Awhile back I commented on a blog post by a foreign woman in Japan. She was openly criticizing the availability of child pornography online here in Japan. After I posted my thoughts I proceeded to get my teeth kick in (verbally) by two foreign men who had lived in Japan for over forty years. The prevailing sentiment, according to these two men, seemed to be "you've not lived in Japan for forty years so our words overrule yours." I should mention here I knew neither of these men. When one of them criticized my parenting skills because I didn't agree with him I blocked him from the list of those who could comment. Such is life.
I bring this up to say I've not lived in Japan for forty years (twenty-three or so) so perhaps this small number in comparison is why I've not ever heard of this anniversary. Then again, perhaps it's a sign of the times--Japan's right wing flexing its muscles more and more--a revelation in the making.
The online discussion groups I follow and certainly my Facebook page has been peppered with the announcement of the fact today marks the anniversary of when Japan entered the war. As in World War II.
The word used is anniversary.
I argue this: We may not want to use the word "anniversary" to mark an occasion that is anything but happy. Memorable, yes. Happy, no. The posts I'm reading about the starting-of-the-war anniversary have a hawkish slant: Japanese war criminals were wrongly executed, the US tricked Japan into war, etc. I am not here to preach politics. I am here to challenge us in redefining how we use the word "anniversary" and to find a more suitable word to mark the beginning of what was surely hell for millions.
Several years back I was asked to write an article for a newspaper in Japan about the memorial of the tsunami from March 2011. I deliberately used the word "memorial" and the newspaper editor came back with the word "anniversary". I objected: Anniversaries are happy occasions, and the disaster was anything but. We argued over word choice. He won. Anniversaries are not, he says, always a positive event. It marks time.
True. But, here perception trumps a dictionary definition. Happy Anniversary! Another successful year accomplished in marriage or work. Anniversaries are celebrated. Memorials are reflective. Why aren't we talking about the passage of time as an exercise in reflection, especially when it marks the beginning of a war or a devastating natural disaster? If we use the word "anniversary" to denote the day a war began, are we or are we not offering the suggestion, the hint there's a celebratory tone to the day?
I offer this up as food for thought.
Monday, December 8, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
A New Meaning to the Statue of Liberty
I have no idea who came up with this translation. Someone should look into it and get back to me.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Small Faces, Russians, Redefining Fun, Kyushu Folk, and the Truth About Kimonos
The verse in the Bible, "one cannot serve two masters" does not apply in this context. Here's why. I juggle two bosses just fine. I have a boss-boss who allows me legal status here in Japan by serving as my work sponsor, giving enough money to pay my rent and bills. I also have my mayor-boss whom I report to in Rikuzentakata. I'm a libra. Balance is my middle name. This arrangement works for all.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Compliments, Sumo, My Latest Crush, and Xenophobia
It's been awhile. Hi.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
Monday, August 25, 2014
PTSD and Me
Evidently doctors hate it. Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed. "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes. Do I do this, too? Yes. Watch me. I'm going to right here.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
Monday, August 11, 2014
I Am Not Depressed
I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another. Elements of a culture may be beautiful. More beautiful than others. Elements of a culture may be cruel. How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine. Yours may differ. Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way. Some days this is just fine. Other days it's anything but.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Opinions That Matter Not
Awhile back a friend introduced me to his high school buddy. This man becomes my accountant. This man then introduced me to his mistress who becomes my "older sister". She runs a small pub in my neighborhood so I go there every now and then when I crave potato salad. (She makes the best potato salad in Tokyo.)
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Boarding School Buddies: Bonds, Baggage, and Bad Behavior
There is a boarding school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo. The doctrine preached here is so religiously rigid the Tea Party (the ultra-conservatives in the USA) salivates over the mere mention. Here is the Mecca of conservative Christians in Japan. I went there for high school not because my parents were particularly thrilled or in sync with the school's teachings but because this was the only international school in Japan with boarding facilities. Here I learned the art of sneaking out of the dorm (I never got caught) and breaking rules without seeming to do so. Here I learned the art of of creatively interpreting said rules, following them by my own code and thus changing the intent altogether, but doing so in a convincing way insuring I would not be punished--skills that have served me well in adulthood.
I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters. Some didn't like me. None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now. Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed. We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go. We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.
Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously. For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone. For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors. Except for one key fact: friends I made back then are still friends today.
There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience. That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond. Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.
Their behavior on these nights out is bad. Really bad. The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean. Last night was one such night. After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following: "You're pretty liberated. Why do you put up with us?"
I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated. Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism." I don't say this because: a). Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b). it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity. Instead I offer an alternative truth.
"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love. It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military. This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship. It connects. It ties together for life.
"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place. We would never be friends."
The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid. Or, TCK. We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs. We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either. Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both. We're comfortable in both. We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment. We are of both (many) but we are of neither. This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it. Who "get" us. This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs. It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else. But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules. Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.
So, today I am grateful for bonds. I am grateful for people who "get" me. Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.
I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters. Some didn't like me. None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now. Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed. We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go. We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.
Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously. For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone. For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors. Except for one key fact: friends I made back then are still friends today.
There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience. That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond. Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.
Their behavior on these nights out is bad. Really bad. The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean. Last night was one such night. After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following: "You're pretty liberated. Why do you put up with us?"
I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated. Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism." I don't say this because: a). Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b). it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity. Instead I offer an alternative truth.
"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love. It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military. This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship. It connects. It ties together for life.
"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place. We would never be friends."
The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid. Or, TCK. We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs. We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either. Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both. We're comfortable in both. We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment. We are of both (many) but we are of neither. This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it. Who "get" us. This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs. It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else. But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules. Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.
So, today I am grateful for bonds. I am grateful for people who "get" me. Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Red Shoes and Baby Goats
The tendency to think I'm right began when I was young. I have proof of this. Let's use the four-year old me as an example.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a carrot."
I own a pair of red shoes. That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child. Allow me to continue.
Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced: a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny. It never occurred to me I was wrong. No. Never. Why would I be?
The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin. The word used in the song is ijin. They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.
Now, here's the thing. If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a great person."
This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much. It doesn't quite make sense. How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"? What if it was just her father or mother? Not that parents can't be great, mind you. But, still. I must now investigate.
There are two other definitions of the word ijin. I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused. Here's the thing. One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.
The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian. So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian? This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners. Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse? To look down upon foreigners?
Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage". There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race. Perhaps they are going to a picnic. The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.
Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably. Poor thing.
Here's a different story.
I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps. This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack. (Google it.) The song goes like this:
Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat
Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance. I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.
I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance? Baby goats aren't important? They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition? My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.
As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats. A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.
"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math? (I didn't write that.) Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused. The word koyagi means baby goat. Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi. It's so sweet you think that, though. Really.
He sent photos.
"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance." His response was kind.
Ah. So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat. Yes. That's much better. Much less cruelty and death.
Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult. So it is in life.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a carrot."
I own a pair of red shoes. That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child. Allow me to continue.
Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced: a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny. It never occurred to me I was wrong. No. Never. Why would I be?
The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin. The word used in the song is ijin. They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.
Now, here's the thing. If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a great person."
This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much. It doesn't quite make sense. How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"? What if it was just her father or mother? Not that parents can't be great, mind you. But, still. I must now investigate.
There are two other definitions of the word ijin. I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused. Here's the thing. One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.
The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian. So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian? This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners. Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse? To look down upon foreigners?
Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage". There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race. Perhaps they are going to a picnic. The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.
Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably. Poor thing.
Here's a different story.
I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps. This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack. (Google it.) The song goes like this:
Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat
Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance. I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.
I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance? Baby goats aren't important? They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition? My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.
As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats. A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.
"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math? (I didn't write that.) Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused. The word koyagi means baby goat. Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi. It's so sweet you think that, though. Really.
He sent photos.
"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance." His response was kind.
Ah. So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat. Yes. That's much better. Much less cruelty and death.
Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult. So it is in life.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
The Man I Didn't Punch
Japan finally decided to make possession of child pornography a crime.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Mary's Skunk and PTSD
Once upon a time, Mary may indeed have had a little lamb. I'm sure it was a cute, fluffy thing. Several months back, the animal belonging to Mary was a skunk. Which she gave to me, she said, because it matched my outfit and because I reminded her of Liza Minnelli. Okay.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Why I Hate Japan's Rainy Season
It should go without saying I am not a nature girl. When people ask, "Do you want to go for a walk?" I secretly wonder if their version of walking is actually hiking. I don't go to the beach. I don't camp. Sweating I abhor. Summer is my least favorite month, especially in Japan. I've already established all these facts in my previous posts.
The rainy season in Japan, officially announced here in Tokyo yesterday, is my second least favorite season. Not because it frizzes my hair (I don't have enough, and really, my hair could stand a bit more bounce). I hate the rainy season because I'm convinced it brings out the roaches.
Let's establish this now. I'm not the world's best housekeeper. Organized piles of books, magazines, and papers are stacked throughout my apartment. Some people call this clutter. I prefer to refer to them as stacks of reading material. When I do cook, my garbage goes in a smaller bag which gets tied in a knot, and this goes into a larger bag which I take outside to the trash container. Raw garbage is picked up on Mondays and Fridays in my ward. I take mine out whatever day of the week it is. It can sit outside. I don't care. There's no reason I should have to hold onto this garbage because it's not Friday or Monday.
My organized piles do not include garbage, and this is why I argue there is no reason my apartment should become a haven for roaches. It must be the rain which makes them crawl out from their holes, buried deep in the basement, away from sunshine and happiness. Evil creatures these.
Which is why when I entered my apartment, climbed the stairs to the landing and promptly faced a roach, a mini-roach actually, a baby perhaps, I came to a full stop. This is usually when I call out to my husband--resident bug-killer--but he is not here. Alas. I hate, I mean I really hate the crunching sound bugs make when stepped on or squished under my thickest cookbook. Usually I end up pushing them out the window with a paper towel, not, mind you because I'm some roach activist--they should die, these roaches--but it's the crunching that creeps me out. May I just go on record and state even if I were an animal rights activist I would make an exception for roaches. I need no justification. Roach killing is entirely acceptable.
To avoid the impending sound killing this roach would surely make I first soft-crunched it, pushing down on it with a tissue I found in my purse. Now on it's back, I peer down at it to see if I had successfully terminated its life.
Then it jumped. I mean, this thing sprang up at least 30cm, did a back-flip and landed on its feet. In the floor exercises of Roach Olympics, this thing just won a gold. No, it broke the record for the most elegant and spontaneous flip.
I shrieked. Okay, I screamed and then immediately wondered whether my neighbors would called the police. I grabbed the nearest book--thank God I read--and smashed it down onto the Olympic medalist, "ewww"ing at the, this time, final crunch.
The rainy season in Japan, depending on where you live, lasts anywhere from four to six weeks. To think I may have to battle roaches this entire time does not make me happy and that's a generous understatement. Hot and humid summer will follow this rainy season, and today I don't know which is worse--oozing sweat or war with a bug. Winter cannot come soon enough.
The rainy season in Japan, officially announced here in Tokyo yesterday, is my second least favorite season. Not because it frizzes my hair (I don't have enough, and really, my hair could stand a bit more bounce). I hate the rainy season because I'm convinced it brings out the roaches.
Let's establish this now. I'm not the world's best housekeeper. Organized piles of books, magazines, and papers are stacked throughout my apartment. Some people call this clutter. I prefer to refer to them as stacks of reading material. When I do cook, my garbage goes in a smaller bag which gets tied in a knot, and this goes into a larger bag which I take outside to the trash container. Raw garbage is picked up on Mondays and Fridays in my ward. I take mine out whatever day of the week it is. It can sit outside. I don't care. There's no reason I should have to hold onto this garbage because it's not Friday or Monday.
My organized piles do not include garbage, and this is why I argue there is no reason my apartment should become a haven for roaches. It must be the rain which makes them crawl out from their holes, buried deep in the basement, away from sunshine and happiness. Evil creatures these.
Which is why when I entered my apartment, climbed the stairs to the landing and promptly faced a roach, a mini-roach actually, a baby perhaps, I came to a full stop. This is usually when I call out to my husband--resident bug-killer--but he is not here. Alas. I hate, I mean I really hate the crunching sound bugs make when stepped on or squished under my thickest cookbook. Usually I end up pushing them out the window with a paper towel, not, mind you because I'm some roach activist--they should die, these roaches--but it's the crunching that creeps me out. May I just go on record and state even if I were an animal rights activist I would make an exception for roaches. I need no justification. Roach killing is entirely acceptable.
To avoid the impending sound killing this roach would surely make I first soft-crunched it, pushing down on it with a tissue I found in my purse. Now on it's back, I peer down at it to see if I had successfully terminated its life.
Then it jumped. I mean, this thing sprang up at least 30cm, did a back-flip and landed on its feet. In the floor exercises of Roach Olympics, this thing just won a gold. No, it broke the record for the most elegant and spontaneous flip.
I shrieked. Okay, I screamed and then immediately wondered whether my neighbors would called the police. I grabbed the nearest book--thank God I read--and smashed it down onto the Olympic medalist, "ewww"ing at the, this time, final crunch.
The rainy season in Japan, depending on where you live, lasts anywhere from four to six weeks. To think I may have to battle roaches this entire time does not make me happy and that's a generous understatement. Hot and humid summer will follow this rainy season, and today I don't know which is worse--oozing sweat or war with a bug. Winter cannot come soon enough.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
A Weighty Topic
It's funny but it's not. Everywhere I go in Japan, my weight becomes a subject of much discussion and debate. I'm big. I'm tall. I've lost weight. I've gotten fat. I have a small face. I have "impressive" breasts. I'm well proportioned. How nice it must be to be me.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A New Approach to Letting it Go (Let it Go)
It's been some time since I watched a Disney movie. With my son now a grown man I've not had the pleasure. Or need. Or, frankly, the desire. But, because I am not one who follows convention but rather my own mind I pick and choose. While Disney has long ago left the category I search to decide what to watch today, the latest blockbuster has caught my eye. "Frozen" or "Anna and the Queen of Snow" as it's called in Japan and its theme song has brought me a whole new kind of joy.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
The "E" Word
If after reading this you feel emasculated as a man you have my father to blame. If, on the other hand, you feel enlightened, emancipated, encouraged, and empowered, you can thank my father. A trend previously unseen in Japan is now visible. I saw it on the subway again just this morning. Men in Japan are changing.
Twenty or so years ago when our son was a baby, the item in question was called a Snuggli. I don't know how new parents refer to it today. Twenty or so years before our son was born, babies in Japan were strapped to the backs of mothers, a criss-cross of thick cloth holding down the baby tight. Today, this modern-day Snuggli is more often than not worn by fathers, holding their babies and toddlers close to their chest. Gone are the strap-contraption of four-plus decades ago. Snugglis today have elastic in the right places, are adorned with bright colors and stripes, come with a hoddie to protect the child from the hot sun. Missing are portable misting fans and umbrellas. Aside from these add-ons every parent with a stroller might take for granted, these Snugglis are state-of-the-art. And, more importantly, worn by fathers.
Back in the day when men worked outside the home and women stayed in, care of children was the mother's job, and only the mother's job. Real men didn't burp babies, change diapers, or take an overt and active role in the day-to-day rearing of children. This was, as I said, four-plus decades ago. In today's Tokyo subways it's common to see a father feeding a bottle to a child as it is the mother. What happened? What's changed?
More than forty years ago, my father walked around Tokyo with me strapped to his back causing people to do a double-take not just because foreigners were a rarity back then, but because men didn't do what my father did. What was at one time a curiosity-factor decades later has turned into the norm. Today, many fathers do change diapers, burp babies, and take an active part in the raising of their children.
Perhaps I give my father too much credit. Perhaps one foreign man carrying a baby on his back did not cause a revolution in the role of fathers in this country. Then again, perhaps he did. All I know is this: Japanese men wear their Snugglis openly, proudly even. Babies content, mothers with free hands and baby-free for even a few hours make for a change in scenery in Tokyo, if not Japan as a whole.
Who said one person's actions can't and won't cause social change? Blame him or be proud (I choose the latter, obviously), my father's choice to take part in making me who I am started with showing people he was not ashamed to be seen in public with a baby tied to his back. Whether young men in Tokyo today know what this foreigner who walked the same streets forty years ago did for them--paving the way to choose--I know. Now you do, too.
Twenty or so years ago when our son was a baby, the item in question was called a Snuggli. I don't know how new parents refer to it today. Twenty or so years before our son was born, babies in Japan were strapped to the backs of mothers, a criss-cross of thick cloth holding down the baby tight. Today, this modern-day Snuggli is more often than not worn by fathers, holding their babies and toddlers close to their chest. Gone are the strap-contraption of four-plus decades ago. Snugglis today have elastic in the right places, are adorned with bright colors and stripes, come with a hoddie to protect the child from the hot sun. Missing are portable misting fans and umbrellas. Aside from these add-ons every parent with a stroller might take for granted, these Snugglis are state-of-the-art. And, more importantly, worn by fathers.
Back in the day when men worked outside the home and women stayed in, care of children was the mother's job, and only the mother's job. Real men didn't burp babies, change diapers, or take an overt and active role in the day-to-day rearing of children. This was, as I said, four-plus decades ago. In today's Tokyo subways it's common to see a father feeding a bottle to a child as it is the mother. What happened? What's changed?
More than forty years ago, my father walked around Tokyo with me strapped to his back causing people to do a double-take not just because foreigners were a rarity back then, but because men didn't do what my father did. What was at one time a curiosity-factor decades later has turned into the norm. Today, many fathers do change diapers, burp babies, and take an active part in the raising of their children.
Perhaps I give my father too much credit. Perhaps one foreign man carrying a baby on his back did not cause a revolution in the role of fathers in this country. Then again, perhaps he did. All I know is this: Japanese men wear their Snugglis openly, proudly even. Babies content, mothers with free hands and baby-free for even a few hours make for a change in scenery in Tokyo, if not Japan as a whole.
Who said one person's actions can't and won't cause social change? Blame him or be proud (I choose the latter, obviously), my father's choice to take part in making me who I am started with showing people he was not ashamed to be seen in public with a baby tied to his back. Whether young men in Tokyo today know what this foreigner who walked the same streets forty years ago did for them--paving the way to choose--I know. Now you do, too.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
When Global Means Local
Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains. These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky. We can see for miles.
This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside. Today we're cold. Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.
People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous. These towns are like any other; we're just like you.
Except that we're not. Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different. Adjectives describing emotions are more intense. Not better or worse. Just intense.
Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago. For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous. A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people. Today, this is personal.
I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities. We know each other. We stand out in town. There are very few of us.
Some lived through the disaster. They too lost. Homes. Cars. Friends. A sense of normalcy. Their lives have received significantly less coverage. A victim is a victim is a victim. Right? Wrong. We still quantify pain based on loss. When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here." Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners. Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.
Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix. Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns. We brought food. Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt. Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.
My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate. Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.
In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles. For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy; a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.
With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.
This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside. Today we're cold. Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.
People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous. These towns are like any other; we're just like you.
Except that we're not. Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different. Adjectives describing emotions are more intense. Not better or worse. Just intense.
Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago. For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous. A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people. Today, this is personal.
I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities. We know each other. We stand out in town. There are very few of us.
Some lived through the disaster. They too lost. Homes. Cars. Friends. A sense of normalcy. Their lives have received significantly less coverage. A victim is a victim is a victim. Right? Wrong. We still quantify pain based on loss. When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here." Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners. Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.
Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix. Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns. We brought food. Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt. Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.
My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate. Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.
In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles. For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy; a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.
With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.
Monday, April 7, 2014
On Seat Mates Who Read Girlie Magazines
Never have I woken up and wished to be seated next to a man reading porn on a train. Evidently, and I'm learning this the hard way, not wishing for something specific has nothing to do with the universe and it's ... sense of humor? ...
As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.
My seat mate is reading porn. A girlie magazine. There are photos. There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness.
Porn in your bedroom? Fine.
Porn in public? On the train? Next to me? Not fine.
Do I say something?
What would I say?
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?" Scratch that. I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.
Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a crowded train does not mean it is in Japan. Whose morals rule in such a case? Japan is not my country. He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner. Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency. Right? Really?
What if I read it with him? Is that being passive-aggressive? If that were the case, would that be so bad?
What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman? Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better? It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.
What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now? I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls. Sorry. Dumb foreigner. I don't know the rules. Do I dare? Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind? Would he care?
So far I have no answers. Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think. I'm open for suggestions.
As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.
My seat mate is reading porn. A girlie magazine. There are photos. There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness.
Porn in your bedroom? Fine.
Porn in public? On the train? Next to me? Not fine.
Do I say something?
What would I say?
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?" Scratch that. I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.
Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a crowded train does not mean it is in Japan. Whose morals rule in such a case? Japan is not my country. He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner. Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency. Right? Really?
What if I read it with him? Is that being passive-aggressive? If that were the case, would that be so bad?
What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman? Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better? It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.
What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now? I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls. Sorry. Dumb foreigner. I don't know the rules. Do I dare? Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind? Would he care?
So far I have no answers. Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think. I'm open for suggestions.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Post-Christmas Update: What Happens When Santa Comes to Rikuzentakata
I did not see this coming. Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce. Allow me to explain.
In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku. American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry. Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted. A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day. Here the real Santa was arriving. No faux "Santa's brother" at this place. Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal. Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date. About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.
No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather. No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole. He lived in Boston. In America. No full bearded Santa would arrive. The kids were fine with this. Santa was Santa. So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?
So, Santa arrived. The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located. He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.
I was Santa's warm-up act. Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?" Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am. I'm happy to make the introduction. Truly. I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids. Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle? Sure. Why not?
The teacher gets up and quiets the children. They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed. She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave. Etcetera, etcetera.
"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here? If we can see him?" The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.
And, there he is. My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders. Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back. The cheering is deafening. A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.
That's what happened in December.
Fast forward to March. I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine. Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all. He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me. I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.
"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say. "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good. Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.
And then...
And then. One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.
Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same. In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata. Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen. It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.
There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise. I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left. She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too. But, after I get divorced."
Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard. And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.
So, Boston friends. Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome. Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.
In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku. American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry. Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted. A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day. Here the real Santa was arriving. No faux "Santa's brother" at this place. Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal. Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date. About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.
No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather. No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole. He lived in Boston. In America. No full bearded Santa would arrive. The kids were fine with this. Santa was Santa. So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?
So, Santa arrived. The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located. He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.
I was Santa's warm-up act. Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?" Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am. I'm happy to make the introduction. Truly. I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids. Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle? Sure. Why not?
The teacher gets up and quiets the children. They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed. She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave. Etcetera, etcetera.
"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here? If we can see him?" The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.
And, there he is. My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders. Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back. The cheering is deafening. A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.
That's what happened in December.
Fast forward to March. I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine. Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all. He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me. I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.
"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say. "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good. Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.
And then...
And then. One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.
Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same. In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata. Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen. It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.
There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise. I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left. She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too. But, after I get divorced."
Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard. And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.
So, Boston friends. Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome. Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
A Silly Story About Handwriting
I used to have recurring dreams. Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical. I dreamt about tornadoes. Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me. Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green. Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me. Never scared, I loved these dreams. I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace. These tornadoes did not destroy.
A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning. All the books offered the same explanation: trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.
Please. Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift. I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon. Quite the contrary. I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep. I felt calm. Happy. In my dreams, tornadoes were good.
Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries. I didn't agree. They were wrong. My dreams. My rules.
Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries. Allow me to share a story.
Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank. Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp. I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am. (The stamp proves I'm me. Not my ID. Don't ask.)
I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address. I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line. I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.
"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So? You know it's me," but I don't. Here's why.
I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood. Some days my writing is illegible. Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name. Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular. Today it's a combination of the above. The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account. My mood today? Okay. I'm in a hurry. I'm hungry. Not cranky. Generally good. This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m". So then, what was my mood when I opened the account? How the hell am I supposed to remember this?
Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common. All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years: my parents, husband, son. I'm baffled by this. They're baffled by me.
I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me. I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.
"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry. No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.
"Okay. Let me try again." I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here. Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry. No."
You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay. Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask. "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen? You've seen my photo ID. You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry. But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.
I sit back. Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble. Don't other people have this problem? Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change? And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read? Am I weird? I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day. I'm actually stumped.
I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say. "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago. I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper. I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't. I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance. He doesn't get it, of course.
I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance. This is a challenge. He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says. "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."
Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names. I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank. How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.
Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done. I pass. Joy.
Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me. There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath. I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary. Careful what you read, people. It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.
Signed,
Amya
A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning. All the books offered the same explanation: trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.
Please. Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift. I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon. Quite the contrary. I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep. I felt calm. Happy. In my dreams, tornadoes were good.
Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries. I didn't agree. They were wrong. My dreams. My rules.
Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries. Allow me to share a story.
Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank. Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp. I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am. (The stamp proves I'm me. Not my ID. Don't ask.)
I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address. I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line. I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.
"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So? You know it's me," but I don't. Here's why.
I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood. Some days my writing is illegible. Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name. Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular. Today it's a combination of the above. The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account. My mood today? Okay. I'm in a hurry. I'm hungry. Not cranky. Generally good. This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m". So then, what was my mood when I opened the account? How the hell am I supposed to remember this?
Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common. All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years: my parents, husband, son. I'm baffled by this. They're baffled by me.
I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me. I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.
"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry. No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.
"Okay. Let me try again." I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here. Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry. No."
You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay. Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask. "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen? You've seen my photo ID. You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry. But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.
I sit back. Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble. Don't other people have this problem? Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change? And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read? Am I weird? I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day. I'm actually stumped.
I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say. "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago. I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper. I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't. I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance. He doesn't get it, of course.
I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance. This is a challenge. He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says. "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."
Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names. I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank. How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.
Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done. I pass. Joy.
Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me. There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath. I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary. Careful what you read, people. It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.
Signed,
Amya
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Mad Men Japan Style
Of course there are exceptions. Don't get all wound up over gross generalizations. I'm trying to make a point.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter
I was cheated. All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo. Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set. All my girl friends had them. All of my girl friends had them. Not me. I am forever scared. My parents did me a great disservice. Send me a box of Band-Aids.
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
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