The Scolding

Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan has a head shaped like a cube.  If his head were a cardboard box, a bowling ball would fit inside.  His body fits his head--large shoulders that go straight down to his legs with no waist to speak of.  He swaggers when he walks and people step aside as if he's a gangster, ready to beat up that one person that gets in his way.  His absolute disdain for those who break the law make it all the more ironic he's seen as "one of them."

When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat.  Good company always, I'm honest with him.  No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind.  The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry.  His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength.  Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man.  Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well.  The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.

"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way.  "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup.  Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to.  I'm going to take it easy."
"Good.  Glad to hear that."
"How are you?"  I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope.  Not today."
"Huh?"  Does he mean, "Nope.  Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today."  I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay."  So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today.  That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure.  What's going on?  You sound upset."
"I'm not upset."  He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath.  "I saw you the other day."
"Where?"  He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through.  I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times.  I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking."  For some reason, I'm disappointed.  Which is ridiculous, of course.  Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay.  So, you saw me.  Why didn't you stop and say hello?"  I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh."  That makes sense, I suppose.  And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."

There it is.  I know what's coming.  This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent.  When he finally speaks, it's slow.  "Three meals a day?"
No. 
"Yes," I lie.  Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't.  I know you don't.  Your face, it was almost gaunt.  I could see your cheekbones."
No way.  I look at myself in the mirror everyday.  I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day.  You can really say that."  He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh.  I wanted a nice chat tonight.  Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay.  I don't eat three meals a day.  But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that.  Really.  I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah.  Just wondering if you're done."  Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not.  You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here.  Let me talk.  Don't cut me off."  Yikes.  "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again.  "You going home this time has to be a real vacation.  You need to rest.  And, eat.  I'm not saying come back looking like me.  I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing.  No e-mails, no phone calls, no work.  Rest.  Get a massage or something."  He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath.  I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive.  "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed."  I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe.  Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."

I ponder this a moment.  Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring.  Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense.  Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns.  What's he getting at?  Of course there's stress in my life.  I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain.  Yes, I'm stressed.  But, not so much that it would show on my face.  Right?

Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern.  All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words.  Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up.  I have to pack yet before my flight.  That's a good excuse, right?  I decide to try this tactic.

But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that.  That's your defense mechanism.  You won't, through.  Rather, you don't.  So, here's what we're doing.  I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat.  A lot.  I don't like skinny women.  I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either.  We're doing this.  That's it.  We're doing this.  You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this.  We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be.  Tell your husband."

Am I that transparent?  How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases?  I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.

All of a sudden I'm tired.  I don't want to be scolded tonight.  I don't want to talk about this.  I just want to go home.  I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back?  Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough.  "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No."  Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself.  I just don't want to talk about it tonight."  I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say.  "You're right about that.  Help me figure out a better system when I'm back."  Pause.  "Okay?"
"Yeah."

And so it went.  I know he cares.  I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate.  (Or didn't.)  Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight.  Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself?  Nah.  Nothing is that simple.

Forced Globalization, Boston Marathon, and Disaster Etiquette

It's been a rough 36 hours.  I woke up yesterday, stumbled towards my laptop, and started going through my e-mails.  Still bleary-eyed, I first saw my mother's.  "We're very upset about what happened in Boston."

What?  What happened in Boston?

I go to Boston.com and sit in shock.

Quickly returning to my inbox, I see a note from my husband.  "I'm fine."  I read it again in case my unfocused morning eyes are playing tricks on me.  He's safe.  I exhale.

The next e-mail is from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  "You probably already know this, but....."  This is his way of showing concern.  I'm touched.

I type e-mails to my friends as fast as I can.  I call.  I'm on the other side of the world and feel completely helpless.  The two emotions that I felt yesterday morning, shock and impotence, were only the beginning.

Then came profound disappointment and rage.

When by noon no one up north where I've spent the past two years said peep about Boston, my husband, my friends, and those who have offered assistance to these disaster-stricken communities,  well, I simply lost it.  I really lost it.

Growing up my mother told me I would show the worst side of myself to those I loved most.  This was probably code for "don't mouth back" and "stop being sassy" but it was excellent advice.  She's right.  Yesterday, to my adopted family here in Tohoku I grew horns.

The message was simple.  "That you all haven't asked about Boston is not okay."  I ended with, "This is low.  You all suck."  I was angry, hurt, and did not feel like being kind.  I chose to let all my pain out in these words.

In the past 24 hours I've been told the following:  "we were busy" and "we didn't know" and "we don't watch/read/listen to the news."  None of these are acceptable answers.  Here's why.

To the first one I yelled at (I really yelled) I said, "Because you are disaster victims, because you've received so much aid, because you of all people collectively know what it's like to go through something horrible, you need to reciprocate.  You don't get to not know.  You can't get away with 'not watching the news.'  You owe it to the people who have supported you all these years to care.  In order to care, you need to know.  In order to know, you have to pay attention to what's going on around you.  You're a part of the global community now whether you like it or not.  You can't get away with not caring about those who have supported you.  And, don't give me this 'I'm busy' crap."

I've said the same thing to others.  Some get it, others don't.  I have no answer to whether it's "don't" or "can't."  What's been explained to me when tempers have calmed and our voices can no longer be heard in the apartment below is this:  "You would have told us if we needed to know," and "We're used to giant disasters.  Sorry, but it didn't look that bad."

Is it my job to teach disaster etiquette?  I wasn't prepared for this.  I'm completely conflicted.

We show our truest selves to those we love the most--the good and the ugly.  I love these people here, and they've hurt me deeply.  I can't force upon them disaster etiquette and a more global mentality when they don't have, want, or see the need for it.  This is a hard lesson to learn and one I accept only because my attempts don't seem to show results.

So, the past 36 hours have left me spent.  I'm heading to Boston next week, and honestly, this can't come soon enough.

Suicide: What to do when the person sitting next to you on the train is (possibly) suicidal

I don't usually look at, much less read the screens of the smart phones of those sitting next to me.  Not on trains, buses, or while we're waiting for the light to change.  I don't know why I did today. 

At first, they didn't register.  The woman sitting next to me on the train today was flipping through the pages on her cell phone.  Her finger moving down the screen from top to bottom, she would stop every now and then reading the title of a link to an article.  Or so I assumed.

It was probably at one of these lingering moments as she decided whether to click the link that I noticed the words.  It's amazing what our eyes take in.  There they were:  suicide, and "I want to die."  Not only did my eyes register these words, I was also able to read the full titles of the links.  Each one started with "I want to die." 

Was she contemplating suicide?  Was she a student researching suicide?  How would I know?  What do I do?

She clicked on a link.  The article which I read along with her listed the causes of suicide (i.e. family problems, finances, job-related stress, relationship difficulties).  I see the word "depression."  Her finger keeps dragging the page down, faster and faster it seems and I wonder for a minute whether she's actually reading.

She clicks the back arrow next and we're taken to the previous screen.  I now notice each of the articles above the one she just read are in a lighter purple, the ones below in dark blue.  I know what this means.  All the articles in purple are ones she's read.  Noticing again each article beings with the words "I want to die" I now start to panic.

Maybe panic isn't the right word.  I no longer feel comfortable reading over her shoulder (surely she must have noticed by now) and sit up straight.  I look ahead and decide to dive. 

I take the ear bud out of my left ear and face her.  She looks right at me as if she knew this was coming.
"Are you alright?" I ask.  She nods quickly, smiling.
"Yes."
I'm not content with this answer.  What did I think she was going to say?  Did I expect her to confess she's contemplating suicide?  I could sit back and accept her denial (?) but this feels too simplistic.  Even though she couldn't possibly tell me in a crowded train why she's reading articles about suicide, I decide to ask again.
"The links" and I point to her phone, "you were searching here.  Are you really alright?"
She nods fast.
"Yes."

And, that's as far as I can take it.  I leave my ear bud out in case she wants to say something further.  (If I had plugged myself back into my iPhone I would have been signaling I was done talking.  I assume she figured this out.)  None of this feels good.  Did I overstep?  Should I have kept quiet?  What was I doing reading her phone anyway?  What if she was suicidal and this was her way of asking for help?  And, how pray tell, would I know this?  What was I doing?  

She got off at the next stop (wouldn't you?) and as I sat there in my seat I decided I had no idea whether I did the right thing.  What would you have done?

Child Pornography in Japan

A funny thing, blogging.  I know of a handful of people who read these posts, but the rest of you are completely unknown.  I know how many in which country read any one post on any one day.  I don't know you individually, and we'll likely never meet.  All of this fascinates me. 

As do the keywords you type in to search for the blogs you're wanting to read.  The most heavily read blog post of mine is the one I wrote about pornography on the train.  This entry has shown up when you've googled "porn in Japan" and "porn on trains" and "Japan and porn" and other such combinations.  I take it a good number of you all around the world are interested in, fascinated by, and/or mortified by what Japan allows as art.  You want to know about pornography in Japan?  Let me tell you then.  Today I will focus on child pornography, because herein lies Japan's most foul rationale about art versus porn.  Today, here again, I simply can't make this shit up.

The laws are clear:  In Japan, you can own child pornography.  You can't make it, ship it, or sell it, but you can own it.  Read that again.  You can't make, sell, or distribute child pornography porn but you can own it.  This begs the obvious question where does one buy it?  It's not supposed to be sold.  It can't be made so it can't be shipped so it can't be sold.  Except that in one survey, 20% of Japanese state, at one point or another they've owned child pornography.  Where do they buy it if it's not available?  Really. 

Part of the problem lies in Japan's definition of child pornography.  Simply put, children participating in a sexual act is considered child pornography.  Which means half-naked or naked images are not.  Which also means anything that's a cartoon, manga, is not.  I find this highly disturbing.  It also, unfortunately, answers the question on where one would buy this.  Any convenience store will have an "adult" section marked but visible and available to anyone who wants to stand there and read through the selection.  It's not illegal to sell these magazines because they don't portray images defined as child pornography.  Lolita on the cover?  Not porn.  It's not real.  Presumably this is where a lot of people buy this "art."  (I don't have enough sarcasm in me to express my disgust further.)

The "artists" who draw these images take this whole child pornography question to another level.  They are adamant if it's in cartoon form, even rape, sodomy, forced oral sex, gang rape, torture, beatings of children--it's all "art."  By their definition, this means it's not real so it's not pornography.  If you've seen any such cartoon imagery, mark my words it will make you sick to your stomach--that kicked in the gut, bile in the back of your throat, "I'm about to puke" feeling--it lingers.

Say what you will about "two consenting adults" who allow themselves to be filmed.  Naked women in magazines (gay sex is still very much a taboo here) do it because they want the money and, hey, they're smiling!  Surely, all must be good.  I don't and won't know the truth behind the Japanese sex industry.  I don't want to.  Bring kids into this and I'm out for blood.

Just so you know, last time I checked, you can bring Japanese child pornography into your country if you're Russian, but in most other countries possession of child pornography (even the "art" kind) is illegal.  Careful what you buy at the airport and in town.  This shit will get you arrested.

Then again, it should. 

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster.