Mayor Dad

It was April 2011 when I first met Mayor Futoshi Toba.  Thinking back, this must have been a few days after a policeman in Rikuzentakata, the mayor's cousin, found the body of the mayor's wife.  I didn't know this at the time. 

On this same day, standing in front of what was the make shift city hall a young boy of about six walked by me, carrying his sister of three or so on his back piggy-back style.  He called out a hearty "good morning!" and this sight made me choke up instantly.  Here was a classic example of post-disaster strength.  I wasn't expecting to see it from a child. 

Having lost his wife on March 11, 2011 Mayor Toba became a reluctant single parent.  I'd never heard of Rikuzentakata until this day, much less stepped foot in it so I've not ever met Mrs. Toba.  The stories I hear make me want to have known her.  I never will.  I have, however, gotten to know the mayor well.  His two sons, too.  With so much change in their lives, it would be understandable if these two teenage boys were confused, troubled, or even wild.  They're not.  In fact, I don't think I've met boys who are so well behaved, well adjusted, and happy even.

I visited the mayor's home the night before the second memorial this year.  He held a small dinner, and I joined the gang.  The boys are ardent basketball fans so I took Boston Celtics gear, chiding them for having other team paraphernalia on their bedroom walls.  We compared notes on who the best NBA players were, with me making sure Celtics heroes were named often.

The mayor has been frank in sharing the younger boy is the one who's had the most difficulty with his mother's death.  Indeed, the morning of the memorial service, he was silent, sullen, and pained.  The joking from the night before was gone.  I realize this is neither the time nor place to remind him of how he silently handed me a Celtics mug, both of us grinning at his conversion to a true basketball fan.  I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would change the meaning of this day.

Which is why Mayor Toba's recent postings on his Facebook page celebrating the fact both boys are now able to talk about their mother in daily conversation is such welcome news.  Until now the mayor's reminders of their mother's words, "No, you can't have ice cream before dinner!  What would your mother say?" were not met with grins or replies.  Today they talk about their mother more freely, with real and imaged words that may or may not have come from Mrs. Toba.

The boys are well mannered.  They get along well.  Teenage angst does not seem to have kicked in.  On one particular night, however, the mayor came home to two boys who were on the verge of quarreling.
The older, "He won't let me read his comic book!"
"The pages are always smudged and messy whenever he gives them back to me after he reads them!" the younger objects.
"Are not!"
"Yes, they are!"

Somewhere in this not-quite-yet-a-fight, one of them said, "Remember when mom said..." which prompted the other one to reply, "I'm like mom in that..." as the mayor stood by and listened letting the boys hash it out on their own.  Happy they can talk about their mother in this way, it was not important who was saying what, but more they were both able to talk about their mother.  

I'm an observer standing on the sidelines watching this unfold.  I'm proud of the mayor, and proud of his boys.  On my trip up to Rikuzentakata in early August I'm taking bagels for the younger boy (his new favorite food) and a big Celtics mug (to compete with his brother's) for the older son.  I'm looking forward to what fodder this might become for boy-and-auntie banter.

Mayor Dad

I'm not one to shamelessly plug anything, but I'm always willing to make an exception.  If you have a moment and $9.95 to spare, please considering logging onto Amazon.com and look for Mayor Futoshi Toba's (Mayor of Rikuzentakata) book about the days and months post March 11^th as he experienced them.  Entitled, “Let’s Talk About It:  What Really Happened In The Disaster Area” this is book is brutally honest (at times painfully), emotional, real, and a must-read for anyone (politicians especially) who need to understand disaster prevention, relief, and management.  That yours truly translated the book isn’t the point.  Mayor Toba’s humanity, the decisions he made and now questions, his resolve, and dedication are something to behold.

But this is not why I’m writing about him.  At least not solely.  In a recent conversation we had, he shared the following story with me.  Again, it’s one of these I-can’t-make-this-up vignettes.  This one will make you love him all the more.

“So, my son, the older one, comes to me the other morning and says, ‘Dad!  My uniform is still wet!’  Not knowing what he’s talking about, I wander into his room where he’s packing for his basketball tournament that he has to leave for in about 30 minutes, and he’s holding up this clearly wet uniforms.  I don’t know what to do with this.  How do you dry something quickly, as in 30-minutes quickly?  Clothes dryer, right?  I’m annoyed, but I go into dad-mode, and take the uniform tops and shorts and stick them in the dryer.”  He looks at me here.  I nod.  Yeah.  What’s the big deal?  I’m not seeing where the drama is in this story.
“Except, I didn’t hit the ‘dry’ cycle.  I hit ‘wash’ and not just any ‘wash’ but the ‘long wash.’”  I laugh.  “Hey!”  I stop laughing.  Sort of.  “It’s not funny!” I swear that’s a mock pout I’m seeing.
“I’m sorry.  You’re right.  It’s not funny,” I say and know I’m not the least bit convincing.
“I didn’t know what to do.  My son’s standing in the bathroom looking at me with this, ‘Daaaad!’ look, and I know I’ve screwed up, and I know I can’t drain the washing machine and get it to spin and dry and all that in 30 minutes.  Rather, I don’t know how to.”  I’m grinning, but don’t say anything because after all, it’s not funny.  Right?
“So, I make some calls to get suggestions on how to dry this right now.  The consensus from the mothers I trust not to repeat the story,” and now he’s grinning too (sort of) “was that there’s no way to dry the uniform in 30 minutes.  I tell my son to get on the bus, that I’ll deliver his uniform before the game.  He’s annoyed with me, but shuffles off and now I’m in pretty much serious panic mode.  Can I microwave clothes?  Iron them?  I mean, they’re soaked.  I’ll end up with some major steam bath if I do that, won’t I?”  I’m not being asked so I keep grinning.  Smiling.  Not grinning.  Just smiling.
“Long story short, I ironed them.  I got all the tops and bottoms to him in time, too.  I called the mothers to thank them.” 
 He pauses.  “This is when I miss my wife.”  Then, quickly correcting himself, “It’s not just that I miss her when I don’t know how to run the washing machine.”
“I know.  I know that’s not what you meant.”
“ I relied on her so much.  It’s hard being both mayor and dad.”   

We’re both silent for awhile.
 “Your sons love you.  They respect you.  They get it.  They may not always like it, but they get it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
With that, we’re both quiet agian.  I bring up another topic in another minute or so, and we spend the rest of our time together working through projects, strategizing, and getting things done.  The Mayor or Rikuzentakata, of the city essentially wiped off the map, is an incredible father and dedicated mayor.  For his friendship and trust I’m grateful.  I hope you can meet him some day, through his book if not in person.  He’s one of the good guys.

Why human translators/interpreters will always have work

As I sit at my desk pounding away at my keyboard translating Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm struck over and over again of my role.  Mayor Toba is the author.  I'm the translator.  I'm responsible for putting his words into another language, conveying meaning, context, content, words, and feeling the way he wrote it.  My words need to mirror his words.  On the one hand I'm honored by the responsibility.  On the other hand, it's a helluva burden to carry.

Except not all translators operate the same way.  I once worked with an interpreter who felt it was his role, nay responsibility, to interject his opinion into the conversation.  (It's not.)  We had long discussions into the night, and ultimately I gave up.  Go knock yourself out, buddy. 

Then there are those who simply do not know how to use interpreters and translators.  I once told a group of people using bilingual staff they were "burning through your interpreters."
"No we're not," was their reply.  "We've used interpreters before, Amya."  I almost said, "Not well, evidently," except my phone rang and I took that as a sign that was my time to leave both the conversation and the group.  (It's a long story.)

Ultimately, how well words and text are conveyed from one language to another is the responsibility of the one repeating the words, and the one hiring that "repeater."  It goes both ways.

Which is why when I see signs like this, I can only shake my head in wonderment. 

Is this intentional?  Not being a dog person, I can't tell if this is some inside joke, or if the owners of this store selling doggie goods thought they were being smart, stylish, and catchy.

Right next door to Dog-Wiz is this store.

I'm not sure what is says about me that I can't say whether "Scorn Jazz" is a type of legitimate jazz style.  Or, perhaps being scorned at a jazz cafe is a fetish trend in Japan?

The conversation I had regarding the jacket worn by this man clearly makes my point of the day.  (WARNING:  R-rated language coming.)

I saw him in the group of about 100 or so people gathered at this event, mostly because the foreigners in the group were stopping him, making him turn around, reading his jacket and then either giving him a thumbs up (usually preceded by guffawing) or shaking their heads.  I had honestly put this man out of my mind until I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"You're Amya, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can you tell me?  Is this jacket, uh, 'bad'?"  He turns around.  I see this.

Oh my.  Oh my, my, my, my.  Oh, wow.  What do I say?  What can I possibly say?  He turns over his shoulder to look at me.  "Answer him," I think to myself.  I need to answer him.
"Well, uh...." and I've got nothing.  Nada.  Honestly.  I don't know what to say.
"That bad?"
"Uh, well, hmmm.  I wouldn't wear this outside of Japan," is finally decide upon, but then again, I wouldn't wear this in Japan either.
"Can you tell me what it means?"
No.  I can't.  I can't translate this.  Again, I've got nothing. 
"I don't know what to say," and I decide to fold.  "I don't know how to translate this."
"It's bad, huh?"
"Yeah.  It's bad." I also decide to be honest.
"Okay.  Thanks."  And, with that, I'm saved.  He walks away, but I decide what I've just seen must be recorded, and I snap a photo.

Not checking with a native speaker before naming a store or putting words on a jacket is not a problem exclusive to Japan.  I've certainly google-translated a sentence before and then used it.  The point here is that native speakers, those who truly get the nuanced meaning behind what's being conveyed cannot be replaced by machines.  All this to say, you translators and interpreters out there who know your stuff, can walk the walk head held high, you will continue to have work.  Finding that work is another matter entirely.