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.
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Saturday, December 28, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Behold The Power of Santa
Christmas in Japan is about Christmas Eve. Christmas Day is not a holiday. No one I know is taking the day off tomorrow. This means anything Christmas-related needs to happen today. If I may spin this for a moment, in my defense I couldn't have gotten Santa's letter to this child on Christmas Eve if I tried. Let me back up.
Dozens of Santas visited Tohoku schools prior to Christmas Eve last year in an attempt to bring joy to children who had gone through varying degrees of trauma post March 11th. In theory, this was good. In reality, this confused the kids.
"Which one is real?"
"Why is Santa Japanese?" Pictures of Santa these kids have seen show a foreign-looking grandpa.
"Will Santa still come on Christmas Eve?"
Touche.
School principals made it clear to me "No Santa" this year. In an attempt to be creative while finding a way to continue the Christmas tradition of gifts-to-kids-in-Tohoku, I took Santa's son. It worked. Not accustomed to thinking Santa has a family but still making sense Santa would be generous to come early via his son, the kids ate it up. And, the candy Santa's son brought.
At one preschool, after gifts had been given out and Santa's son and the reindeer (me and another friend) had been serenaded with songs, kids came up to us sly looks on their faces. The three of us were handed home-made Christmas trees--pine cones decorated with glitter, sitting in a bottle cap for a base. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I believe I even giggled a bit.
After the cheering died down, one boy got up standing out in the sea of seated children. He walked over to the podium and pulled out a cardboard Christmas tree. Making his way to Santa's son, the tree passes from boy to man and everyone starts talking at once. The principal shushing us, says, "Daisuke made this just for you," and I swear I'm about to lose it.
Santa's son leans down, pats the boy's head and says, "I'll take this to my dad, Santa. He'll be so glad you made this for him." The boy beams. I blink hard. I will not lose it. I will not lose it. I will not lose it. We left touched, loved, basking in the feeling we did something good on this day. So far so good.
Fast forward a week and I'm back with Santa's son. He hands me a letter. "Can you get this to Daisuke?" I'm stunned. He remembered. I open the card, a pop-up Christmas image inside. On the back Santa wrote,
"Dear Daisuke,
Thank you for the wonderful Christmas tree you gave me. My son gave it to me. It made me very happy. I will never forget you or this gift. Thank you very much. Be a good boy next year, too. Love, Santa Claus."
I look up at Santa's son and am speechless. "I'll get this to Daisuke. I promise." That was Saturday afternoon. I make a mental note to make my way to the post office on Monday (today) to send Santa's letter express so it will get there on Christmas Day. I'm pleased with myself. I can make this happen.
Or not. I wake up on Monday morning and it hits me. The Emperor's birthday was yesterday. A Sunday. That makes this a holiday as well. I run to my laptop. They have to be open. I find my local post office branch and look at their hours. "Not open on holidays." No. No, no, no!
I resolve to make this work. I breathe.
The preschool is closed today. That means I can't reach the principal. No problem. I call a friend in town who is surely to have her number. I make the call, reach my friend, and trying not to sound frantic tell him the situation. Five minutes later, the principal calls and I explain again.
"I can send it overnight, right? If I FedEx it?" Is FedEx open on national holidays? I fight the urge to panic.
"I think so," and I hear her conferring with her husband in the background.
"Or, I can just tell Daisuke Santa's running a bit behind because he was busy."
"No, I don't want that. Santa's supposed to be organized." I skip the "unlike me" part.
"Can you call someone in Daisuke's family and tell him the letter is in the mail?"
I choose my words carefully because it was made very clear to the three of us who received special gifts on that day that Daisuke's gift was extra special.
"He came from Rikuzentakata," the principal tells us later. "He's had it hard. He lost so much in the tsunami."
I don't ask what this means. Did he lose him home? His family? I want him to know Santa's letter will arrive, but I don't know who in his family the principal can contact.
"I can take care of that. I'll call his mother" the principal reassures me. I feel better. At least his mother is around.
"I'll run down to my local Seven Eleven and see what I can do."
It worked. Santa's letter to Daisuke will arrive tomorrow. The 740 yen I spent to make sure this boy gets a thank you card from Santa Claus is the best money I've spent in a long time. I can exhale again, deeply. Merry Christmas, Daisuke.
Dozens of Santas visited Tohoku schools prior to Christmas Eve last year in an attempt to bring joy to children who had gone through varying degrees of trauma post March 11th. In theory, this was good. In reality, this confused the kids.
"Which one is real?"
"Why is Santa Japanese?" Pictures of Santa these kids have seen show a foreign-looking grandpa.
"Will Santa still come on Christmas Eve?"
Touche.
School principals made it clear to me "No Santa" this year. In an attempt to be creative while finding a way to continue the Christmas tradition of gifts-to-kids-in-Tohoku, I took Santa's son. It worked. Not accustomed to thinking Santa has a family but still making sense Santa would be generous to come early via his son, the kids ate it up. And, the candy Santa's son brought.
At one preschool, after gifts had been given out and Santa's son and the reindeer (me and another friend) had been serenaded with songs, kids came up to us sly looks on their faces. The three of us were handed home-made Christmas trees--pine cones decorated with glitter, sitting in a bottle cap for a base. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I believe I even giggled a bit.
After the cheering died down, one boy got up standing out in the sea of seated children. He walked over to the podium and pulled out a cardboard Christmas tree. Making his way to Santa's son, the tree passes from boy to man and everyone starts talking at once. The principal shushing us, says, "Daisuke made this just for you," and I swear I'm about to lose it.
Santa's son leans down, pats the boy's head and says, "I'll take this to my dad, Santa. He'll be so glad you made this for him." The boy beams. I blink hard. I will not lose it. I will not lose it. I will not lose it. We left touched, loved, basking in the feeling we did something good on this day. So far so good.
Fast forward a week and I'm back with Santa's son. He hands me a letter. "Can you get this to Daisuke?" I'm stunned. He remembered. I open the card, a pop-up Christmas image inside. On the back Santa wrote,
"Dear Daisuke,
Thank you for the wonderful Christmas tree you gave me. My son gave it to me. It made me very happy. I will never forget you or this gift. Thank you very much. Be a good boy next year, too. Love, Santa Claus."
I look up at Santa's son and am speechless. "I'll get this to Daisuke. I promise." That was Saturday afternoon. I make a mental note to make my way to the post office on Monday (today) to send Santa's letter express so it will get there on Christmas Day. I'm pleased with myself. I can make this happen.
Or not. I wake up on Monday morning and it hits me. The Emperor's birthday was yesterday. A Sunday. That makes this a holiday as well. I run to my laptop. They have to be open. I find my local post office branch and look at their hours. "Not open on holidays." No. No, no, no!
I resolve to make this work. I breathe.
The preschool is closed today. That means I can't reach the principal. No problem. I call a friend in town who is surely to have her number. I make the call, reach my friend, and trying not to sound frantic tell him the situation. Five minutes later, the principal calls and I explain again.
"I can send it overnight, right? If I FedEx it?" Is FedEx open on national holidays? I fight the urge to panic.
"I think so," and I hear her conferring with her husband in the background.
"Or, I can just tell Daisuke Santa's running a bit behind because he was busy."
"No, I don't want that. Santa's supposed to be organized." I skip the "unlike me" part.
"Can you call someone in Daisuke's family and tell him the letter is in the mail?"
I choose my words carefully because it was made very clear to the three of us who received special gifts on that day that Daisuke's gift was extra special.
"He came from Rikuzentakata," the principal tells us later. "He's had it hard. He lost so much in the tsunami."
I don't ask what this means. Did he lose him home? His family? I want him to know Santa's letter will arrive, but I don't know who in his family the principal can contact.
"I can take care of that. I'll call his mother" the principal reassures me. I feel better. At least his mother is around.
"I'll run down to my local Seven Eleven and see what I can do."
It worked. Santa's letter to Daisuke will arrive tomorrow. The 740 yen I spent to make sure this boy gets a thank you card from Santa Claus is the best money I've spent in a long time. I can exhale again, deeply. Merry Christmas, Daisuke.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Ofunato Stories: Part 2
Today I'm grateful. While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and refurbished building is a reminder of birth and rebirth. It's like Christmas meets Easter all in one season.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ofunato Stories: Part 1
My fifth trip to Ofunato this year showed me a very different town. Not having a "before" image to compare it to, I can only see the progress made as the city worked to clean up the massive amount of debris left by the tsunami. The part of the town near the port is now completely cleaned up. The foundations of houses and buildings remain but the everything else is gone. The few remaining buildings, those made of concrete and strong enough to withstand the waves are back in business or still being repaired.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
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