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.
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