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.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
PTSD and Me
Evidently doctors hate it. Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed. "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes. Do I do this, too? Yes. Watch me. I'm going to right here.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
Monday, August 11, 2014
I Am Not Depressed
I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another. Elements of a culture may be beautiful. More beautiful than others. Elements of a culture may be cruel. How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine. Yours may differ. Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way. Some days this is just fine. Other days it's anything but.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Opinions That Matter Not
Awhile back a friend introduced me to his high school buddy. This man becomes my accountant. This man then introduced me to his mistress who becomes my "older sister". She runs a small pub in my neighborhood so I go there every now and then when I crave potato salad. (She makes the best potato salad in Tokyo.)
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
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