The Scolding

Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan has a head shaped like a cube.  If his head were a cardboard box, a bowling ball would fit inside.  His body fits his head--large shoulders that go straight down to his legs with no waist to speak of.  He swaggers when he walks and people step aside as if he's a gangster, ready to beat up that one person that gets in his way.  His absolute disdain for those who break the law make it all the more ironic he's seen as "one of them."

When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat.  Good company always, I'm honest with him.  No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind.  The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry.  His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength.  Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man.  Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well.  The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.

"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way.  "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup.  Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to.  I'm going to take it easy."
"Good.  Glad to hear that."
"How are you?"  I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope.  Not today."
"Huh?"  Does he mean, "Nope.  Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today."  I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay."  So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today.  That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure.  What's going on?  You sound upset."
"I'm not upset."  He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath.  "I saw you the other day."
"Where?"  He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through.  I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times.  I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking."  For some reason, I'm disappointed.  Which is ridiculous, of course.  Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay.  So, you saw me.  Why didn't you stop and say hello?"  I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh."  That makes sense, I suppose.  And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."

There it is.  I know what's coming.  This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent.  When he finally speaks, it's slow.  "Three meals a day?"
No. 
"Yes," I lie.  Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't.  I know you don't.  Your face, it was almost gaunt.  I could see your cheekbones."
No way.  I look at myself in the mirror everyday.  I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day.  You can really say that."  He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh.  I wanted a nice chat tonight.  Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay.  I don't eat three meals a day.  But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that.  Really.  I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah.  Just wondering if you're done."  Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not.  You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here.  Let me talk.  Don't cut me off."  Yikes.  "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again.  "You going home this time has to be a real vacation.  You need to rest.  And, eat.  I'm not saying come back looking like me.  I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing.  No e-mails, no phone calls, no work.  Rest.  Get a massage or something."  He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath.  I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive.  "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed."  I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe.  Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."

I ponder this a moment.  Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring.  Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense.  Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns.  What's he getting at?  Of course there's stress in my life.  I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain.  Yes, I'm stressed.  But, not so much that it would show on my face.  Right?

Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern.  All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words.  Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up.  I have to pack yet before my flight.  That's a good excuse, right?  I decide to try this tactic.

But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that.  That's your defense mechanism.  You won't, through.  Rather, you don't.  So, here's what we're doing.  I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat.  A lot.  I don't like skinny women.  I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either.  We're doing this.  That's it.  We're doing this.  You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this.  We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be.  Tell your husband."

Am I that transparent?  How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases?  I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.

All of a sudden I'm tired.  I don't want to be scolded tonight.  I don't want to talk about this.  I just want to go home.  I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back?  Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough.  "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No."  Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself.  I just don't want to talk about it tonight."  I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say.  "You're right about that.  Help me figure out a better system when I'm back."  Pause.  "Okay?"
"Yeah."

And so it went.  I know he cares.  I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate.  (Or didn't.)  Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight.  Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself?  Nah.  Nothing is that simple.

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 2

Alpha Male’s question hits hard.  I don’t want to answer him about whether I’ve been felt up on Tokyo trains by perverts.  I’m embarrassed.  In the silence between us it’s clear the ball is in my court.  It’s my turn to speak.  I look at him.

“I don’t want to tell you.”
“It’s okay.  You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical.  Except it’s not.  This is him trying.  We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know.  I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses.  “Yes, I know.  But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it.  At least not the way you want me to.”

I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk.  The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes.  We pass a car dealership.  I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it.  My mind is blank.

“Hey,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.  “I’m thinking.”  I lie.  Do I tell him?  How will he understand if I don’t?  It’s time.  Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me.  It’s eating away at my soul.

“Well,” I start, “let me tell you some stories.”  I decide to cover myself—a poor attempt to maintain anonymity.  “I won’t say whether any of these stories happened to me or someone I know.”  He doesn’t speak.
“Okay,” he says slowly.  “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.”  And, I begin.

“She was standing near the door.  She could see her reflection in the window because it was dark out.  The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck.  It smelled like beer.  Then she felt a hand on her butt, moving up and down.  ‘Nice ass,’ he said.  She glared at his reflection in the window.  He grinned back at her.  They were communicating through their reflections.  ‘It’s big, your ass,’ he said.  This shame,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “This shame—it’s powerful.  There’s shame, and then there’s anger.  It’s pretty scary stuff, making the heart race in a way that’s probably really unhealthy.”  I look out the window again.  “She’s wearing heels today, and decides to fight back.  She leans back into him, and two things happen at once.  He says, ‘So you like it?’ and she steps on his foot.  He’s wearing soft shoes, tennis shoes maybe, and so the heel digs down.  She hears, ‘Ow!’ so she knows she’s got him.  She keeps putting her weight down on her heel and feels him trying to pull his foot out.  He pulls his hand off her butt, and he’s now pushing against her back.  She keeps stepping down.  ‘Stop it’ he whispers, and it’s a violent whisper.  Something pops in his foot and he yelps.  People are looking at him.  She sees this in the window reflection and smiles, no sneers at him.  He gets off at the next train station, limping.”

Alpha Male laughs.  “Good girl!  She fought back!  I’m impressed.”

Feeling bold with what I take is his support, I go on.

“Then there was this time this woman just shamed him.  Feeling a hand moving up and down her thigh making its way toward her butt, she just said right there, out loud ‘Get your hand off my butt.’  Everyone went quiet.  Immediately.  He didn’t pull his hand away, so she said it again.  ‘Will you please get your hand off my butt.’  He did.  The man standing next to her asked if she was okay.  Before she could answer the doors in front of her opened and the man behind her pushed her aside and ran out, flying down the stairs in front of them.”

“She spoke up.  That’s good,” Alpha Male is encouraging.
“Yeah.”  My face is burning.
“So, when you say middle-aged women are targets, well I guess I appreciate the warning, but it’s hard to hear.”
“I’m telling you these things so you’ll know.”
“I know that.  I know, but…”

We pull up to a subway station.  This is where I’m to get out.  I stay in the car and say, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes.  “These are things we don’t hear a lot about.  Real stories, I mean.  I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife.  I guess I should ask her.  If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do.  My wife, too.  All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know.  Thanks.”  I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me.  Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence. 
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door.  This is ridiculous.  I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen.  “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”

I get out, wave good-bye and walk down the stairs towards my next ride through the tunnels of underground Tokyo.  When I get on the train, I look around me and see who is where and make my way to the corner, pushing my back up against the wall trying to look as nonchalant as I can.

Japan may be changing, visible warnings of impending arrest for those who assault women on trains.  For women who have been groped, these changes cannot happen fast enough.  The moral of the story is this:  whatever your type may be, it’s never okay to feel women up on trains; speak up; and, keep talking about this. 

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 1

My first encounter with groping, a chikan, came at age 12.  The entire sixth grade went to an indoor skating rink to...play?  Practice?  I don't remember.  What I do remember about that day was the hand between my legs as we stood outside waiting for the bus to take us back to school.  Knowing in an instant what was going on, I was being felt up and groped, I spun around only to see a blue coat running away.  Shocked and livid, I followed the boy in the blue coat with my eyes until I lost him.  I must have had "the look" as a classmate next to me said, "What's wrong?" to which I replied,
"Find a boy in a blue coat."
"Why?"
"Just do it."  One boy, another classmate, laughed, "Were you felt up?" and I gave him a look I hoped would kill him on the spot.  Did he know?  How?  The anger I felt inside scared me.  What just happened?

I never did find that boy.  I don't remember what, if anything I said to my parents that night.  I do remember seething rage, shame, and an ultimate sense of violation.  Had I found the boy, I was truly prepared to get violent.  Not having physically fought at that age, I probably would have done the only thing I knew would cause boys immense pain, the thing I was specifically told not to do:  kick him in the balls.  Repeatedly.

Fast forward several decades and I'm in the car with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  The topic of chikans (gropers)  comes up for some reason, and he says, "You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I reply.
"No, I mean it.  You're a target.  Your type is 'in' right now."
"What's that supposed to mean?  My type?"
"Japan's going through a jukujo phase."  This is a new word for me.
"What's that?"
"Think about it.  The characters."  I do, but I can't place what the character for juku would be.  I ask him.
"Ripe," he replies.
"Ripe woman?"
"Uh huh."
"What the hell is a 'ripe woman'?"  He looks at me.
"Think," he says back.  "You're it.  Middle-aged.  Experienced.  Willing.  Desperate."
I'm shocked.  That's what Japanese men like now?  This is what Japanese men think middle-aged women want?  They think I project this?
"You're middle-aged," Alpha Male continues.  "You're presumably," pausing, "experienced."  I'm about to object to the "willing" and "desperate" part but before I can say anything he adds, "And, you've got, well, boobs--padding top and bottom.  You're what men are in to now."  I don't now whether this is a compliment or an insult.  I'm stunned.  I look down at my chest.  For what?  To see if my breasts are still there?  I don't know what to say.  Picking up on my confusion and shock, Alpha Males says, "Look.  Just be careful, okay?"

Browse any Japanese porn site and sure enough, there's now a jukujo category.  The requisite links to lolitas, maids, foreigners, and wives (the last fetish) are still present.  Clubs listing services, prices, faces of the women with their ages compete for men from sexless marriages.  Or, perhaps just those who want a little fun on the side.  Who knows.  The point is, there's now a category for men looking for ripe, middle-aged women.  We don't have to be pretty.  Or thin.  In fact, many I see on these sites are neither.  Willing and desperate.  Those two words haunt me.

What is it about Japan where women are bought for sex (but "legally"), felt up on trains to the point there are now cars for women only, and if strong are considered loud and "not-for-marriage-material"?

I noticed the signs in train stations two years ago when I came back to Japan for a longer stay.  These posters weren't there before.  Now prominent, they're everywhere--loud, angry.  "Groping is a crime."  "Report a chikan."  "Ask for help."  It's not just the women being groped who are supposed to call out for help.  Those who see what's going on are supposed to speak out as well.

This poster, specifically the writing in orange print has confused me.  The literal translations is something like, "'I did it on a whim' is not an excuse."  What?  I like to think I know a thing or two about Japanese ways of thinking.  That this warning is supposed to curb that desire to grope, that it would prevent assaulting a woman is, even by Japanese standards lame.  I ask Alpha Male about it.  "How's this supposed to deter?"
"The idea is to keep men who wouldn't normally grope from going through with it.  On a whim, as the poster says."
"That's stupid," I say angrily.  "That makes no sense."
"It also means, the reasoning 'I did it cause I felt like it' doesn't fly."
"And this poster would make men think twice?"
"Yeah."
"Really?  You really believe that?"
Alpha Male pauses.  "The point is, these posters are now visible.  They're posted in trains and throughout train stations.  Before they weren't.  Everyone knew about chikans but no one reported them.  Women wouldn't say 'Stop!' so men went on groping, whereas now men are aware women can say that.  And do.  It's supposed to make men think twice before they do something stupid."

This man is important to me.  He's my go-to man in Japan.  But, that the man I think so highly of comes out with this explanation pains me.  He can't believe this, can he?  Is Alpha Male just another Japanese man?  My silence and anger bothered him evidently, as he asks, "You okay?"  No, I'm not okay.  You don't get it either.  You never have to worry about this.  That you're huge is deterrent enough, but more than that you're male.  You're Japanese.  I can't possibly expect you to understand.  But, you of all people--I was counting on you to get this.

None of this comes out, but I think it.
"Hey," he says, touching my arm.  "You okay?"
"Yeah," I reply and don't meet his eyes.  "I'm fine."

I'm not, of course.  I think back to a television talk show I watched, a sort of "Facts About Japan" show where a group of foreigners on one side point out things uniquely Japanese, as another group of Japanese celebrities and the like offered back commentary.  The group of foreigners, thirty or so, are comprised of people from different countries.  On this day, a Russian woman did a report on why there was so much Japanese smut in newspapers and posters visible to all.
"It's called the 'pink pages' or something," she complained.  "Why is there Japanese pornography being advertised on trains?  Why do newspapers have a section reporting on where to go for sex?"
I remember this because a young woman representing South Korea spoke up following the Russian.
"Why don't women actually speak up when they're being groped on trains?  Why do they suffer silently?"
Bravo, dear woman.  My point exactly.

"You don't get it," I replied to Alpha Male after he checked to see whether or not I got what he was saying.
"You don't ever have to worry about groping or having unwanted advances hurled at you or being a target of harassment or assault.  No one's ever going to feel you up."  I'm angry.  Of all people, I want him to understand.  He doesn't speak for what seems a very long time.  When he does I know he's choosing his words carefully.
"I can see how you'd think that," he offers.  "But, Japan is changing.  Japan is trying to change."
"By creating a new target of women to grope?  Middle-aged women who, what?"  I wave my hand around in the air.  "Project it's okay to be felt up because we're desperate?"
"This is Japan," I hear him say and it almost sounds like he's pleading.  "It's not right.  I know it's not like this overseas," and I interrupt.
"You got that right."
He inhales.
"Look," but I cut him off.
"No.  It's not right.  What the hell?!  I'm now a part of a targeted group of women for groping?  Because of my age?  Because I've got 'padding' as you say?  What am I supposed to do?  Not ride trains?"
"Do you want me to tell you these things or not?"  He snaps at me.  Oh wow.  Are we fighting?

I recall this conversation to my husband.
"You've got to be careful with this 'you-can't-possibly-understand-because-your-male' attitude," he says.
"It's true, though.  You can't understand."
"But, saying it that way is off-putting.  It's not much of a leap for us to then say, 'Fine, then.  If I can't understand I won't try.'  That's not what you want."
"No, that's not what I want.  I want you to fight along with us.  I want you to be as upset as we are.  I know you can't empathize, but I want your anger."
"Some people will understand what you're saying.  Others won't.  You have to decide if Alpha Male is one of those guys who will understand."

I want Alpha Male in my corner.  I do want Alpha Male to tell me these tidbits about what's "in" even if I'm angered by the content.  Alpha Male epitomizes objectivity, safety and neutrality.  He's calm.  He doesn't rattle--except during this back-and-forth about me being the latest target for gropers.  I'm caught between my anger and not wanting to sound hysterical.  I feel hysterical.  And angry.  Not wanting to actually fight him futher, I decide to tell him a story.

"I was told once about this American woman who came to Japan on business.  She got felt up and fought back.  She grabbed the wrist between her legs, dragged the guy off the train at the next stop and proceeded to beat the shit out of him right there on the platform.  People came running over, and she was the one arrested--charged with assault.  He claimed he didn't grope her.  She said he did.  He got off but she got arrested, all because people saw her beating him and no one but her knew it was his groping wrist she grabbed."
Neither of us say anything for awhile.  "This is what I'm up against," I say finally.  "It's a he-said-she-said.  I can't actually prove it's him if he denies it."  When Alpha Male speaks, his words make my heart race.  I'm about to cry.

Softly, he says, "Has this happened to you, too?"

...to be continued.