On Being Busy and the Art of Saying "No" in Japan and a Few Thoughts on "Emoji"

March is always a crazy month.  The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies.  We tie up loose ends.  Students graduate.  New hires arrive in April needing to be trained.  Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April.  Before April there is March.  Wrap everything up and move on.

Which is why we're all busy.  Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call.  Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode.  The loud ones, demanding an answer get it.  Everyone else?  Pick a number, sit, and wait.

I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse.  People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy.  I see "busy" as an issue of priorities.  Let's face it:  You DON'T rank.  When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another. 

Which is why I'm struggling this month.  I'm truly busy.  I get up early and stay up late.  I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys.  Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day.  I'm sorry.  But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later.  It's about priorities.  I triage.  I'll reply tomorrow.  I use the same line others use on me.  I hate March.

I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment.  As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year.  I vowed not to.  I swore I needed to focus on me.  I changed my mind.  I can and will do this for one more year.  It's the right thing to do.

But, I reserve the right to say "NO".  I've not done this until now.  You needed something?  I obliged.  You wanted something done?  I did it.  Those days are gone.  Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own.  Long-term dependency is not the answer.

City hall will not be accustomed to this new me.  So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan?  Do people just say it?  Refuse?  Shake their heads? 

No. 

The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult."  That's a cue.  That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want.  I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases.  Bring it on.  Sorry people.  To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want."  I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."

Side note:  I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.

"Are you coming to our high school reunion?  If not, why?"

It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion.  It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.

We are busy.  That's the truth.  The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else.  As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco.  On this, I renege my point from earlier.  We're not blowing each other off.  We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group.  That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.

With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day.  None of the men in my gang are subtle.  We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk.  All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys.  They're jerks and I absolutely love them.

Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point.  I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face.  With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics.  We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs.  (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)

Perhaps a rambling post without any real point.  Then again.  Then again.

Post-Christmas Update: What Happens When Santa Comes to Rikuzentakata

I did not see this coming.  Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce.  Allow me to explain.

In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku.  American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry.  Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted.  A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day.  Here the real Santa was arriving.  No faux "Santa's brother" at this place.  Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal.  Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date.  About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.

No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather.  No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole.  He lived in Boston.  In America.  No full bearded Santa would arrive.  The kids were fine with this.  Santa was Santa.  So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?

So, Santa arrived.  The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located.  He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.

I was Santa's warm-up act.  Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?"  Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am.  I'm happy to make the introduction.  Truly.  I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids.  Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle?  Sure.  Why not?

The teacher gets up and quiets the children.  They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed.  She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave.  Etcetera, etcetera.

"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here?  If we can see him?"  The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.

And, there he is.  My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders.  Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back.  The cheering is deafening.  A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.

That's what happened in December.

Fast forward to March.  I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine.  Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all.  He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me.  I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.

"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say.  "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good.  Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.

And then...

And then.  One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.

Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same.  In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata.  Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen.  It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.

There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise.  I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left.  She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too.  But, after I get divorced."

Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard.  And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.

So, Boston friends.  Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome.  Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.

On The Woman-Who-Rhymes-With-Witch and Learning How To Move On

Shit happens in threes.  Everyone knows this.  Our run with bad luck started back in December.  We received a call.  The police arrested one of the two who robbed our home two years ago.  If we were still pressing charges we would need to fly home for the trial and testify.  Or, we could drop the charges and she would go free.  We called and said, "We need time," and "We'll get back to you."  They said, "Fine."  Fine.  We would deal with this later.

Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage.  Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess.  Because two is a stupid number there was more.  We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S.  Shit happens in threes.  Indeed.

This was a bit much.  Where do we start?  How do we move through these events?  Why was this happening to us?  We're good people.  We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches.  What did we do to deserve this?

Frantic transpacific calls ensued.  We split the work.  I would handle the robbery case.  David would handle the water damage.  We told our accountant to fix the other problem.  In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down.  This served to raise our blood pressure and little else.  Wallowing felt good but only briefly.  We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans.  That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good.  David found living without water utterly horrid.  Neither of us were happy.

Happiness.  This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused.  "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said.  "Yeah.  We all want to be happy.  There's nothing wrong with that."

How do we define happiness?  What makes us happy?  The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad."  The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness.  Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply."  Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.

How we process pain differs for us all.  I need laughter.  With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me:  my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies.  I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.

Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense.  I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on.  I do encourage the grieving to laugh.  Often is good.  Once a day is a must.  For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.

As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud.  I feel very little relief. 

Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014.  We're certain we are correct in our assumption.  This is most excellent news.  It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go.  This makes us happy.  We will get through this string of bad luck.

In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same.  Pain is not funny.  Deep pain takes longer to move through.  That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.

In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem.  Good boy.

The Post Two Years in the Making and the Most Un-Christian Christmas Ever

I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor.  He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter.  An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me.  In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working.  Work.  I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here."  Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation.  I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I am right.  By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner.  I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence.  My husband shares the news.

"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says.  I look up.  The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer.  Soon would be nice.  Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing.  The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife.  Of course.

I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words.  "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down.  Christmas?  What Christmas?  I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.

I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing.  Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you.  I'm not asking you to believe.  I'm sharing experiences and observations.

Rewind back ten years or so.  My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal.  Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts.  Did they exist?  Possibly.  Probably.  Maybe.

I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting.  The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful.  (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?)  I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room.  I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like.  I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned.  Success.  It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer.  I could smell him where he was in the room.  The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.

Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed.  That's when he came back.  The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful.  Then the bed moved.  It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight.  I open my eyes.  Nothing.  I'm certain, though.  Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed.  The cologne is strong.  What does one say to a ghost?  I'm not scared.  Is that a good thing?  While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot.  He must have sat down again.  Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.

Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku.  The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms.  I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night.  There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable.  I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific.  Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.

One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet.  That was it.  Tonight I made it official:  Hiro's office had a ghost.  All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.

I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost.  "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?"  What am I?  The Ghost Whisperer?  Why would a ghost listen to me?  Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth.  Is that possible?  I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale.  "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says.  "Gives me the creeps."  Great.

Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence.  I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone.  Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.

So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian.  David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot.  I don't mess around with religions.  I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.

We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place.  Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him?  Immune?  Is that the right word?

Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now.  The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.

'Til next time, The End.

Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories

Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once.  Even today, I feel cheated.  Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew.  Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist.  No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.

My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween.  With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes.  The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy.  Don't ask.

We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us.  Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces.  Oh, the joy.

Which is of course not what happened.  Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake.  Cake?  For Halloween?  Fine.  We'd play along.  Surely it would be chocolate.

It wasn't.  It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey.  The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated.  There was hope.  Here was American Halloween candy.  Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be.  That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to.  Our hopes hung on the candy corn.

Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes.  My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected.  To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there.  Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible.  My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again.  I feel totally and completely cheated.

Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior.  Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile.  It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far.  Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.

Queen Amya was a hit.  Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday?  This year I am going as a witch.  I've always wanted to dress up as a witch.  That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child.  Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake.  Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.

There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out.  The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic.  Ghosts?  The veil between life and death?  For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate.  Which is why I must bend the truth.  Omission is not always a bad thing.  The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about.  I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad.  Selective representation of facts?  I can do that.  If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world.  That doesn't need sharing.  Especially not in Tohoku.

This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy.    (On the faces of kids.  Not mine.)  Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger.  This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers.  Cue joy.

Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."

Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns.  The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II.  Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions.  They come from a time where modesty was the norm.  I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share.  He's already one of a kind.  I consider him a total and complete exception.

This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement.  Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help.  Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.

Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves."  The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people.  Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations.  Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes.  The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you.  I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive."  Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends?  Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren?  Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami?  Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?

Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing.  I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse.  I do hope stories about March 11 will be told.  Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid.  Today I offer one from an adopted family member.

We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me.  I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table.  I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here.  I can picture it in my mind.  My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about?  I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way.  It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands.  Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me.  Evidently I am wrong.  I know it was pointing the other way.  I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me.  "You're just tired."  She goes to the fridge.  "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink.  These things aren't cheap, but I really like them.  I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside.  What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle.  Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen.  Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack.  Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls.  "Daddy doesn't have to go."

Dad is a volunteer firefighter.  Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days.  Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened.  He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."

The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit.  She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit.  Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet."  I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come.  Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given."  I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them.  They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers.  I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too."  Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again.  "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator."  I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says.  "My parents aren't rich.  Refrigerators aren't cheap.  At least my mother wouldn't think so."  I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor.  My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall."  I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs.  "But, it's not.  Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape.  To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible.  When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there.  Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord."  Misa is now laughing out loud.  I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."

Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not.  Misa's story shocked me.  Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item.  I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more.  What does this story tell me?  I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in.  If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced.  I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion.  What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance?  Again, I have no answers.

Parents Who Snap At Their Kids: What Post-disaster Recovery Looks Like Today

I am in no position to diagnose.  With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what.  What I can say is this:  I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku.  Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm.  Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.

Kazu is drunk.  The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes.  Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons.  His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.

"They're just too well behaved," he says.  "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod.  "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem.  We snap at the kids.  We're all tense.  We've got short fuses.  We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids.  It's not right but we do it anyway."  He sips his drink.  How many has he had?  I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out.  They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry.  Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile.  When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair.  "I did it, too," he says.  "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him.  "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb.  It's true I was mad.  Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device.  "I hate those things," he says.  "I had told Yuuki to go to bed.  He didn't, of course."  Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh.  "So I yelled at him.  Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed.  We're all like that, us parents.  We're all stressed."

It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety.  Do some?  Yes.  Do many?  Perhaps.  Probably.  The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too.   Why wouldn't he be?  Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy.  "People are giving up," he tells me.  "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting.  Change and improvement, it's so slow.  It's taking so long.  Too long."  He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.

In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year.  Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available.  It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going.  In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors.  The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents.  Or so Kazu says.

Clearly I don't have the solution.  I listen.  I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them.  I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him.  I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.

Tsunami Tendenko: Save Yourself, No Matter What

Depending on who you are, depending on where you live the date of September 11 holds a different meaning.  Today marks the 12th memorial of the terrorist attacks in the United States.  Two and a half years ago on this day, the coastline of most of northeast Japan was forever changed.  Regardless of how this day is important to you, and even if it's not, this day allows us to learn.

There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan.  The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko.  These words contain a simple but powerful meaning:  if facing a tsunami save yourself first.

I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years.  People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents.  Evacuation drills stress safety and survival.  For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given.  The only escape is to get to higher ground.

It's a simple message.  Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011?  The answers are many.  Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic.  The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating.  Fair warning:  what sounds easy isn't.  

Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011.  I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them.  Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami.  Another part of my job is to convey a message.  Prepare.  Think.  Have a plan.

Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents.  Many cannot be avoided.  While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.

This is where tsunami tendenko comes in.  Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake.  What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows:  stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.

The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake.  Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance.  The lesson learned?  Don't.

On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region.  A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened.  Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th.  No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either.  They paid for their mistake with their lives.

Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam.  Logic dictates cars run faster than people.  The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.

What does it mean to have a plan?  What does it mean to think through this plan?  Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves.  On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.

For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural.  Our instinct is to live.  To survive.  For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them.  Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message:  don't. 

This begs the following question:  Are you willing to die for others?  If so, whom? 

Parents naturally want to protect their children.  Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids?  If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose?  What about your colleagues?  Your friends?  Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?

The message is simple.  Think.  Have a plan.  Stick to it.  Live.

My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one.  None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake.  That said, none of us can see into our futures.  Life is precious.  Have a plan.

On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

Mayor Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)

A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R.  Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat.  As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r.  Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice.  Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced. 

When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm.  My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm.  Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating.  Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing.  In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player."  Very, very different things.  Perhaps you had to be there.  I didn't find much om that day.  Too much giggling.

On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused.  Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands.  "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased.  Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you."  Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!"  I stop.  Are they saying, "Love you"?  I can't tell.  If they are, this is huge.  Like is a safe word.  Like a lot is also okay.  But, love is reserved for the super special.  I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured.  The tots don't let up though and I must respond.  I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.

I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh!  A new word!" or a "Pffft.  We knew that one."  We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.

The Problem With Giving

Large organizations, UNHCR and Harvard Medical School and the like are said to offer up "two" as the magic number.  Two years post a natural disaster and things change.  Aid dries up, and those left behind must find their own way.  I've pondered this of late as I found myself muddling through a sea of obnoxious requests, outrageous comments made about aid received, and an overall ugly sense of entitlement creeping into the Tohoku disaster region as a whole.  Two-plus years since a series of tsunamis wiped out Japan's northeastern coastline, there's absolute truth work still needs to be done.  Equally, a victim-mentality and a "gimme gimme" environment is now just as prevalent as is the community of those who are striving to move on.

If the statement "what doesn't break you makes you stronger" is true, many in Tohoku are now broken.  How and where does one find the will to rebuild without an income?  Those who are elderly (adult diaper sales surpassed baby diaper sales for the first time in Japan) should take out a loan to build a house where they will ... what?  Move in and die?  Words like these sound crass and cold.  That doesn't make them untrue.

Wide-spread depression, questions on how to move forward, whether life is worth living are all present.  This is not to say most feel this way.  I say this to point out with the passage of time and little tangible improvement hope wanes.

Is it then natural for those so used to the twisted combination of grief and pain who have also asked for and received pretty much all they need to now use their loss to ask for more?  The word to focus on is "natural" and the implication, "is this normal?"  That I am being asked to raise funds for items no one would dare have wished for just a few months back ... what does this mean?

Some complaints I've heard about items received remind me of an ill-behaved child who would scold grandma for giving her a birthday cake with white icing instead of pink.  Others impress me with their justification for why they need a new (insert pretty much anything here).

I can't quote the Rolling Stones and sing to them "you can't always get what you want."  Nor can I bring up the example of how ridiculous it is for little girls to ask for ponies for Christmas, the ultimate in a "but I want one thus deserve it" argument.  In the minds of many disaster victims, they truly "need" that item the rest of us don't have.  Does their pain explain their behavior?  Does being a victim mean they should get to ask for whatever they want and expect it?  If you knew the kinds of requests I'm getting I think you would agree, the answer is "NO."

Giving in post-disaster Tohoku needs to change.  For this to happen, donors must know what defines a "must have" versus "wouldn't it be nice if."  This requires a level of honesty among those in Tohoku that is lacking.  There's no other nicer way of saying this.  For many outside of Tohoku there's a real desire to help, especially now that time has passed and the residents left behind feel forgotten.  Offering up everything on their wish list is not the way to offer aid.  They won't like me saying this, but again, that doesn't make it any less true.

The ugliest part about this is what I can't and won't share:  the actual examples.  I purposely block the nasty parts of the reality of Tohoku giving (and receiving) from reaching you because if you knew what some wanted and that word got out to the donors ("they asked for what?") aid would dry up right then and there.  (At least from that donor and others they choose to tell.)  This is why I post updates like this.  You're getting the truth.  Just not all of it. 

My point is this:  I ask for reflection from donors going forward.  Are you giving because you want to check off your "I donated" box?  Is this a real need?  Whom does it help?   This is not a band-aid?  Where are you getting your information?  How much of this aid is actually reaching the recipient?  Do you trust the NPO/NGO/organization you're donating to?  Are you sure they're not sucking up your donation as they "spread it out among the locals"?

The magical "two year mark" has come and gone.  Going forward, I ask for and urge caution, care, honesty, and rechecking facts before checks are cut, items sent, offer extended.  No, little girls in Tohoku do not deserve a "pony" for their birthday.  Grandma gives you a birthday cake?  The words you're looking for are "thank you" and not a complaint about the color of the icing.  Yes, these are examples.  I settle for these as the truth would make us all weep.

Think before you give.  I'm gently working in Tohoku on the "think before you ask" part.  Hopefully between the two parties putting more thought into what is truly needed there can be more of the kind of aid truly needed.

Picture This

April brings a new school year.  The most immediate effect this change has on me is the new faces in the preschools I visit with every trip to Tohoku.  Having spent the entire school calendar year with the five-year olds the year before, I knew names and faces, who liked what, who acted up, and family histories.  With this crop of kids, I’m nowhere close.  With three visits under my belt, we’re still working through details.  It feels like we’re perpetually on a first date.

My main goal with the kids hasn’t changed:  I want them to not fear foreigners, know they already have a large vocabulary of foreign words, and grow up with a sense of wonder at the world beyond.  My job is to bring consistent joy to their lives, give them something to look forward to, play, offer acceptable touching in the form of hugs and pats and high-fives.  I want them to be happy.

I learned quickly almost every child ages three and above can count from one to ten in English, know most colors in English (thank you Power Rangers), and all I need to do is add to this list.  When I tell them the common words they use everyday—the romanized ones—are also English, Italian, Portuguese, French, and Chinese their eyes pop. 

Which is why I take my laptop full of photos, pointing to each one and as they identify ice cream, chocolate, cake, potato chips, taxi, ball, dress, belt, donuts, and lions.  “These are all English words.  See!  You already speak English!”  It’s a hit every time.  With every visit, I show more pictures.  With every visit, the kids are in total shock at how easy English is.

I saved teaching shapes until January for the last class but this year I’ve started with the book of shapes.  I make a heart with my hands and ask them what it is.  Then I ask what it means.  Through giggles, it’s the girls who answer, “It means you like something.  Or someone.”  Snicker, snicker.  I extend my heart-shaped hands out to them and tell them I like them.  Very much.

On days where the weather-gods shine down on us, we play outside.  I take the book of shapes out with me on this particular day, and as I scan the playground for suitable shapes to call out I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Amya-san, Amya-san.”  I see a boy looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“My daddy died in the tsunami.”  He gave me no indication this was coming.  I’m completely caught off guard.  No “hello” and no “what are we doing today?”  Just straight up, “My daddy died.”  

To which I say what exactly?  I don’t know his name.  This is the third time we’ve played together.  I don’t know his family.  I know nothing about him.  I crouch down in front of him and am about to speak when I see his teacher walking towards me.  “Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get ready to play.”

Do I let her walk away?  Is she pulling him away from me for my sake?  Do I let him go?  She takes him by the shoulders and starts to take him back to the larger group when he turns around.  A screenplay writer couldn’t have cued that better.

“Wait,” I say.  “It’s okay.”  The boy turns around and gently releases himself from his teacher and walks towards me.  This is unreal.  He stops in front of me and I quickly sneak a glance at his nametag.  Now I have a name.
“Do you miss your daddy?”  I ask.  There’s no point pretending this isn’t happening.  He nods.

“I have a brother who died so I kind of know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”  He nods again.

“But, I know your daddy is right here,” I say pointing to his heart.  He looks down at my finger.  “In your heart,” I rephrase.  I swear I’m about to lose it.

“We visit his grave sometimes,” he says.

“That’s good.  Do you take flowers?”

“Uh huh.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know what they’re called.  Before it got cold I picked some flowers from the field and took those to him.”

“I’m sure he really, really likes that.”  The boy nods.

The other kids have gathered around us now, coming over in twos and threes wondering what this boy has done or said to warrant all this attention.  Most kids have heard the grave part of his story and now the floodgates are open.  Blown open.  The kids start talking at once: who lost their home, who lost their dog, who lost their grandmother, bicycle, toys, a favorite doll.  I’m overwhelmed.  I look up at the teacher, signaling with my eyes I need help.  Two plus years up north and this is the first time I’ve had kids come up and tell me their stories.  Unprompted and unscripted, everything is pouring out.  I honestly don’t know what to say.  With all these children talking to me at once I can’t possibly answer everyone or address every comment.  Then again, I can’t ignore their words either.

I stand up.  This quiets them.  “You’re all really brave,” I say.  “I know it’s hard, but you’re all really strong and you’ll grow up to be amazing adults.  When you’re all grown ups let’s get together and have ice cream.  Okay?”  The kids squeal and run away.  Just like that, we’ve moved on.

This unexpected outpouring of unfiltered honesty caught me off guard in ways I’ve not experienced in the time I’ve spent up north.  Yup.  I’m exhausted.  And, it’s not even noon.

“Amya-san,” I hear, from a voice behind me.  It’s the same boy.  I was walking toward the center of the playground but I stop.  He runs up to me.  I kneel down, meeting his eyes.  “Yes?”  He looks down at his moving and twisting fingers.  At last he holds up his hands.  For an instant I’m confused, but then I get it.  I make a heart with my hands folding his into mine and smile.  I stand up quickly because I don’t want him to see me cry and I kiss the top of his head.  “Let’s go play.  I’ll race you,” and with that we dash off to play color tag.

Tales from Rikuzentakata: "That's All I Did."

No spin.  No embellishing.  This is a story without preservatives.  Made with all natural ingredients, it comes straight from the front lines of disaster-stricken Rikuzentakata. 

Teiichi Sato is a man who looks like he chops down trees in his spare time.  Barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper hair flying in all directions, he's quick to tear up and quick to recover.  He's one of the victims-turned-survivors from the tsunami that wiped away the City of Rikuzentakata, his store and home included. 

Mr. Sato will be the first to admit his mind did not belong to him for a month after the tsunami took away everything he owned.  "I wasn't myself.  I didn't know what to do.  My mind?  It was white.  Like that screen on television, black and white static.  I had nothing."  Today, he is the proud owner of his seed store selling literally seeds and seedlings.  How anyone can stay in business selling only seeds, competing with the giant box-stores selling the same seeds for less--this is a mystery to me.  I don't ask questions.  His income, he tells me is "Less than what most people make around here" but this doesn't seem to bother him.  Personifying stubbornness, a fierce will to live, and commitment to survival, the hostility he showed to his customers two summers ago when he was working through this PTSD is all but a memory.

"I wanted to get this story out from inside me.  That I rebuilt this store, if you can call it that....that I rebuilt it from scraps of debris that I found all over town.  That I rebuilt my store to show that even someone normal like me can start over.  That even someone like me who lost everything can still live.  I wanted to get this story out but it was too painful to write it in Japanese."
I nod as I listen.
"So I wrote it in English.  And then Chinese."  Here he drops the bomb.  "But I don't speak, read, or write English or Chinese."  He laughs.  "So, I looked up words in the dictionary one after the other, and then started putting together not knowing at all whether my English was correct.  Then I heard of an English teacher who was holding classes here in town once a month and I asked for help.  He and I worked through my manuscript, polishing it so it was presentable.  And then I published it.  It's not high prose, but it's readable."  He says this as if it's no big deal at all to write a book in two languages he doesn't understand.  He did the same thing with the Chinese document.  "Dictionaries are really helpful," he says, nonchalantly.  "Get a native speaker to check your work, and" he claps his hands together, "just like that, you've gotten out what was pent up inside.  That's really all I did."

That is most definitely not all he did.  It never occurred to me here is where I would found the one person I know in my life who wrote a book about a terrible and painful experience in two languages he neither comprehended nor ever used.  The result is a short book revealing grief and hope in ways only he can retell and capture.  I won't spoil it for you.  Don't buy it if you're not interested.  If you are, however, here is a true, first-hand account of a victim who turned himself into a survivor out of sheer will.  Read and weep as many have. 

Please contact me at amya@city.rikuzentakata.iwate.jp if you are interested in purchasing a copy.  Each book costs 1500 yen.  You will need to pay via bank transfer.  I will provide you with details.
It's worth it.  Take my word for it.

Rude, Stupid, and Clueless: Those Who Get It and Those Who Don't

On the eve of another US Presidential election, I sit in Japan (not eve here) and wonder what's going to happen over the next several days.  Often struck by how angry my friends are at those who disagree with them, violently at times, absolutely sure they are right in their opinions and thoughts and beliefs, the election and whatever the outcome will be......it all feels like a lose-lose situation.  How much more divided can the US be?  The polls are split at 49% for each candidate.  Will we know for sure in 48 hours, or will there be another recount, postponing the inevitable for another several weeks?  I dread this.  It's depressing.

At which point I tell myself "at least I get to vote."  I may be voting for the "one I dislike less" but I still get to vote.  Those in Japan do not.  That's just the beginning of the list of countries where ordinary citizens do not get to cast a ballot for their leader.  I would not handle that well, especially considering there have been rumors, promises, and challenges surrounding the current Japanese Prime Minister and his Cabinet.  As in, they're out by the end of the year.  I would want a say in picking someone, in the hopes they'd stay longer than eighteen months.  I'll stop there, as anything else I write will be cruel.

The gap between people with such strong opposing viewpoints--this seems to be a real trend.  Or, perhaps I'm just seeing more of it, having been thrust into the middle as of late.  With both sides convinced, truly convinced they're right, often I find there's no point in continuing the discussion.  If I don't agree with them, I'm simply wrong.  The opposite is true as well.  That's the part we don't often admit.  We judge others who disagree with us just as harshly as they do us, except when they don't agree with us we tend to think they're small-minded and stupid (which we mostly don't say out loud), and when we don't agree with them we're just wrong.

Apply this to what's going on in Tohoku, and very possibly in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.  (Or, any natural disaster for that matter.)  There's a word tossed around Japan that outlines the gap between those affected and those far removed.  The literal translation is "temperature difference."  The distance between those who get it (from the Tohoku locals' perspective) and those who don't is, simply put, a major problem.  Everyday I hear a new story about someone who says or does something unbelievable.  Locals shake their heads saying, "If you're not here, you simply don't get it" meaning they're not fond of, nor do they appreciate those in Kasumigaseki (Japan politics central located in Tokyo) who create policy and have yet to come to Tohoku, all while formulating plans and solutions in their heads with no practical knowledge.  I point out there are plenty "here" who don't get it either.  Here are examples of both.

Federal funds allocated to Tohoku relief are used for impish projects.  The latest is money sent to fix a highway in Okinawa.  That, for those unfamiliar with Japanese geography, is as far as you can get from Tohoku.  The press had a field day with the "injustice."  As they should.

Then there are the locals who move forward, getting things done, getting publicity for doing so who are criticized in ways that hit below the belt.  Just recently, the wife of a prominent and active Ofunato man received criticism for accepting a donation of vitamins from a friend for her brother recently diagnosed with a grave illness.  "If multivitamins work then you don't need hospitals.  What's the point of him getting treatment?  And, how are you special enough to get a donation of vitamins?"  This is helpful how?  That it was said on Twitter (can't say it to your face?) makes it all the worse.

In the end, we're all mean to each other.  This temperature difference, those who say things that really shouldn't be said and those who just think things that shouldn't be said, those who truly believe they're right and look upon others who don't agree with them with a "how stupid are you?" look and attitude...this scares me.

There are plenty of times in history where we did some pretty horrific things to each other because we were so convinced we were right.  Careful, people.  Be nice.  Whoever becomes the next US President, and whoever says cruel things to you, careful how you respond.  Someone has to take the high road, and the more of us who can and do the better.

Flashback

None of us could have anticipated the events of that night.  Our outing was meant to be a fun, casual dinner.  The five of us were at a local ramen shop in Rikuzentakata.  The two girls, my adopted daughters whom I love like my own, and mom and dad all sit around the table negotiating how many bowls to order.

"It's a big bowl," mom says to the girls.  "I don't think you can finish it."
"Yes we can," younger sister protests.  "Yeah.  Mama, please?"  Older sister chimes in.
"You never do," dad objects.  "You'll have to finish what they don't eat," mom says to dad.
"Again?"  We all laugh.
"Can we have gyoza, too?"  The younger one is determined to eat tonight.
"Do you have any appointments tomorrow, Amya-san?"  I'm taken back my mom's question.
"Appointments?  Why?"
"The gyoza here is really garlicky," dad says.
"Oh."  I think for a minute.  I do have meetings tomorrow.  How garlicky are they?
"I'll just have one," I reply, not one to pass up good gyoza.

We order, continuing to chat.  When the bowls arrive I am shocked at the size.  This is possibly the biggest bowl of ramen I've ever seen.
"Woooow," I say, looking down at what's in front of me.  Turning to the girls, "You're really going to eat all that?"  "No," dad says as the girls say, "Yes!"  We laugh again.

Silent except for the slurping, none of us notice grandpa sitting at the bar.  Suddenly, there's a buzz.  The chefs come out from the kitchen, moving quickly.  One of the servers is standing near grandpa, calling out to him.  Grandpa is slumped over.

"What's going on?" The older girl starts to get up.
"Sit," mom says.
"Be right back," and dad jumps up heading towards grandpa and the small crowd.

Fast forward three minutes, we piece together what's happening. Grandpa is unresponsive.  A chef is spooning sugar into grandpa's mouth.  "Diabetic shock," mom says to me.  I nod.  Soon we hear an ambulance.  Mom and I exchange looks.  I see mom looking at the girls sitting on either side of me.  I look down at them, first left and then right.  The younger one is in tears, trying hard not to show how upset she is.  The older one is pale.  It's the first time I've seen someone this white in a long time.

"It's alright," mom says to the girls.  The older one nods, trying to be brave.  I sense the younger one on my left quickly wiping her tears.  I touch her head and say, "Do you want to sit on my lap?"  She nods.  I pick her up, move myself in front of the television we've all been ignoring, and turn my back towards grandpa.  "You sit on Amya-san's lap, too," mom says to the older one.  I move younger sister onto my left knee, and pull older sister onto my right.  She's shaking.
"It's alright.  Everything is going to be okay," I say and turn them more towards the television, talking about the AKB girls we see.

The ambulance arrives, puts grandpa on a stretcher and quickly leaves.  The girls try to sneak glances towards the paramedics, but I bring their attention to the television screen each time.

Once the restaurant is quiet again, we all sit around the table.  The girls are no longer hungry.  Mom says in a very soft voice, "I know it's scary for you to see ambulances.  It reminds you of daddy being away with the fire brigade, right?"  They nod.  Dad is a volunteer firefighter, and was out for days following the tsunami, looking for survivors, recovering bodies.  The girls don't fully understand what dad was doing, but were worried sick.  Emergency vehicles now scare them.

How an unexpected incident can turn an otherwise happy outing into a traumatic experience is a stark reminder of the power of memories.  In this case, the fear over a father's safety in the aftermath of a tragic and terrible disaster ruined not only our night out, but served as a trigger bringing back buried pain.

I hope for those in Tohoku we are all able to find a realistic and robust mental health plan that allows for lasting healing.  In the mean time, I will keep hugging these girls.  Mom and dad, too.

Summer Joy

It only makes sense, and this is truer if you can visualize what Tohoku looks like today seventeen months after the tsunami tore it apart.  Seasons change.  The only constant element is nature.  Life, growth, death, and rebirth is all around.  In nature, those of us in Tohoku see this daily.  While nature destroys, it also recreates.  My last trip up north made me realize this all the more.

Outside the apartment where I stay in Ofunato I see this everyday.  I only wish they could sing, a chorus of songs only sunflowers could manage to voice.  I would gladly wake up to singing sunflowers.  I would even wake up without complaint.

The reminder "life goes on" has never been clearer.  We want beauty in our lives.  I don't know anyone who doesn't want a bit of color in our daily routine.  Bright is good.  Cheerful is better.  Sunflowers capture summer joy like I've never felt before, and evidently I'm not alone.

Tohoku is awash with sunflowers.  The streets are lined with rows of their strong yellowness.  

Someone planted them, and I find this reassuring.  They're beautiful.  Tall, proud, showing off their colors, they bring joy.  Their faces scream, "Look at me! I'm pretty."  Summer is about the culmination of growth, what was planted in spring.  We harvest, appreciate, and admire what the season has done for us.

It's impossible not to grin around these flowers that exude happiness.  Clearly I am not alone in feeling this way.  Wanting to return to a sense of normalcy, that nature can bestow and not just ruin, the choice (deliberate or subconscious?) of many in Tohoku to plant flowers of joy, the epitomy of summer has not gone unnoticed.  I see grandmothers stopped on the sidewalk admiring the mustard-yellow petals.  They point at the bees on the brown faces of these flowers.  I stand back and watch, grinning once more at the fact there is joy once again here in Tohoku.

Life and Death at 17

I've often said here in Tohoku, the difference between who's a "local" and who's from "away" is pretty drastic.  Introductions are peppered with "I'm so-and-so's child" and "my dad owns the such-and-such store."  This places people.  Pecking order, family feuds, whether or not business transactions will take place, if friendships will be established, these are all set by these pronouncements of placement.  Exempt from this, I tell people I am from the outer most layer of the onion.

The onion is comprised first of family, then local block, neighborhood, city, locality, prefecture, region, country, and the rest of the world.  I'm from the "outer, outer, outer, outer, outer" layer.  The number of "outer"s I say out loud isn't the point.  It's more about the fact I'm from "way, way, way out there."

I long ago learned how much of an advantage this is.  Locals don't complain as it is, much less to their neighbors.  "We're all in the same boat," I've been told, over and over.  Everyone here is a victim of disaster in one way or another.  I'm not.  That I represent the furthest place out people can imagine means I'm safe to complain to.  That I can't possibly relate makes it easy to identify me as someone who can listen.  Most of all, that I'm anything but a "local" means it's okay to say to me what can't be said to family and friends.

There's another sort of "outsider."  There are several locals who have been anointed with this sacred bond of trust.  The unwritten credo of not complaining to anyone "from here" is broken, and blatantly at that with these few.  Takayuki Niinuma is one of the chosen.

His job description on Facebook is "Mayor of the Night in Ofunato."  If you knew him you'd see how perfect this was.  He drives a flashy car with tinted windows.  He swaggers just a bit.  He projects "bad." For those who can't see through to his inner core, he's feared.  Shunned.  He has a past worthy of this reputation.  A trouble-maker in town since he was a kid, his language is coarse.  He doesn't mince words.  People walk the other way when they see him coming.  This makes him, for some, the perfect confidant.

Those who are truly at the bottom, who don't know how to keep going, who've lost the will to go on, who have such tragic stories they can't possibly be real--these people find Taka.  The stories people tell him are nightmarish.  This is one such story.

The sports center in Rikuzentakata with its large gymnasium was a designated evacuation spot.  In the case a tsunami hit the city, residents were to come here.  Hundreds of people gathered here a year ago on March 11th to wait out the tsunami warning.  No one, no one ever expected the wave to be high enough to flood the gym.

"When the tsunami came, it blew in the front door, water poured in from the second story windows, and next thing they knew everyone who wasn't already dead fought their way up to these beams," Taka tells me.

"This 17-year old girl and her friends, they were all hanging on to these beams on the ceiling.  Below them is this whirlpool of water with crap in it.  They know if they let go they're dead."  I think back to what I saw in the gym when I visited last time, and I start to shake.

"Then the wall blew out."  The pressure from the water and the wave continuing to crash in did indeed blow out a wall.  "This meant the water that was holding them up, they're hanging onto the beams, right?  This water got sucked out through the hole in the wall with real force.  People couldn't hang on.  Some got swept out along with the pull of the water flowing out, and others clung on for dear life.  This girl clung.  This girl saw this.  She saw all this.  There's more.  Those who are hanging on just with their hands, they're hanging onto these beams by their hands, right?  They're wet.  They're freezing.  Some couldn't hang on anymore.  They started to drop.  One by one.  They fell down onto the floor of the gym where all this debris was.  Her best friend from childhood fell, too.  She heard the thuds.  She heard them scream.  She watched her friend lay on the floor, twitching, bleeding out.  Her friend finally died.  This girl saw all that."

The reason the girl telling the story survived is another unbelievable tale.  While others hung onto the beams with only their hands, she clung on with her hands and feet, her back to the floor.  After seeing and hearing everyone else around her fall to their deaths, she made her way down a beam, slithering essentially, moving inch by inch until she reached the end.  What the photo doesn't show is that the end of the beam hits a wall, and there's still a three-meter jump to the floor from there.  I follow each beam with my eyes, wondering in silent awe how this was possible.  Could I do this?  To save my own life, could I, would I do this?  Or, would I give up?  Would I let myself die?

At seventeen, I had boyfriends, snuck out of the dorm at night evading the headmaster that lived next door, riding around on motorcycles avoiding the eyes of any teacher that might be out for a nightly stroll.  I played, shopped, sometimes studied, and enjoyed being a teenager.  I've wondered over and over what I would be like today if I went through what this girl experienced--at seventeen.

The gym still looks like this, today, 16 months after the tsunami.  I'm not allowed into the gym but ignore the "Do Not Enter" signs.  These images need recording.  These stories need repeating.  Unimaginable pain and horror experienced by this 17-year old girl brings me to my knees.

That she sought out Taka to tell her story is a testament to his stature.  The trust she placed in him to unburden herself, to sob, to say she will never ever go back to Rikuzentakata is all a gift he has, "bad" as he may be.  In telling me these stories he's unburdening himself as well.  By writing this, I'm letting my grief out, too.  Here in Tohoku we support each other as the rings of friendship expand overlapping from person to person.  This is a key reason I'm here.  For this, I'll stay.