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.

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.

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.

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.

Train Etiquette

I am not one to blame the French.  In the case of the empty seat next to me on trains and buses in Japan, it's not the French who are to blame as much as it is my French heritage.  I accept this fault because acknowledging the other truth is more hurtful.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling.  In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved.  No one shushed them.  No one paid them any attention.  He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan.  Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.

Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet.  Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course).  Two people having a conversation is almost rare.  There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part.  (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.)  Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem.  Or so my friend says.

Here's the thing.  Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken.  I am not exaggerating.  People will stand rather than sit next to me.  I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me.  "Watch," I'll say.  "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled."  I am proven right.  Always.

This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning.  I console myself by saying I smell.  My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume.  I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself.  As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart.  I can't smell myself, of course.  Once the perfume is on, it's on.  I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes.  Others can, evidently.  Smell me, that is.  I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me.  The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.

My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts."  Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior.  They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them.  That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt.  I told my friend as much. 

One more thing.  I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh.  No, this isn't the most mature of responses.  It is, however, honest.  We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains.  If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020.  Beware.

When Size Matters

There is an international boarding/day school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo known for its strict and rigid rules.  A decent number of alumnae live in Tokyo still, and every now and then a group of us get together to reminisce.  This walk down memory lane usually gets tawdry very quickly, the telling of stories causing gut-, and side-splitting laughter; the restaurant we're at on any given night almost always regrets letting us in. 

Last night was one such night.

Quite a sight, we are.  I am the lone woman who goes to these evenings out--the consensus being I'm the only one who can handle the abuse and stories of completely inappropriate behavior from days long past--a compliment, I know, albeit cloaked.  It's a good thing I can dish out similar libel, have thick skin and stories of my own, many of which include embarrassing moments my friends' memory has conveniently erased.

Our teachers would be surprised by the lives we lead today.  Collectively, our reputations and grades would have led most to assume none of us would end up this successful.  Proud of our accomplishments, we toast our teachers for being wrong.  Very wrong.

As we made our way out of one eatery to another, over-staying our welcome at the first place, we walk down stairs leading into what can only be described as a present-day dungeon sans the torture tools.  There are no chairs here.  It's dark, cramped, and as we file past those already standing with their food and drinks, we all mutter our "excuse me"s pushing up against the already imprisoned.  The hallway is that narrow and that tight.  This place is small.  Lamps hanging on the walls offer little light, and monsters and dragons could very easily poke their heads around any given corner.  I feel like I'm in 13th century France.  We file into the corner booth arguing over how much space my purse takes up, who stands where, who's claustrophobic.  And here it begins.  The Japanese man standing closest to us, clearly wanting to hang out with the "cool kids" comments on the height of one of the gang.  Again.  And again.

Which gets me thinking.  We are a hodge-podge of sizes.  There's the really tall one, the tall and thick one, the short and stocky one, and the medium-height thin one.  And then me.  We represent all sizes, makes and models. 

I ponder this for a moment.  Comments about height and weight fly out of the mouths of most Japanese I know with seemingly remarkable ease.  There is typically some discussion of my weight when I get together with those who haven't seen me for a month.  I've either lost weight or gained.   A discussion ensues among those who have opinions on my weight.  I'm usually not a part of these chats that take place as if I was invisible and unable to hear the result of the general consensus.  Fascinating.

No one I know back home would dare, ever comment on my weight, but here in Japan it seems to be a free-for-all topic.  I ponder this, too.  Casting aside judgment on why it's okay to comment on peoples' weight here in Japan, I instead think about how the Japanese have changed.

I am no longer the tallest or heaviest woman I know in Japan.  Anywhere I go, I'm surrounded by women who are larger than me.  Growing up here, for the most part, this was never the case.  While in the US, I am shorter than the average woman and "normal" in weight, here in Japan, I've always been tall and borderline heavy.  Today there are plenty of women who are taller (even without the four-inch heels) and who show the results of a diet rich in meat and milk.  Japanese bodies are changing.

And then there are the men.  Talk show hosts in Japan can often be heard discussing how young Japanese men prefer to remain single, living at home and interacting with the virtual world more than the real one, content to eat their mother's cooking.  Relationships?  Too bothersome.  Jobs?  Meh.

There is another crop of young men in Japan many find just as troubling:  the beautiful ones.  Arched and plucked eyebrows, coiffed hair full of product and seriously styled, clothes that make us all wonder who's credit card is being used, these men are elegant, beautiful, and thin.  Called "the vegetarians" for their--what?--lack of interest in anything hearty?  For the most part, boys don't grow up wanting to emulate this subculture of young men who personify nothing masculine. 

The fifteen days of sumo, the summer bout, which ended on Sunday shows the exact opposite.  Men meant to be large show off their strength and skill as they collide into each other.  Here, too, their weight and size is a topic of discussion.  Even in the world of sumo, the ultimate in sports where size matters there is evidently something to being too heavy.  I continue to marvel at how "appropriate" size is defined.

In a world where size continually matters, where we are all but defined by our height and weight, and in a country where comments about both fly out of mouths way too quickly I wonder what lies ahead for the new Japan.  Beautiful but seemingly weak men, women who are taller and larger than their mothers, and the ongoing commentary on observations regarding the size of gaijins (myself included) all make for interesting material for those inadvertently embroiled in the discussion over how size matters. 

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster.