My presence is requested at a dinner for out-of-town donors. The city councilman whom I've worked with for over two years asked me to attend. I don't turn down requests from this man. On this particular night, I enter a large room of about sixty people sitting around long tables decorated with large beer bottles and dishes of fish and vegetables. I take a seat.
The speeches start. Our host, the city councilman gets up and thanks those in attendance properly. More men get up saying offering similar phrases of thanks. I'm eating, picking away at the dish of shark meat in front of me, not sure I really want to venture into unchartered territory. Not really listening to the speeches anymore but instead focused on the food I suddenly hear my name. It's the city councilman.
"Amya. Get up here and say something."
I put down my chopsticks and make my way to the podium which is really a stack of cushions made into a raised platform of sorts. I bow, say hello, thank the donors, and here is where things go wrong. I must thank the host, my friend, and do. I refer to him by all the proper nouns and end with calling him my "older brother." He's a bit drunk, my friend, and calls out, "Older sister!" People chuckle. I'm confused. We both know he's older than me although I've kept the promise to myself for over two years now not to reveal my age.
"I am not your older sister," I reply, gently. People laugh. I finish my speech and sit down.
The man sitting next to me, a local business owner whom I've chatted with around town says, "Why did he call you his older sister?"
"I have no idea," I say. "I'm definitely younger than him."
"How old are you?"
"Nope. You know better than to ask me that. I will never reveal my age. I'm a lady."
Here he laughs. I send him a half-glare, and follow with, "How old do you think I am?"
"Oh," and he leans back to get a better look at me. "Maybe 51?"
I flip out. "I am not 51!" I practically yell this. He cowers. "Sorry. Sorry."
"That's it," I snap. "I will no longer speak to you." I am only half-kidding.
Now, to be sure, there is nothing wrong with being 51. And, to be sure again, he's drunk. I will some day be 51 I hope, and yet that day is around the corner--a corner with a long arc between here and there. I know what's happening. In my refusal to acknowledge my age, I have violated the norm of pecking order. People do not know how to speak to me, how much deference I deserve, how polite their speech patterns must be, and whether they must add a "-san" to my name when they refer to me.
Pecking order, or social hierarchy is largely established by age. Seniority matters as well, but usually, at least in the Tohoku region, age is a prerequisite to a title. There are no 30-year old company presidents I know of up north. Throughout Japan age matters immensely in establishing power structure. This hierarchy in Tohoku, the whole who-is-older-than-whom phenomenon is on steroids. In all my years in Japan, I've not seen age matter as much as it does here. Which is why my refusal to play their game, follow rules, and general obstinance is not appreciated. Not being able to place me in the proper pecking order creates huge problems for them.
With no plans to let my age slip, I will forever be a pest, a thorn in their side, albeit one that is not hated or avoided. Here I will stand my ground. Here, they must acquiesce. Reluctantly.
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