Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories

Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once.  Even today, I feel cheated.  Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew.  Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist.  No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.

My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween.  With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes.  The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy.  Don't ask.

We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us.  Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces.  Oh, the joy.

Which is of course not what happened.  Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake.  Cake?  For Halloween?  Fine.  We'd play along.  Surely it would be chocolate.

It wasn't.  It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey.  The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated.  There was hope.  Here was American Halloween candy.  Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be.  That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to.  Our hopes hung on the candy corn.

Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes.  My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected.  To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there.  Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible.  My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again.  I feel totally and completely cheated.

Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior.  Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile.  It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far.  Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.

Queen Amya was a hit.  Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday?  This year I am going as a witch.  I've always wanted to dress up as a witch.  That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child.  Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake.  Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.

There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out.  The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic.  Ghosts?  The veil between life and death?  For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate.  Which is why I must bend the truth.  Omission is not always a bad thing.  The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about.  I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad.  Selective representation of facts?  I can do that.  If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world.  That doesn't need sharing.  Especially not in Tohoku.

This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy.    (On the faces of kids.  Not mine.)  Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger.  This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers.  Cue joy.

Lonliness, Weight Gain, and the Sociopath

I'm back in the US visiting my husband.  Life could not be better.  I sleep well, laugh, mix work with pleasure, shop, and visit with family and friends.  My time is my own in the best way possible.

And, I've lost weight.  To many in Japan this makes little sense.  The Land of the Obese as the US is known to many Japanese, wouldn't I gain during my visits home?  No.  Why?  It's simple really.  I'm not lonely whereas in Japan I am.

There.  I said it.  The longer I spend time away from my husband the lonelier I feel.  Nights are especially troublesome, as insomnia, my latest BFF (unrequited love, a one-sided attraction) will not leave me be.  Around midnight when I've exhausted shows on television that waste my time and I can't think of anything else to do I eat.  It's the worst time to do so, yes, I know.  Blah blah blah.  That it's not good for me, that this is when all the junk food I eat (because I can't eat anything good for me) goes to parts that don't need more padding is not the point.  I eat because I'm lonely.  Food comforts me.

Not having this problem in the States I shrink.  My clothes fit better and I will return to Japan with people surely commenting on this noticeable weight loss.  All this because when all is said and done, it's okay for people to comment on my weight in Japan.  The "You've gained weight" remarks flow too easily for my taste, but short of not eating at 2am I don't see an end in sight.

Which reminds me of a story.

I used to work with a git.  A sociopath really, he thought manners were for sissies.  A genius in his field, he completely disregarded behavior most of us would consider normal, and because of his knowledge and skill his outbursts of everything otherwise unacceptable was tolerated.  He reveled in making people squirm.  He lived to make people writhe in discomfort.  I really couldn't stand him.

He traveled with an entourage:  a personal secretary, personal interpreter, and anyone else he could wrangle into accompanying him, they were all doomed and knew it.  On this particular Monday morning we were all waiting in the lobby of the most expensive hotel in town to greet the great man.  My job was to interpret for a new executive vice president who was to "learn the ropes" from this madman-ass.  I didn't need to interpret for the evil genius, just the new guy.  No problem.  Bring it.

The elevator doors opened and people started bowing.  He'd say something to those who were before us in queue making his way down the line.  Patiently waiting our turn, I decided to have some fun.  "Twenty dollars, sir, and I'll bet you the first words out of his mouth to me are, 'You got fat.'"
"No way," the executive said.
"Twenty dollars."
"He won't even say 'hello'?"
"No.  He won't.  Are you in?"
"I'm in.  I don't believe you.  Yeah.  I'm in."
People around us heard this exchange and joined in.  Soon I had three other men all agreeing to pay me twenty dollars each if I was right.  Suckers.

The terrible man is now standing in front of us.  I start in with, "I'd like to introduce Mr. So and So, the new executive vice president of such and such group."  The man next to me extends his hand which jerk-face ignores.  He grunts instead and then looking at me, cue the quickest $80 I've ever made, he says the words.
"You got fat."
I laugh knowing he hates this because I just beat him at his own game.  Never mind I just added money towards my expanding shoe collection, I'm a happy girl even with the totally incorrect observation of my weight.

Shrinking as I have, I'll return to Japan in a few days and this time enjoy the comments I hear about how and why I've lost weight when surely, with all the food I've had access to I shouldn't have.  Notice if you must.  Too bad I can't make money off this particular prediction.

Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."

Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns.  The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II.  Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions.  They come from a time where modesty was the norm.  I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share.  He's already one of a kind.  I consider him a total and complete exception.

This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement.  Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help.  Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.

Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves."  The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people.  Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations.  Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes.  The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you.  I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive."  Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends?  Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren?  Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami?  Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?

Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing.  I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse.  I do hope stories about March 11 will be told.  Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid.  Today I offer one from an adopted family member.

We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me.  I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table.  I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here.  I can picture it in my mind.  My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about?  I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way.  It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands.  Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me.  Evidently I am wrong.  I know it was pointing the other way.  I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me.  "You're just tired."  She goes to the fridge.  "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink.  These things aren't cheap, but I really like them.  I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside.  What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle.  Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen.  Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack.  Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls.  "Daddy doesn't have to go."

Dad is a volunteer firefighter.  Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days.  Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened.  He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."

The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit.  She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit.  Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet."  I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come.  Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given."  I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them.  They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers.  I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too."  Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again.  "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator."  I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says.  "My parents aren't rich.  Refrigerators aren't cheap.  At least my mother wouldn't think so."  I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor.  My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall."  I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs.  "But, it's not.  Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape.  To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible.  When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there.  Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord."  Misa is now laughing out loud.  I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."

Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not.  Misa's story shocked me.  Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item.  I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more.  What does this story tell me?  I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in.  If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced.  I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion.  What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance?  Again, I have no answers.