Wednesday, June 26, 2013

On Vulnerabilities, Power in Numbers, and Traveling Companions

Sebastian is German.  His parents moved his family to the UK when he was young, and then onto Japan where he spent most of his growing up years with us in a boarding school filled mostly with Americans.  This means his accent is all his own:  part German, part British English, part American English, and the rest uniquely Sebastian.  I decide his background is part of what makes him who he is.  All of him.  Truly one of a kind.  At one of our recent boarding school alum gatherings he spilled a secret.

It all started when Jilly came back into town on one of her whirlwind business trips.  We've long since told her the "I'm back! Let's get together!" last minute e-mails left us nonplussed.  With our collective "knock it off" she now gives us a heads up, albeit that usually means we have two days to plan something as opposed to that night.

Jilly is one of these people we would hate if it weren't for the fact her ridiculous and genuine smile along with her bubbliness makes her lovable.  She's simply adorably irritating because she is a professional hobbyist.  The list of what she does in her "spare time" is what makes us want to hate her.  If her life were a pie chart large slivers would be taken up with quilting, knitting, sewing, pottery, gardening (rose bushes, fruit-bearing trees, vegetable garden, herbs), building houses, raising llamas, cooking, baking, and traveling the world.  She does this all with plenty of room left on her pie chart.  Most people make money doing what she does in her spare time; she's really that good at everything.  Her quilts are works of art, her cakes could be sold in bakeries, and the clothes she makes would compete well in Milan.  The simple version is that she makes us all look bad--which is why we want to hate her.  The truer version is she's a professional craftswoman extraordinaire.  Add to this she's never tired or cranky and we want to hate her all the more.

On one of her trips to Tokyo, Masa, also a boarding school classmate joined Jilly for dinner.  I popped in, too.  Throughout the evening, Masa and Jilly who sat across from me kept the conversation flowing exchanging hobby-related information while I ate their food.  Seeing the dwindling array of dishes in front of them the two finally realized they were essentially having a private conversation.

"What's your hobby?" Jilly asks me, because of course, everyone has a hobby and after years of being apart she wants to know mine.
"Well," I pause, and this is where everything went bad.  As in, really bad.
"You don't have a hobby?" Masa says to me, almost an accusation.  I paused too long.  My answer, my list did not pop out the way theirs did.
"I do," and I think, "What do I like to do?"

Herein lies my problem.  My hobbies were lame compared to their exotic collection of awe-inspiring feats.  "I like to read," I finally say and they both went off on me right then and there.

It seems reading is not a legitimate hobby.  Their joint argument, "everyone reads" meant the fact I read a lot, often, always didn't cut it.
"Now if you read something obscure," Jilly says, "like medical articles about a specific skin condition..."
"You've got to be kidding me," and now I am defensive.
"Picture any web page of anyone even slightly well-known in Japan," I say.  "The page where their biographical information is listed.  Date of birth, blood type, home town, their astrological sign, what they're good at, and hobbies are listed, right?  Now tell me how many people say on their page that reading, shopping, listening to music--that those are their hobbies.  Power in numbers, baby.  Reading is definitely a hobby."  Confident I've made my case and well, I'm shocked at the way they both talk over each other, equally confident and secure in how wrong I am.

So, when Sebastian and Masa (the same Masa) and I are out to dinner I lobby Sebastian, all while trying to convince Masa he and Jilly were wrong a few weeks back.  When two minutes later Masa grins in victory and I glare at Sebastian for betraying me, I'm confused all over again as to why my these friends who've known me since I was a pup can all be so completely dumb.  Reading is most definitely a hobby.
"Fine," I say, sitting back and folding my arms across my chest.  "You figure it out then.  What should I do?  What should I do for a hobby?"

Sebastian gives me examples of his hobbies and finally decides any legitimate hobby needs gear.  He shares stories of how he bought all new camping gear only to spend the night up in the mountains with a giant spider, furiously batting at imaginary spider threads every hour after he finally got rid of the one in his shirt.  He talks about his watercolors.  Sebastian follows up with, "Masa plays bass.  And builds things.  And plays baseball.  It all requires gear."
Defeated, I'm about to accept I am a hobby-loser when Sebastian pulls out his iPhone and starts flipping through photos.
"I have to show you this.  My other hobby."  Masa and I wait.  Finally, Sebastian thrusts his phone out at us.  "Look.  Onsens."

Japanese hot springs are truly beautiful places, tucked away in the mountains, on a cliff overlooking the ocean, along a lake with lapping waves.  Sebastian has a book of off-the-beaten-path onsens and travels around Japan tracking down these gems, resting in mineral-rich waters.  I don't get it.  It's a bath.
"Honestly," Masa says.  "You'd never know you grew up here, not liking onsens."

And then Sebastian drops the bomb.
"Look."  He points to the corner of his photo.  Masa and I stare at what seems to be a ... stuffed animal?
"What the..." Masa starts, but Sebastian cuts him off.  "That's my eagle."
"Is that a stuffed animal?" I ask.
"Yup.  I travel with it everywhere I go."
Sebastian keeps flipping through photos.  "And here, and here.  See.  He's in all these photos."
"Wait," Masa stops him.  "Back up.  You travel with a stuffed animal?"
"Yeah," Sebastian looks at us as if this is no big deal.  He continues scrolling and now shows us a moose, a penguin, and a small bird all lined up in bed, tucked in, propped up against a pillow.
"Let me get this straight," I say.  "You travel with these things?"
"Hell yeah," and again, it's as if Masa and I are the ones who are missing out.
Masa and I alternate between giggling and guffawing and Sebastian joins in, completely unfazed.  He completes his photo exhibition with a "they're really good traveling companions" sermon and Masa and I have to agree.  That's that.

"Wait.  There's more," Sebastian is back typing on his iPhone and this time when he holds it up I see a headline reading, "One quarter of grown men travel with stuffed animals."  I grab the phone from him and read the article.  I'm half-impressed, half-horrified.
"Power in numbers, baby," Sebastian says, chest out and proud.
"At least he has hobbies," Masa says looking at me.

At the end of the night the conclusions reached by power in numbers (two against one) is that there are so few people who do not have a legitimate hobby, this vulnerability is far worse than Sebastian's interesting choice of suitcase-buddies.  "At least he's one of four," Masa says again.  Sebastian waves good-bye, "You really need a hobby."

I come home feeling only mildly defeated, vowing to pursue my fight to overcome my "vulnerability" while proudly standing by Sebastian, strange bedfellows he might have.

Friday, June 21, 2013

When Someone Dies

David Remnick of The New Yorker says of the sudden death of James Gandolfini:  "In the dozens of hours he had on the screen, he made Tony Soprano--lovable, repulsive, cunning, ignorant, brutal--more ruthlessly alive than any character we've ever encountered in television."  Except for the major crush I developed on the character he's most famous for, I don't know James Gandolfini.  With that said, I have a feeling he'd like to be remembered for creating a character that was known as "ruthlessly alive."
This post is less about James Gandolfini than it is about death.  Unexpected and sudden death.  Just so we're clear, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the day I will die.  Nor do I contemplate how, when, if I'll die alone or with someone else, whether it will be quiet or tragic.  I have at one point or another wondered all this, but in the space I allot to what goes on in my mind, my personal death does not take up much space.
Except that it does.  Sometimes.  I contemplate this when people around me die.  My uncle's death ten years ago rocked our family in ways we've still not recovered from.  My brother's death when I was very young has left a hole in my immediate family that cannot be plugged.  Even with the deaths of those I don't know, the finality of their newly created absence makes me wonder what people will say about me when I've moved on--because at one time or another we think about the day we leave earth.  We talk about those who have left us.  We talk about them as we mourn, reliving the marks they've left on those left behind.
When the choice to end our lives is of our own making, remembrance is messy.  Our sadness is mixed with anger, confusion, and often guilt.  Suicide in Japan is a social phenomenon where statistics show approximately 30,000 people terminate their lives and have been for the past fifteen years.  Except for a report stating the numbers dipped below 30,000 for the first time last year, these numbers remain steady.  What's going on in Japan?
It gets worse.  Research shows those who are successful in ending their lives (if suicide can actually be called a "success") are 10% of those who try.  Do the math.  This means there are 300,000 people in Japan who choose this way to die.  Should we be glad only 10% are "successful"?  What, if anything is done for the 270,000 who failed?
I bring this topic up not to suggest I have answers or that there exist simple solutions.  "It's complicated" are two words often used to describe that which we cannot control.  Without helpful input to offer I'm in no position to say, "That's not good enough," but I will.  
Perhaps one way to address the problem of suicide in Japan is to focus on two aspects of Japanese culture often used to modify behavior:  shame, and meiwaku.  A powerful force of social order, shame is an often-used tool to instill right from wrong.  Do not bring shame upon your family, school, organization, or company.  What if we said about those who were close to the one who took their life, that they failed in some way?  Perhaps the stigma of failure maybe isn't enough. What if we add shame to the emotions felt to those left behind?  If we knew those left to pick up our body felt shame because of our decision, would that change anything?
The same concept applies to meiwaku.  The catch-all word for gross inconvenience we cause others, by taking our own life surely we cause meiwaku do we not?  In centuries past perhaps suicide was noble, the ultimate in taking responsibility.  What if we made sure children growing up thought of suicide as a cop out?  That there was nothing heroic about falling on one's own sword?
It's not that easy, I know.  Change is never simple.  So I'll end with this thought:  I wish the collective Japan could recognize how big of a deal it was for Tony Soprano to get counseling.  Fictional character aside, the decision to put front-and-center the life of a troubled and truly human mob boss who chose to get help, that this was a cultural phenomenon on American television warrants another look.

 
 

 
 

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Random Musings On Language

A nasty piece of work she was.  My new boss in my early thirties worked hard to establish herself by making sure we all looked bad.  I pushed back when I could, standing up for myself and telling the big boss my side of the story.  As a telecommuting employee physically not present, her face time with the big wigs trumped my version of events.  After a year, I resigned.

One of the most memorable conversations I had with Cathy (her real name) was the way she introduced herself.  More about my lack of knowledge of current English idioms than about her usual bouts of bitchiness, I still remember to this day her words and my reaction.  "I was raised on the street," Cathy told me.  I took her words to mean she had spent her you literally "on the street" homeless.  Fortunate my unstated "that must have been hard" never left my lips, I realized shortly my error.   Once I figured out "street" was actually "Street," as in Wall Street, her aggressive behavior and the way she clawed her way to the top by making sure she rose and we didn't made all the more sense.  Being "raised on the street" and "raised on the Street" are two very different life experiences.  Cutting teeth on Wall Street wasn't something I aspired to.  She did.  Good for her.



All this happened during an era where New York City was referred to as "the City" and Washington, DC "the District."  Had I put some thought into her "Street" comment I would have figured it out sooner.  It took my husband laughing at me months after I recalled this conversation to point out growing up speaking English isn't enough to be truly "with it."

Which took me back to my undergraduate years where my favorite professor one day told us the importance of keeping up with current events.  Specifically telling us there would be a section in our exam testing our knowledge of how well we kept up with the news, the week before finals I trudged to the library combing through headlines from major newspapers.  I aced the current events portion of the test and to this day make it a point to stay up to date.  Watching, reading, listening to news even from those I don't like or agree is important.  Where "I didn't know" isn't a viable excuse anymore, I make it a point to cover as much ground as I can.  Money may lead to power, but information--who has it versus who doesn't--also matters.  I'd rather be informed than sleep on a bed of gold.  The line "Keep your enemies closer" from Sun Tsu's Art of War is a mantra.  In my world, my success is largely determined by what I know.

Keeping up with current events in two languages is a chore.  Keeping up with Japanese idioms and abbreviations throws me off my game, especially when a phrase stumps me.  That's those around me often play "Let's Stump Amya" is fun only until I realize I didn't even know the word for that silly thing.  Jolts in Japanese equivalent to Cathy's "on the Street" remark continue to challenge the breadth of my vocabulary.  I'm amazed and quite bothered by what I don't know, especially when random foreigners I meet in Tokyo say they're fluent after two years here.  Allow me to throw you linguistic curve balls aimed at me, dear friend. 

There's no point I'm trying to make here except to say keeping up with the changes in language is tough. Back to my dictionaries that are television and the internet.  Sigh.


Sunday, June 9, 2013

The Other Election

It's hard to write about this topic without sounding like I'm mocking the group, its founder, and the girls and women.  Observing this phenomenon as an anthropologist might, my goal is to report without casting judgment.  On this particular subject objectivity is hard to muster up.  Feel free to look for a tone in what I write.  Cloaked as it is (might be?) here is a side of Japanese culture I struggle to understand.

Let's first define the topic.  AKB48 is a group of young women and girls who were handpicked by Yasushi Akimoto.  In his own right, Akimoto, a lyricist, a television writer and producer is a genius.  Seemingly out of nowhere, he created AKB48 (AKB is short for Akihabara--Tokyo's tech district also known for its maid cafes and socially awkward men--otaku).  Now the highest grossing group in Japan with a ridiculous following by men and women, they're everywhere:  on television, documentaries, concerts, commercials, and the annual election.  To be sure, there's drama.  There's the sassy one, the cute and demure, the ones who break rules and are punished, rivals, competition, cat fights, those who pull off the not-so-bright act (?) with ease, the scary one, the sex pot, and everything inbetween.  Put them together and they make for good television.  Or so Akimoto says.

The following they have proves him right.  An idol group like no other, these women and girls have a major cult following.  One which, to date, I simply do not understand.

The highlight of the year is the election.  Let's call it what it is:  a glorified popularity contest.  For weeks building up to the big event, commentators spend time outlining their predictions--who will win and why.  From what I understand, the winner is picked by votes.  Possibly (?) the votes are cast by CDs bought?  That part is unclear.  (I haven't bothered to check.)  The election, called just that, was last week.  The winner?  The mouthy one.  She gets the middle spot as they sing and dance, the coveted position.

Except that the mouthy one was demoted last year to a regional, tier two group as punishment for something I forgot to follow.  Her victory means she gets to come back to Group A?  Akimoto will decide, I'm sure. 

The election is one major event for AKB48, the janken (rock-scissors-paper) championship is another.  Both of these shows get ratings that would make the Miss America pageant cringe with envy.  The janken championship is just that--they compete one-on-one with a quick game of rock-scissors-paper.  What skill is involved in a game of rock-scissors-paper continues to elude me (mathematical probability?) but the girls vow to win showing up in dresses and costumes befitting a group aimed at attracting the socially-challenged.

I applaud Akimoto's genius and talent, that he figured out this is exactly what Japan needs, delivering in ways that has shocked us all.  The spin-off groups throughout Japan are not as popular, only because they're AKB48 wannabes, not quite there yet, not quite ready for the big stage.  There's talk of additional spin-off groups in Taiwan and Indonesia, but I honestly have not been able to find the time to confirm, much less follow this.

I wish the sassy one well.  She'll have another year of guaranteed coverage unless (until?) she does something to piss off the big man again.

Without casting judgment, let me conclude by saying this:  I don't get it.  Akimoto's brilliance, yes.  It's hard to miss.  Hard to ignore.  The rest of it--the hype, massive following, and popularity--it's a mystery.

Monday, June 3, 2013

Picture This


April brings a new school year.  The most immediate effect this change has on me is the new faces in the preschools I visit with every trip to Tohoku.  Having spent the entire school calendar year with the five-year olds the year before, I knew names and faces, who liked what, who acted up, and family histories.  With this crop of kids, I’m nowhere close.  With three visits under my belt, we’re still working through details.  It feels like we’re perpetually on a first date.

My main goal with the kids hasn’t changed:  I want them to not fear foreigners, know they already have a large vocabulary of foreign words, and grow up with a sense of wonder at the world beyond.  My job is to bring consistent joy to their lives, give them something to look forward to, play, offer acceptable touching in the form of hugs and pats and high-fives.  I want them to be happy.

I learned quickly almost every child ages three and above can count from one to ten in English, know most colors in English (thank you Power Rangers), and all I need to do is add to this list.  When I tell them the common words they use everyday—the romanized ones—are also English, Italian, Portuguese, French, and Chinese their eyes pop. 

Which is why I take my laptop full of photos, pointing to each one and as they identify ice cream, chocolate, cake, potato chips, taxi, ball, dress, belt, donuts, and lions.  “These are all English words.  See!  You already speak English!”  It’s a hit every time.  With every visit, I show more pictures.  With every visit, the kids are in total shock at how easy English is.

I saved teaching shapes until January for the last class but this year I’ve started with the book of shapes.  I make a heart with my hands and ask them what it is.  Then I ask what it means.  Through giggles, it’s the girls who answer, “It means you like something.  Or someone.”  Snicker, snicker.  I extend my heart-shaped hands out to them and tell them I like them.  Very much.

On days where the weather-gods shine down on us, we play outside.  I take the book of shapes out with me on this particular day, and as I scan the playground for suitable shapes to call out I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Amya-san, Amya-san.”  I see a boy looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“My daddy died in the tsunami.”  He gave me no indication this was coming.  I’m completely caught off guard.  No “hello” and no “what are we doing today?”  Just straight up, “My daddy died.”  

To which I say what exactly?  I don’t know his name.  This is the third time we’ve played together.  I don’t know his family.  I know nothing about him.  I crouch down in front of him and am about to speak when I see his teacher walking towards me.  “Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get ready to play.”

Do I let her walk away?  Is she pulling him away from me for my sake?  Do I let him go?  She takes him by the shoulders and starts to take him back to the larger group when he turns around.  A screenplay writer couldn’t have cued that better.

“Wait,” I say.  “It’s okay.”  The boy turns around and gently releases himself from his teacher and walks towards me.  This is unreal.  He stops in front of me and I quickly sneak a glance at his nametag.  Now I have a name.
“Do you miss your daddy?”  I ask.  There’s no point pretending this isn’t happening.  He nods.
“I have a brother who died so I kind of know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”  He nods again.
“But, I know your daddy is right here,” I say pointing to his heart.  He looks down at my finger.  “In your heart,” I rephrase.  I swear I’m about to lose it.
“We visit his grave sometimes,” he says.
“That’s good.  Do you take flowers?”
“Uh huh.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know what they’re called.  Before it got cold I picked some flowers from the field and took those to him.”
“I’m sure he really, really likes that.”  The boy nods.

The other kids have gathered around us now, coming over in twos and threes wondering what this boy has done or said to warrant all this attention.  Most kids have heard the grave part of his story and now the floodgates are open.  Blown open.  The kids start talking at once: who lost their home, who lost their dog, who lost their grandmother, bicycle, toys, a favorite doll.  I’m overwhelmed.  I look up at the teacher, signaling with my eyes I need help.  Two plus years up north and this is the first time I’ve had kids come up and tell me their stories.  Unprompted and unscripted, everything is pouring out.  I honestly don’t know what to say.  With all these children talking to me at once I can’t possibly answer everyone or address every comment.  Then again, I can’t ignore their words either.

I stand up.  This quiets them.  “You’re all really brave,” I say.  “I know it’s hard, but you’re all really strong and you’ll grow up to be amazing adults.  When you’re all grown ups let’s get together and have ice cream.  Okay?”  The kids squeal and run away.  Just like that, we’ve moved on.

This unexpected outpouring of unfiltered honesty caught me off guard in ways I’ve not experienced in the time I’ve spent up north.  Yup.  I’m exhausted.  And, it’s not even noon.

“Amya-san,” I hear, from a voice behind me.  It’s the same boy.  I was walking toward the center of the playground but I stop.  He runs up to me.  I kneel down, meeting his eyes.  “Yes?”  He looks down at his moving and twisting fingers.  At last he holds up his hands.  For an instant I’m confused, but then I get it.  I make a heart with my hands folding his into mine and smile.  I stand up quickly because I don’t want him to see me cry and I kiss the top of his head.  “Let’s go play.  I’ll race you,” and with that we dash off to play color tag.