One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to
me yesterday saying he has something to tell me. Ichiro has the ability to know when to be
serious and when to cut loose. Because I
like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my
favorite people in city hall.” That
said, I enjoy his company immensely. With
each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings
linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have
intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me. I like my co-workers.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow. I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s
talking about. Ichiro switches to the
man’s last name. “XXX-san,” and I nod,
“he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed
away.”
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
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