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.

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.


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.