-wife cakes are all about, but today I'll post my indignation and resolve to avoid at least all things Air China and leave it at that.
My three-hour layover in Beijing was not something I looked forward to. It's a long story, but let's just say today I was indignant because of the treatment of the airline en route to Beijing by one of China's airlines. Yes, I am one of those travel snobs. I've not yet mastered the art of lowering my expectations from airlines where my status is supposed to make travel more pleasurable. Because it was Air China that said "No" to things most other airlines says "Yes, of course" to flying into China I was already seething. Cue three hours in Beijing where nothing is open (I landed at 5am) I plunk myself down in a chair ready to vent. In e-mails, on Facebook, writing, I wanted to air my angst. Having done so, I wanted a good cup of tea, some food, and to browse the news online. Of those six items on my list, I got two: e-mail and food.
I get my access code for free Wi-fi by giving some large Chinese organization (government?) my passport number. I wonder after the fact if that was a good idea (will they now track all of what I read/write/browse?), will they have my passwords? Am I being paranoid? Yes, likely to all. The tea is Lipton (no), the peaches hard, the sandwiches iffy, so I go for bottled water and ... what are these?
Wife cakes. Cakes made of wife? Hang on. The characters actually read "old bag cakes." Here we go again.
My husband finds it hilarious (because he knows finding humor in this irks me) I struggle not to refer to him in public in Japan as my lord person, the word Japanese women commonly use to refer to their husbands. I've asked him not to refer to me as his inside-the-house, the typical word for wife in Japanese. I've shared with him our son is allowed to refer to me as honorable bag, but he's not actually to do so. Not in my presence. I make a quick mental note. At least in Japanese mothers are honorable bags. In Chinese, evidently, it's not the mother who's an old (but not honorable?) bag, but wife. When did women become bags? (Note: no typo here. The word is bag and not hag.)
Is it because we carry bags? We were gatherers when our men were hunters back in the day, and the bags we carried then turned into our purses today? Surely not. Are we kangaroos, carrying our young inside our "bags"? Is this a good thing, being thought of as a vessel, a holder if items, precious and sacred? Do bags symbolize our wombs? Am I reading too much into this?
I have the time to contemplate all this because from Beijing's airport I cannot access Facebook. The links from Washington Post, CNN, and other major news outlets also don't work. Is the Chinese mega-machine that is airport-government-and more controling what I have access to? Wanting a good cup of tea but not willing to settle for Lipton, I make my way back to the small food stand and decide the old bag cakes warrant a photo, if for no other reason, my husband will get a kick out of this. I take out my phone from my bag (my most honorable), open the glass door where the bag-cakes are kept cool, and snap a photo. "Sorry, please. No photo," the young woman standing next to the case tells me. I look around. This display of food is the only one with a guard. Why no photo? Because I'm surely not the only foreigner who thinks food should not be referred to as old, or baglike, or made from parts of a spouse, thus I'm forbidden to take the photo. Someone like me will surely post it on Facebook once they get to a place where accessing social media is allowed.
"Uh huh," I tell the pretty, young, professional, but clearly intimidated guard-of-all-things-pastry and walk away, thinking "If you really don't want me to have this photo you should be asking me to delete it," or hide those old-bag/wife cakes. But, that's the Air China flight fury residue talking.
Remembering back to the security line where only non-Chinese were taken aside for a pat-down I decide this is China. When in China cakes are wife-bags, internet access is limited, the country where one would think I would have access to wonderful tea is clearly not the case, it simply is what it is.
Some day I will ask a Chinese friend, lightheartedly mind you with no judgment attached, what those old-bag-wife cakes are all about, but today I'll post my indignation and resolve to avoid at least all things Air China and leave it at that.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Tsunami Tendenko: Save Yourself, No Matter What
Depending on who you are, depending on where you live the date of September 11 holds a different meaning. Today marks the 12th memorial of the terrorist attacks in the United States. Two and a half years ago on this day, the coastline of most of northeast Japan was forever changed. Regardless of how this day is important to you, and even if it's not, this day allows us to learn.
There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan. The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko. These words contain a simple but powerful meaning: if facing a tsunami save yourself first.
I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years. People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents. Evacuation drills stress safety and survival. For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given. The only escape is to get to higher ground.
It's a simple message. Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011? The answers are many. Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic. The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating. Fair warning: what sounds easy isn't.
Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011. I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them. Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami. Another part of my job is to convey a message. Prepare. Think. Have a plan.
Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents. Many cannot be avoided. While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.
This is where tsunami tendenko comes in. Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake. What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows: stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.
The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake. Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance. The lesson learned? Don't.
On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region. A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened. Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th. No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either. They paid for their mistake with their lives.
Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam. Logic dictates cars run faster than people. The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.
What does it mean to have a plan? What does it mean to think through this plan? Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves. On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.
For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural. Our instinct is to live. To survive. For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them. Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message: don't.
This begs the following question: Are you willing to die for others? If so, whom?
Parents naturally want to protect their children. Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids? If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose? What about your colleagues? Your friends? Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?
The message is simple. Think. Have a plan. Stick to it. Live.
My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one. None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake. That said, none of us can see into our futures. Life is precious. Have a plan.
There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan. The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko. These words contain a simple but powerful meaning: if facing a tsunami save yourself first.
I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years. People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents. Evacuation drills stress safety and survival. For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given. The only escape is to get to higher ground.
It's a simple message. Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011? The answers are many. Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic. The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating. Fair warning: what sounds easy isn't.
Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011. I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them. Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami. Another part of my job is to convey a message. Prepare. Think. Have a plan.
Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents. Many cannot be avoided. While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.
This is where tsunami tendenko comes in. Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake. What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows: stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.
The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake. Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance. The lesson learned? Don't.
On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region. A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened. Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th. No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either. They paid for their mistake with their lives.
Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam. Logic dictates cars run faster than people. The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.
What does it mean to have a plan? What does it mean to think through this plan? Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves. On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.
For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural. Our instinct is to live. To survive. For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them. Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message: don't.
This begs the following question: Are you willing to die for others? If so, whom?
Parents naturally want to protect their children. Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids? If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose? What about your colleagues? Your friends? Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?
The message is simple. Think. Have a plan. Stick to it. Live.
My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one. None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake. That said, none of us can see into our futures. Life is precious. Have a plan.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
From My Veranda: Corporate Espionage in Japan
Walking back from my bus stop to my apartment, I saw a familiar sight. The building next to mine is the headquarters of a large food company. Well known, I would have a hard time finding someone in Japan unfamiliar with their name and products.
To be fair, I've seen this sight before. Three men in black suits and white shirts are bowing to a black car (today it's a Lexus) pulling out of the company's private parking garage. The three men in black bow in unison, rise in unison, bow again, rise again, and then stand there until the Lexus turns right and out of sight. I watch all this and them follow them with my eyes as they walk back indoors to merciful air conditioning.
This scene takes me back to one I experienced as a child. I'm in the train station with my father. We're waiting in the lobby for someone to arrive. We are not alone. The lobby is a large rectangular room with food kiosks on one side, ticket machines and salespeople on the other. In front of us is the gate from which people come and go, and behind us are large glass doors leading outside. In other words, it's a pretty typical Japanese train station. What's different about this scene today are the men in black lined up in two rows. They face each other. The line begins from the turnstyle all the way out the door. The men in black are yakuza (the Japanese mob). Some wear dark sunglasses. Some have tightly permed hair. Some are bald. Large, really large, and then more average, they stand silent, facing each other all in black.
Our family is standing near the doors. Not because we need an escape plan per se, but because it's generally a good idea to give these guys as much space as they feel they need. Today, we chose to be near the door.
Then it happens. Clearly the honored and exalted guest, either this faction's bigwig or his boss or his boss has arrived. Entering in a dark gray and black Japanese kimono, grandpa-boss has large earlobes. That's what I noticed first. One by one, the men bend at their waist, each hollering the I'm-a-guy calling of, "Ooooos" as heads bow in domino-fashion. Perfectly synced, they were precise and exact. The combination "Ooooos" and bow was indeed so perfect, that this was being undertaken in public for all to see by bad boys to the bone, let's just say it was comical.
My father saw the beginnings of a grin on my face and gave me the "Absolutely not now" look and I froze. Nothing is funny about the deepest forms of respect the yakuza can give their masters. No. This was not funny. I was not going to laugh, smile, grin, smirk, or snicker.
I bring up this domino-bowing story only because the three men in black today reminded me of this long ago event. That's not my story today.
I've now lived in this apartment in Tokyo for over 18 months. During this time I've realized a key factor about my neighbors--the food giant. My floor looks straight into what I've decided is their product development department. From my window or small veranda, I can see directly into their offices. They never close the blinds. I've seen them taste test new products, and I've seen them compare their brands with their competitor's. All I need is an ordinary pair of binoculars and I would be able to read their computer screens and actually see next year's item currently under development.
This is supposed to be a secret, this new product. What's the point of a new item on the market if a competing company gets wind of it and puts out their brand first? Enter in the question I've harbored for 18 months. Why don't they close their blinds? Why don't they take more care to be secret about their research? Mine is not the only apartment facing their floor where the next hit item will be born. Any one of us could take their research and offer it up to the highest bidder.
Clearly I've read too many spy novels and fancy myself the modern-day Mata Hari. Obviously I'm not going to steal their secrets and make money off of their sloppiness. But, the point is, I could.
This lack of concern on the part of this food company is not the only reason I say the Japanese are lax when it comes to protecting their product, ideas, or name. Just the other night I was invited out to dinner with friends who own a large food company of their own. As the president consumed more liquor, he became more insistent towards the chef/owner of the establishment that he copyright the name of his store before expanding into other Asian countries.
"They'll steal your name," the president says, "and then the fact you're famous here in Tokyo is moot. Everyone will associate the other company with your food. Since you can't control how good their food is, and it can't possibly be as good as yours, you and your restaurant look bad. Got to do this now," the president continues, "to protect yourself. You know how they are about stealing names to make consumers assume they're the real deal when they're only copycats."
I won't mention which countries the president was referring to. While pirating is evidently not seen as a moral issue for these countries, it's the fact the chef/owner never thought of this that is proof yet again how many Japanese are oblivious to the fact their products might be of interest to others.
The moral of the story is this: close your curtains if you're doing something you don't want others to see, and be smart about branding yourselves if you want to control your name. That said, I'm not implying all Japanese are lax about protecting their identity, new product, name, or corporate secrets. Just saying.
"Did you know there's a company called Honda making motorcycles in *****?" the president asks us all. "Not the real Honda, but another Honda." I counter with a "No way. Honda, the real one wouldn't stand for that," but the president shakes his head. "You're wrong. You'd be amazed." I am. And then I remember the people across the street from me. With no concern over those of us who can see into their offices, perhaps it's no wonder there are two Hondas making the same product.
Food for thought.
To be fair, I've seen this sight before. Three men in black suits and white shirts are bowing to a black car (today it's a Lexus) pulling out of the company's private parking garage. The three men in black bow in unison, rise in unison, bow again, rise again, and then stand there until the Lexus turns right and out of sight. I watch all this and them follow them with my eyes as they walk back indoors to merciful air conditioning.
This scene takes me back to one I experienced as a child. I'm in the train station with my father. We're waiting in the lobby for someone to arrive. We are not alone. The lobby is a large rectangular room with food kiosks on one side, ticket machines and salespeople on the other. In front of us is the gate from which people come and go, and behind us are large glass doors leading outside. In other words, it's a pretty typical Japanese train station. What's different about this scene today are the men in black lined up in two rows. They face each other. The line begins from the turnstyle all the way out the door. The men in black are yakuza (the Japanese mob). Some wear dark sunglasses. Some have tightly permed hair. Some are bald. Large, really large, and then more average, they stand silent, facing each other all in black.
Our family is standing near the doors. Not because we need an escape plan per se, but because it's generally a good idea to give these guys as much space as they feel they need. Today, we chose to be near the door.
Then it happens. Clearly the honored and exalted guest, either this faction's bigwig or his boss or his boss has arrived. Entering in a dark gray and black Japanese kimono, grandpa-boss has large earlobes. That's what I noticed first. One by one, the men bend at their waist, each hollering the I'm-a-guy calling of, "Ooooos" as heads bow in domino-fashion. Perfectly synced, they were precise and exact. The combination "Ooooos" and bow was indeed so perfect, that this was being undertaken in public for all to see by bad boys to the bone, let's just say it was comical.
My father saw the beginnings of a grin on my face and gave me the "Absolutely not now" look and I froze. Nothing is funny about the deepest forms of respect the yakuza can give their masters. No. This was not funny. I was not going to laugh, smile, grin, smirk, or snicker.
I bring up this domino-bowing story only because the three men in black today reminded me of this long ago event. That's not my story today.
I've now lived in this apartment in Tokyo for over 18 months. During this time I've realized a key factor about my neighbors--the food giant. My floor looks straight into what I've decided is their product development department. From my window or small veranda, I can see directly into their offices. They never close the blinds. I've seen them taste test new products, and I've seen them compare their brands with their competitor's. All I need is an ordinary pair of binoculars and I would be able to read their computer screens and actually see next year's item currently under development.
This is supposed to be a secret, this new product. What's the point of a new item on the market if a competing company gets wind of it and puts out their brand first? Enter in the question I've harbored for 18 months. Why don't they close their blinds? Why don't they take more care to be secret about their research? Mine is not the only apartment facing their floor where the next hit item will be born. Any one of us could take their research and offer it up to the highest bidder.
Clearly I've read too many spy novels and fancy myself the modern-day Mata Hari. Obviously I'm not going to steal their secrets and make money off of their sloppiness. But, the point is, I could.
This lack of concern on the part of this food company is not the only reason I say the Japanese are lax when it comes to protecting their product, ideas, or name. Just the other night I was invited out to dinner with friends who own a large food company of their own. As the president consumed more liquor, he became more insistent towards the chef/owner of the establishment that he copyright the name of his store before expanding into other Asian countries.
"They'll steal your name," the president says, "and then the fact you're famous here in Tokyo is moot. Everyone will associate the other company with your food. Since you can't control how good their food is, and it can't possibly be as good as yours, you and your restaurant look bad. Got to do this now," the president continues, "to protect yourself. You know how they are about stealing names to make consumers assume they're the real deal when they're only copycats."
I won't mention which countries the president was referring to. While pirating is evidently not seen as a moral issue for these countries, it's the fact the chef/owner never thought of this that is proof yet again how many Japanese are oblivious to the fact their products might be of interest to others.
The moral of the story is this: close your curtains if you're doing something you don't want others to see, and be smart about branding yourselves if you want to control your name. That said, I'm not implying all Japanese are lax about protecting their identity, new product, name, or corporate secrets. Just saying.
"Did you know there's a company called Honda making motorcycles in *****?" the president asks us all. "Not the real Honda, but another Honda." I counter with a "No way. Honda, the real one wouldn't stand for that," but the president shakes his head. "You're wrong. You'd be amazed." I am. And then I remember the people across the street from me. With no concern over those of us who can see into their offices, perhaps it's no wonder there are two Hondas making the same product.
Food for thought.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
The Whole Miley Cyrus Thing
Among the list of things that never happen to me: waking up to Sean Connery in a butler's uniform holding a tray of hot tea and freshly baked bread, or getting an invitation for tea with Queen Elizabeth, I should include going to bed at 1:45am and waking at 5:25am. When the last part includes "of my own accord" it's even more of a rarity which is why this day should be remembered and recalled as one of the great and strange days of my life. Why am I awake? I'm not someone who voluntarily submits to four hours of sleep. My body has never told my brain, "You've had four hours. That's enough. Rise and shine." I decide I will blame Miley Cyrus.
I've had a rough several days. Nothing earth-shattering but grating, difficult, angst-inducing crap has kept me hitting the phones (I have several) and attempting to put out fires. I'm tired. My usual work routine of reviewing various news outlets and the like has most definitely informed me something happened on television in the US and that Miley Cyrus was involved. That said, I had too much to do to read any of the articles or comment on the multitude of Facebook posts that discussed what she did and what she wore. This means until this morning I had no idea what people were talking about. Nor did I care.
But, when I wake up at ungodly hours where, on any other day sleep fairies are holding my hand through dreams of pure bliss, clearly there is a reason. Today I allowed myself to get caught up on this whole Miley Cyrus thing.
Another reason I've not bothered to stay informed about what others can't stop talking about is this: Miley Cyrus is not news in Japan. I've heard nothing about what evidently happened at this award ceremony/show from my Japanese or foreign friends here. Perhaps none of my friends in Japan know Ms. Cyrus. Perhaps none of my friends in Japan like her. Perhaps what goes for music awards shows in the US are so (insert favorite adjective here) it's too easy to ignore them in Japan. "Oh, that's America," a commentator might say, and then that would be that, pretty much killing the story right there. It's easy to ignore what doesn't get coverage, assuming if it doesn't warrant mention then it must not matter.
But, (again) because I am awake and I shouldn't be I take this as a sign to fill my hours before my eyelids get heavy I decide to watch and read. "Stay informed," I tell myself. "It's better to know and not need this information than to not know and look stupid." Or so my logic goes at 6:15am.
So, I did. I read the articles (there are many) and watched the videos (how many cameras were there?) and even looked into who the guy was that was singing (really terrible suit). Here's what I take away from why-is-this-news event. Granted, I'm sitting here across the Pacific going on four hours of sleep, but even so, I offer my observations in the following way. First, the consensus seems to be outrage over what she did. Okay. It was over the top, but so are Madonna and Lady Gaga. I'm not sure Ms. Cyrus should get higher (or lower) marks for what she did when it's already been done before. This begs the question, "Why is this news?" Second, why is no one talking about this guy? His terrible suit aside, no one seems to see the part on the video where he's grinding her as much as she is him. Why are we crying "Bad girl" but not "Bad boy"? Which takes me to his song. I can't hear what he's saying (the man mumbles) so I googled this video/song and aside from getting the gist there are again scantily-clad women walking back and forth on the screen I still couldn't understand what he was saying. So, I googled the lyrics to his song. If you haven't, you should. Perhaps the outrage needs to be over what he's suggesting he'll do in his song and not what some young woman was wearing or how she was dancing.
None of this explains why there's been neither interest nor coverage in Japan over Miley Cyrus, Robin Thicke, their collaboration on stage, his song, her dance, his role in her dance, etc., etc., etc. Maybe in Japan, this just isn't newsworthy. Maybe producers know no one will care. I've certainly not heard Robin Thicke's song (honestly, read the lyrics) played on television, or in department stores, or heard his name mentioned here in Japan at all this summer (the song is evidently quite a hit in the US?), so maybe this man is also not worthy of mention? Maybe what goes for outrageous behavior by foreign "artists" is such a norm in Japan that clogging the airwaves with this performance/scene isn't necessary. Then again, maybe no one in Japan knows who Miley Cyrus is. Maybe no one cares.
All this on four hours of sleep. For whatever it's worth.
I've had a rough several days. Nothing earth-shattering but grating, difficult, angst-inducing crap has kept me hitting the phones (I have several) and attempting to put out fires. I'm tired. My usual work routine of reviewing various news outlets and the like has most definitely informed me something happened on television in the US and that Miley Cyrus was involved. That said, I had too much to do to read any of the articles or comment on the multitude of Facebook posts that discussed what she did and what she wore. This means until this morning I had no idea what people were talking about. Nor did I care.
But, when I wake up at ungodly hours where, on any other day sleep fairies are holding my hand through dreams of pure bliss, clearly there is a reason. Today I allowed myself to get caught up on this whole Miley Cyrus thing.
Another reason I've not bothered to stay informed about what others can't stop talking about is this: Miley Cyrus is not news in Japan. I've heard nothing about what evidently happened at this award ceremony/show from my Japanese or foreign friends here. Perhaps none of my friends in Japan know Ms. Cyrus. Perhaps none of my friends in Japan like her. Perhaps what goes for music awards shows in the US are so (insert favorite adjective here) it's too easy to ignore them in Japan. "Oh, that's America," a commentator might say, and then that would be that, pretty much killing the story right there. It's easy to ignore what doesn't get coverage, assuming if it doesn't warrant mention then it must not matter.
But, (again) because I am awake and I shouldn't be I take this as a sign to fill my hours before my eyelids get heavy I decide to watch and read. "Stay informed," I tell myself. "It's better to know and not need this information than to not know and look stupid." Or so my logic goes at 6:15am.
So, I did. I read the articles (there are many) and watched the videos (how many cameras were there?) and even looked into who the guy was that was singing (really terrible suit). Here's what I take away from why-is-this-news event. Granted, I'm sitting here across the Pacific going on four hours of sleep, but even so, I offer my observations in the following way. First, the consensus seems to be outrage over what she did. Okay. It was over the top, but so are Madonna and Lady Gaga. I'm not sure Ms. Cyrus should get higher (or lower) marks for what she did when it's already been done before. This begs the question, "Why is this news?" Second, why is no one talking about this guy? His terrible suit aside, no one seems to see the part on the video where he's grinding her as much as she is him. Why are we crying "Bad girl" but not "Bad boy"? Which takes me to his song. I can't hear what he's saying (the man mumbles) so I googled this video/song and aside from getting the gist there are again scantily-clad women walking back and forth on the screen I still couldn't understand what he was saying. So, I googled the lyrics to his song. If you haven't, you should. Perhaps the outrage needs to be over what he's suggesting he'll do in his song and not what some young woman was wearing or how she was dancing.
None of this explains why there's been neither interest nor coverage in Japan over Miley Cyrus, Robin Thicke, their collaboration on stage, his song, her dance, his role in her dance, etc., etc., etc. Maybe in Japan, this just isn't newsworthy. Maybe producers know no one will care. I've certainly not heard Robin Thicke's song (honestly, read the lyrics) played on television, or in department stores, or heard his name mentioned here in Japan at all this summer (the song is evidently quite a hit in the US?), so maybe this man is also not worthy of mention? Maybe what goes for outrageous behavior by foreign "artists" is such a norm in Japan that clogging the airwaves with this performance/scene isn't necessary. Then again, maybe no one in Japan knows who Miley Cyrus is. Maybe no one cares.
All this on four hours of sleep. For whatever it's worth.
Friday, August 23, 2013
On Death and Selective Visual Intake
One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to
me yesterday saying he has something to tell me. Ichiro has the ability to know when to be
serious and when to cut loose. Because I
like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my
favorite people in city hall.” That
said, I enjoy his company immensely. With
each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings
linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have
intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me. I like my co-workers.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow. I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s
talking about. Ichiro switches to the
man’s last name. “XXX-san,” and I nod,
“he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed
away.”
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
On Hugging in Japan: Public Displays of Emotion
I must have been in my teens. Looking for something to read, I browsed the bookshelf my parents kept well stocked and came across a book about life in Japan. I don't remember the name of the book (note to self--write these things down if I want to sound credible) but there was a passage about publicly displaying emotions, specifically affection, being a no-no here in Japan. So much so that when Rodin's statue "The Kiss" was displayed in Tokyo in the 1960s (don't quote me on this) there was an uproar. Not about the two naked people embracing, but the fact they were kissing. The kiss (The Kiss) was too much.
I left Japan at age 18 to go to university in the US. I made frequent trips to Japan over the next several decades, finally moving back two years ago. Time away from Japan has made me notice changes, some subtle and others more overt. A key difference between the Japan of my youth and Japan today is precisely this public displaying of emotion. More people walk through town holding hands. Even the older generation, those of my parent's age can be seen walking hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm. I see people hugging hello and good bye at train stations and restaurants. Watching the national high school boys baseball championship I see teenage boys hugging each other--some in celebration, others to comfort. Is there a new cultural phenomenon in Japan? Has Japan caught the open-expression-of-feelings bug? Is it possible (do I dare hope?) love is in the air? Are we in experiencing perpetual spring fever?
Because nothing in Japan is simple, I must note how, here again, life in Tohoku is different. I did not set out to make a statement, or work towards affecting change. I did what came naturally. With kids around me in the 13 preschools I've visited over the past two years I made it a point to hug. Slowly I started seeing these kids in town. Some I saw frequently. There was hesitation at first on both sides, me wondering if I can and should hug the kid in front of his or her parent, and shyness on their part. This, too, changed with time. Now kids run up to me arms wide open and clutch me around my waist. I hug them back tight. We giggle, laugh, say hello.
Soon the moms were ready for hugs, too. With some mothers now hugs are a part of hello and good-bye. Then came the dads. A handshake would turn into a pull towards each other, ending with something resembling a chest-bump. These also over time turned into more natural, comfortable hugs.
I've known it's not up to me to initiate the hug, at least up in the Tohoku region where life is much more formal, rules rigid, traditional, and sometimes antiquated. This became extremely evident during the tanabata festival held up north in early August. I hadn't seen my adopted families for almost six weeks. With everyone in a good mood, emotions running high in the best way possible, I said hello with each brother, sister, and mother I saw. One of my mothers came shuffling towards me, a half-run half-walk, her hands held up as if she was showing me her ten fingers. I smiled wide, said hello and clutched her hands. We'd never hugged before, and it was only after I saw a quick glimpse of disappointment in her eyes that I realized she was expecting a hug. The same thing happened with a brother. He had never initiated a hug. I couldn't imagine a hug would be forthcoming, but his hands also were showing me ten fingers, and when I went to high five him on both hands, he pulled me in. When we both pulled back from each other we exchanged a, "Well, that was awkward" look. (I have a feeling it will be awhile before we try that again.)
Japan is changing. Japan has been changing. This is more obvious and evident in some areas, while far out in the country like Tohoku it's less visible. I am leaning towards defining this change as good. Others may disagree but here is a part of life in Japan I can confidently say is moving in the right direction.
I left Japan at age 18 to go to university in the US. I made frequent trips to Japan over the next several decades, finally moving back two years ago. Time away from Japan has made me notice changes, some subtle and others more overt. A key difference between the Japan of my youth and Japan today is precisely this public displaying of emotion. More people walk through town holding hands. Even the older generation, those of my parent's age can be seen walking hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm. I see people hugging hello and good bye at train stations and restaurants. Watching the national high school boys baseball championship I see teenage boys hugging each other--some in celebration, others to comfort. Is there a new cultural phenomenon in Japan? Has Japan caught the open-expression-of-feelings bug? Is it possible (do I dare hope?) love is in the air? Are we in experiencing perpetual spring fever?
Because nothing in Japan is simple, I must note how, here again, life in Tohoku is different. I did not set out to make a statement, or work towards affecting change. I did what came naturally. With kids around me in the 13 preschools I've visited over the past two years I made it a point to hug. Slowly I started seeing these kids in town. Some I saw frequently. There was hesitation at first on both sides, me wondering if I can and should hug the kid in front of his or her parent, and shyness on their part. This, too, changed with time. Now kids run up to me arms wide open and clutch me around my waist. I hug them back tight. We giggle, laugh, say hello.
Soon the moms were ready for hugs, too. With some mothers now hugs are a part of hello and good-bye. Then came the dads. A handshake would turn into a pull towards each other, ending with something resembling a chest-bump. These also over time turned into more natural, comfortable hugs.
I've known it's not up to me to initiate the hug, at least up in the Tohoku region where life is much more formal, rules rigid, traditional, and sometimes antiquated. This became extremely evident during the tanabata festival held up north in early August. I hadn't seen my adopted families for almost six weeks. With everyone in a good mood, emotions running high in the best way possible, I said hello with each brother, sister, and mother I saw. One of my mothers came shuffling towards me, a half-run half-walk, her hands held up as if she was showing me her ten fingers. I smiled wide, said hello and clutched her hands. We'd never hugged before, and it was only after I saw a quick glimpse of disappointment in her eyes that I realized she was expecting a hug. The same thing happened with a brother. He had never initiated a hug. I couldn't imagine a hug would be forthcoming, but his hands also were showing me ten fingers, and when I went to high five him on both hands, he pulled me in. When we both pulled back from each other we exchanged a, "Well, that was awkward" look. (I have a feeling it will be awhile before we try that again.)
Japan is changing. Japan has been changing. This is more obvious and evident in some areas, while far out in the country like Tohoku it's less visible. I am leaning towards defining this change as good. Others may disagree but here is a part of life in Japan I can confidently say is moving in the right direction.
Monday, August 19, 2013
More on Baseball in Japan
"My son's baseball game is tomorrow," I hear Kazu say on the phone. "It's the first game of the season without the sixth graders. He's starting. Can you be there?"
"Of course," I say. "Definitely. What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to it."
I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready. Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible. In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren. I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?" I say, trying not to mumble. I hear Mika's voice on the other end. Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30?? So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh? Did I hear her right? I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up. That means she'll be here shortly after 9am. What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.
An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not. I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before. I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot. She's early. (Of course.) I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.
I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills. I've not been to this part of Ofunato before. It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own. I'd be lost for hours.
We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice. I notice the mothers are all in blue. There must have been a memo. Team colors. I'm in black. Oh well. We exchange our good mornings. There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes. I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing. One of the teams has a large cheering section. The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand. I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when. Pop fly caught? There's a chant. Strike out? Something different. Base hit? A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out. These moms are serious about cheering.
I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question." They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too? Are we going to cheer?" Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of. But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise. We do what we can though, right?" She turns to ask the moms. More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style. We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error. "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. We're maybe the worst of the bunch. We take baseball seriously. Our cheering gets nasty. I don't know that you want me cheering. I might yell at the ref or something."
Instantly they begin to talk. I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling. In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms. I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles. "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know. I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.
I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play. Our team stinks. We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score. I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.
Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing. There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku. I see Kazu running out to the third base ref. I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers. Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose. Again.
The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision. There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy. I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms. I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me. The boy can throw.
He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins. The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect. Another out. We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket. The next batter hits the ball high to right field. The mothers and I collectively cringe. None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball. We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly. This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five. Our team rocks.
All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison. That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize. One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time. We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field. I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?" I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.
Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers. "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning? That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings. You saw how well that small boy pitched. I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."
Here we go. Age trumps merit. I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't. The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended). I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules. It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan; Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different. It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy. Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age. There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters. Good employees, even younger ones are promoted. In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out. In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.
The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes. I dare not assume anything in Japan. The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind. Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm. I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh. Most days I believe that. On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers. I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.
"Of course," I say. "Definitely. What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to it."
I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready. Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible. In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren. I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?" I say, trying not to mumble. I hear Mika's voice on the other end. Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30?? So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh? Did I hear her right? I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up. That means she'll be here shortly after 9am. What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.
An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not. I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before. I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot. She's early. (Of course.) I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.
I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills. I've not been to this part of Ofunato before. It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own. I'd be lost for hours.
We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice. I notice the mothers are all in blue. There must have been a memo. Team colors. I'm in black. Oh well. We exchange our good mornings. There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes. I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing. One of the teams has a large cheering section. The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand. I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when. Pop fly caught? There's a chant. Strike out? Something different. Base hit? A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out. These moms are serious about cheering.
I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question." They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too? Are we going to cheer?" Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of. But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise. We do what we can though, right?" She turns to ask the moms. More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style. We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error. "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. We're maybe the worst of the bunch. We take baseball seriously. Our cheering gets nasty. I don't know that you want me cheering. I might yell at the ref or something."
Instantly they begin to talk. I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling. In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms. I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles. "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know. I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.
I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play. Our team stinks. We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score. I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.
Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing. There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku. I see Kazu running out to the third base ref. I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers. Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose. Again.
The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision. There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy. I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms. I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me. The boy can throw.
He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins. The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect. Another out. We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket. The next batter hits the ball high to right field. The mothers and I collectively cringe. None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball. We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly. This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five. Our team rocks.
All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison. That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize. One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time. We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field. I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?" I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.
Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers. "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning? That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings. You saw how well that small boy pitched. I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."
Here we go. Age trumps merit. I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't. The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended). I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules. It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan; Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different. It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy. Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age. There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters. Good employees, even younger ones are promoted. In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out. In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.
The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes. I dare not assume anything in Japan. The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind. Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm. I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh. Most days I believe that. On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers. I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.
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