Red Shoes and Baby Goats

The tendency to think I'm right began when I was young.  I have proof of this.  Let's use the four-year old me as an example.

"There's a little girl wearing red shoes.  She was taken away by a carrot."

I own a pair of red shoes.  That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child.  Allow me to continue.

Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced:  a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny.  It never occurred to me I was wrong.  No.  Never.  Why would I be?

The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin.  The word used in the song is ijin.  They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.

Now, here's the thing.  If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.

"There's a little girl wearing red shoes.  She was taken away by a great person."

This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much.  It doesn't quite make sense.  How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"?  What if it was just her father or mother?  Not that parents can't be great, mind you.  But, still.  I must now investigate.

There are two other definitions of the word ijin.  I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused.  Here's the thing.  One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.

The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian.  So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian?  This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners.  Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse?  To look down upon foreigners?

Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage".  There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race.  Perhaps they are going to a picnic.  The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.

Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably.  Poor thing.

Here's a different story.

I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps.  This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack.  (Google it.)  The song goes like this:

Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat

Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance.  I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.

I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance?  Baby goats aren't important?  They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition?  My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.

As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats.  A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.

"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math?  (I didn't write that.)  Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused.  The word koyagi means baby goat.  Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi.  It's so sweet you think that, though.  Really. 

He sent photos.

"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance."  His response was kind.

Ah.  So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat.  Yes.  That's much better.  Much less cruelty and death.

Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult.  So it is in life.

Train Etiquette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The color brown and the joy it brings

Tonight it’s Italian.

“The food’s already been ordered.  It’ll keep coming out.  You just eat.”  I’m given clear and specific instructions from Kazu-san.

“Okay.  That’s good, ‘cause I’m hungry.”

“Did you eat today?” 

“Sort of.”
“You didn’t, did you?”

“Not really.”  And then he gives me a very proper brotherly speaking to.  I'm told in no uncertain terms "how-the-hell-do-you-expect-not-get-sick" and am chastised for my sloppiness.

The gang arrives in ones and twos.  The city council member is very late and makes his way in with a slew of “sorry”s.

“We knew that was you coming up the stairs,” Taro-san says, half drunk.

“Huh?”

“You shuffle,” and as if they’ve been keeping this secret to themselves all night and have just let it out, they all start to laugh.  I do, too.

“Hmmm, shuffling?”  The city council member is half-concerned and half-nonchalant.  Does he dare believe the not-quite-fully-drunk Taro-san's comment about him shuffling?

The food does keep coming out, and conversations fly across tables mixed with mock insults, gossip, and updates.  Someone whips out their phone.

“Facebook?”

“Yup.”

“What’s the latest?”

This is now how they keep tabs on each other.

“You still haven’t friended me,” Tomo-san says to Taro-san.

“Huh?  Really?”

“Not buying that act of yours,” and Tomo-san who is definitely drunk says, “you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Huh?” and Taro-san looks at me and smiles, knowing I know he’s absolutely doing this on purpose.

Shige-san who’s sitting next to me leans over and shows me a photo on his phone.

“What’s this mean?”  It’s the photo of crayons in various skin tone colors first (evidently) posted by George Takei and shared throughout Facebook.  Including me.

“Oh, right.  That symbolizes the fact the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday celebrates the various races in the US.”

“Interesting,” he says and then, “what’s this you wrote?” and points to the three lines I added under the photo.

“My family is very diverse which is why I posted the photo of the crayons.  I’m celebrating them,” I tell him, “and I was just telling them I love them and miss them.”

“Like who?” Kazu-san says from across the table.

“Like who what?” I’m confused.  Who am I saying I love in my family?

“Like who do you have in your family?”

“Oh.  Well, I have a Chinese sister-in-law and two half-Chinese nieces, a cousin who married a Lakota woman, another cousin who married a Jewish woman, a cousin who married an Egyptian, a cousin who’s half-Creole, several Korean cousins, an African-American uncle, several half-African-American cousins, two brothers-in-law from the Ivory Coast,” and pause, “I think that’s about it.”

“Yeah,” he laughs.  “I guess that’s diverse.”

***

Fast forward one day and I’m sitting around a table with ten kids, ages two to five.  “The flu is going around and it’s pretty bad, so there aren’t that many kids today,” the principal of the day care center tells me.

“That’s okay.  We can still play.  If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” and with that I follow her into an uncharacteristically very quiet classroom.

I ask if I can sit down on one of the miniature chairs, and am told “okaaay” in English by one of the boys.  I say “Hey, that’s good!” in reply, and offer up a high-five.  He takes it.  Soon other hands are asking for high-fives as well.  I hit all ten hands.  We’re all smiles.

I pull out the picture book of fruit and vegetables and I point and talk about the ones they know.  I get to the potato and ask, “Do you know what this is in English?  I bet you do.”  The kids can't decide if it's actually a potato, and after making sure the group actually agrees it’s a potato and not a gourd, I slowly say “po-ta-to” to which I get a table full of kids saying “Oh, I knew that!” and “like potato chips.”  I’m impressed all over again at how much of their vocabulary contains English words and tell them this.  Two year olds who have just been given a compliment they don’t quite understand are indeed a sight to see.  Simply put, they’re adorable.  They know something good just happened, but they have no idea what it is or why. 

Once we’re done with the fruit and vegetables I pull out the box of crayons I borrowed from the principal and go through the colors.  Again, they all know red, blue, white, black, yellow, pink, orange in English.  I get to brown, and ask if they know what it is.

“Chairo,” one boy says. 

“Right.  Now do you know how to say that in English?” 

Here he pauses a minute, and says in his best foreigner accent, “cha-ee-roh” which is so delightful, sincere, and hilarious that the adults immediately crack up.

“Let’s draw” one of the children says, and the teachers quickly stand and get paper.  I point to the apple and cherries in the book and ask the kids around me if they can draw me these.  I get shy looks in response but both kids pull out their red crayons and start drawing something resembling red circles.

I hear the boy who knew how to say brown in Japanese having a very animated conversation with one of the teachers at his end of the table.  Soon, I hear the teacher say, “Go show Amya-san.”  He gets up and brings his sheet over to me.  I see small blotches of beige, orange, and lots of brown. 

“Would you like some custard?” he says, holding out the sheet.  It is definitely a very good thing my son was an imaginative child as I caught on immediately I was being invited to play, right there and right then.

“Yes, please,” I say in English.  And then in Japanese, “What do you recommend?”

“This one,” he points to the beige one.

“All right,” I say.  “I’ll have that.”  He pinches the air above the beige splotch “picking up” the custard and puts his fingers in my mouth.  (I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu.)

“That was good!” I say and he grins.

“What’s this?” I ask, and point to the brown spots. 

“That’s chocolate.”

“Ooooh.  I like chocolate.  May I have this one?” and I point to the biggest piece (of course) and quickly add, “And, what color is this?”

He looks at me and I swear he’s enjoying this as much as I am, “brown.”

“Yup.”

“Yup,” he says back in English but it sounds more like “up” and I make sure my smile is really a smile and not another “you crack me up” grin.  I quickly look back down at the “chocolate” on the page.  When I look up, I see him grinning with that “gotcha” look of pure pride.

“Unfortunately, we’re sold out,” he then says.  Ooh, I did not see that coming, little stinker you.

“What?!”

“Sorry.” 

“No way!”  I’m just the slightest bit upset by the fact I have just been one-upped by a four-year old, and can’t help shake the feeling I’ve really been denied real chocolate.  I’m determined to get this chocolate, though, and so keep playing.

“When is your next chocolate delivery?

“When are you coming back?”

“In a few weeks.”

“I’ll have it by then.”  And, here I really want to say, “you better” but instead say, “thank you.”  I look down at the paper again.

“What else do you have?” But, while triumphant, clearly he’s bored now and walks back to his chair leaving me to now think about the faux chocolate I some how missed out on but now can’t get off my mind.

How the color brown single-handedly managed to become the most important topic at hand in Ofunato for both adults and children in one single weekend is beyond me.  I’m delighted, though.