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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

"Just not a black man"

My friend has a mistress.  He introduced me to her long ago and we've since met several times.  I like her.  With her he's happy.  That I've also met his wife complicates things.  That he and his wife share no love between them makes me sad.  Nothing about this scenario is easy.

Kimiko (not her real name) and I met for coffee several months back.  She told me of my friend's promise to her and her parents that he'd marry her.  He even promised a date.  This was news to me.  Not having heard him say anything about actually marrying her I vowed to stay silent and listen without comment.

As she talked one fact became obvious.  Neither Kimiko nor my friend had told her parents he's married or that he has children.  Breaking my vow of silence I ask why.

"My mother gave me two conditions on men I can't marry," Kimiko tells me.  "One is that she doesn't want me to marry a man who already has kids, and another," she pauses, "don't get mad, okay?" and I promise I won't (more on this in a minute), "my mother said, 'just not a black man.'"

Promising not to get angry or offended by what one is about to hear before actually hearing is a bad idea.  I know this.  Had I known what was coming I wouldn't have promised not to take offense.  Not being blessed with a poker face, I chose to focus on the tea in front of me, swirling the spoon hoping I wasn't showing my true feelings.

There's an unspoken and undocumented fact in Japan.  It's a secret because no one openly discusses it, but I argue most Japanese know of this sentiment.  There's a caste system in Japan.

To be clear, I'm not referring to the caste system students learn about in school.  In the feudal days, there was an open system pegging who belonged in what rank.  Commonly known as shinokosho, nothing about this is a secret.  At the top, the shi refer to the samurai.  Then come the no, the farmers.  Then the ko, artisans and craftsmen (they were mostly men), and then the sho, or the merchants.  Absent from this list is the eta, or burakumin as they're known today.  As non-humans or subhuman, lowest of the low, they don't even rank or warrant mention.  This is not the secret.  This system is a part of Japanese history.

The caste system of today is about race.  Who you are, how special you are, how and where you rank is Japanese society is, while never openly acknowledged determined by race.  More specifically, it's about skin color.  It breaks down like this:  Caucasians, Japanese, other Asians, and then a gradual gradation of skin color, those who are darkest at the bottom.  This means you can be African-American, Canadian or French or Danish of African descent, but citizenship in these countries will do nothing for you.  This is this ranking Kimiko's mother was referring to.

I should also point out a side note as it refers to my particular situation.  There's a parallel caste system which ranks men always higher than women.  That means the distinction of who's over whom between Japanese men and Caucasian women is a blur.  Whites trump Japanese but men trump women.  Who ranks higher then?  No one openly discusses this either.

It takes a discussion held behind closed doors with family members for true feelings to come out.  Kimiko's mother is serious about her wish for her daughter not to marry a black man.  I try to spin this statement by saying to myself Kimiko feels comfortable enough to share with me her mother's comments, which under normal circumstances should never be uttered.  What's unclear to me is whether there's a sense of how truly offensive this is.

On a different note, Kimiko and I have not met since that day.  We're approaching six months.  I'm left wondering if she feels she shared something too private, that she did offend me, or that she left that day embarrassed by her mother's instructions.

Perhaps Kimiko and I will not meet again.  My friend told me the other day he has no intention of marrying her.  Kimiko's mother's words, Kimiko's own situation and all that surrounds this messiness is a particularly unnerving part of life in Japan.  Some days I have more questions than answers.  That day with Kimiko was one of those days.

How To Think Outside The Box In Japan

Let's assume.  For today's post, if I write "hypothetically" that means I'm really saying I have to cover for the fact I can't actually repeat whether or not this was an actual statement.  Attorneys do this all the time.  Let's just pretend.  Read between the lines.

Hypothetically speaking let's say a group of local leaders in a town somewhere in Japan wanted to do something nice for their kids.  These kids have had a rough go of it lately.  They need fun in their lives.  How does one define fun?  Where do kids go to have fun?  What epitomizes fun?  The park down in Tokyo where the hero and heroine are rodents.  These men invited said rodents and other similar cloaked-in-furry-costumes types to their town to parade down main street where their kids will surely squeal and tell their children how cool papa was for bringing such an important and happiness-inducing event to their town.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Because very little in Japan (especially in the area where these creatures will visit) is simple or easy there were roadblocks.  With each obstacle presented, the men would gather.  After they let out their initial shock and anger at why doing something good is so complicated they would get down and work out a solution.  Each wall was broken down.  Problems resolved and battles won the men felt they could conquer anything.  "Good always wins," I'm told.  "Nothing will stop us."  I hold in my doubt, instead nodding at his confidence and hope he is right.

During a recent meeting with these men who are really trying to do good I ask a follow-up question.
"How are things going with the rats?"
The men instantly begin talking over each other.  Through the buzz I take away the realization there is yet another level of "opportunities" these men must overcome.  This one comes from the group in town responsible for keeping order.  The latest "opportunity" is presented by those who enforce traffic rules, solve crimes, and maintain the peace.

"There's a law that says a moving vehicle can't have people standing in or on it," I'm told.
"So?"  I don't immediately see the problem.
"One of the floats, the one holding the rats will be a big bus.  It's going to drive down the street slowly as the rats wave to the onlookers.  We were told we can't do that.  It breaks the law about people standing on a moving vehicle."
"You've got to be kidding me," I scoff.  "Why are you just now hearing about this?"  Heads nod with a combination of disgust and apathy.  "What are you going to do?" I ask, and then correct myself.  "Why aren't they willing to help you?  I mean, you're trying to do something really amazing.  Why are they making this more difficult?"
"Wait," one of the men stops me holding up his hand to make his point.  "It's not that they're trying to stop us.  They are trying."

What I'm told next is an attempt at the most unusual at out-of-the-box thinking and creative interpretation of rules I've ever heard attempted in Japan.

"The guys in charge of enforcing traffic regulations," my friend starts, "they were trying to figure out how to make this work.  One man from that department said, 'Well, those on the bus ... they're not people.  They're rats.  The laws don't apply to rats,' and another said, 'If we pull the bus instead of turning the engine on then it's not actually a moving vehicle and so the laws don't matter,' and another said, 'If the rats get off the bus every 10 meters or so then we could say the bus isn't actually being driven.'  See.  They're trying to figure out a way around the rules."

I sit back and take this in.  In Japan, those responsible for law and order do not work at finding loopholes, ways of interpreting rules and regulations to suit their needs.  I'm impressed by this out-of-the-box thinking and say as much.  My comment is met with a reply from one of the local leaders tired of these must-bang-head-against-wall-again dilemmas, and spats, "It's great but we can't use any of these ideas.  The big boss won't allow it."  Of course.  We're back to square one.  I decide to offer my version of creative interpretation and add a suggestion.
"These men go to other cities to watch giant floats during summer festivals, right?"  Heads nod in agreement.  "Okay.  Then you can go back to these men, the big boss included and say that they're taking part in breaking traffic rules.  First off, if it's okay for other cities to do this, then it's okay for us here."  The men start talking at once again.  "Wait," I say.  "More important is the fact these traffic-enforcers are going to watch other people break rules.  They know these floats holding people aren't supposed to be driven and they're still there, watching them being driven.  It has to be illegal for those who are to serve and protect to blindly watch others break rules and not intervene.  That they're going to watch these other festivals knowing rules are being broken...that has to be illegal...or something."

The consensus reached by my suggestion to gently pressure the organization that allows their employees to observe laws being broken is, "Too confrontational."  It is, I agree. 

I take away from this report-out there is hope in Japan that at least one city has a town where men in uniform will work at finding ways for giant rats to ride on motorized floats to bring joy to children and adults alike.  The men couldn't tell me how they were going to overcome this latest "opportunity" presented at the last minute, but I find myself hopeful out-of-the-box-thinking is alive and well.  Even in Japan.  I grin.  "They're rats and not people so the rules don't apply."  I love it.

What the handsome man had to say

Oh, if I could just make these stories up.  Fantastic imagination that I have, what happened today is not a scene I could concoct.  Here's the story.

I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours.  We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us.  I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.

"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine.  Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch.  "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.

He's right.  Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot.  I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.

The man is tall with short cropped white hair.  He's young, maybe in his thirties.  Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome.  (Not that this matters.)  If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.

But he is an ass.  He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.

Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would.  He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper.  He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying.  "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card.  "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."

I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car.  If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness.  They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."

Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then.  Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter.  "You said so yourself.  Japan is strict about these things.  We'll need your contact information."  I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling.  This is a command.  Not a request.

And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing.  I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.

What I want to say is this:  a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"

I don't say any of this.  Of course.  Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall.  I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window.  "Who is that guy?  He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with."  I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot.  There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might.  The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.

Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity.  I hope we meet again.  I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.