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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
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.
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