The Downside of Cute Japan: When Mascots Fail

Cute Japan has long ago taken the world by storm.  Japanese girls dressed like dolls are kawaii.  Cosmetic surgery creates bigger eyes.  Hair is poofed up tied with big ribbons (if you're a girl).  Hello Kitty is now 30 years old?  Do people even know that?

Anime, Japanese manga (cartoons) has can also be seen, bought, and read in many corners of the world.  Except for the smut that is child pornography in manga form, I don't have a problem with this side of Japan.  You want cute?  It's here in many shapes, forms, and sizes.

On my mind of late is the subject of mascots.  There's a bit of a boom of these giant creatures.  Prefectures have their own mascots as do companies, agencies, government organizations.  For the most part these are seriously loved by the Japanese.  For the most part, these seriously confuse foreigners.

When I saw Alpha Male (my favorite Japanese man in Japan) awhile back I noticed something hanging from his cell phone.
"What is that?" I say, pointing to a red...dog?  Bear?  Except for the big bulb of black on its nose the rest of this thing is red.  Today on the subway I saw a giant doll of this red thing hanging off a violin case.  What is this?  Why do people have this thing?
"It's a mascot," Alpha Male says.
"Huh," I say.
"What?"  He's annoyed.
"Nothing," I say.  Then, "I guess I don't get it."

I used to interpret for cops who would visit Tokyo to visit their Japanese counterparts.  Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department has a mascot.  Again, it can only be described as a thing.  I think it might actually be a mouse or a rat crossed with an alien but I'm not at all sure.  Pee-Po as the mascot is called, shows up on the business cards of all TMPD officers, detectives, and officials.  Pee-Po is on signs and brochures and billboards outside police stations.  Pee-Po has a family:  mommy rat, baby rat, grandma rat, brother and sister rat.  American cops I worked with mocked Pee-Po and Tokyo cops that had a rat for a mascot.  "Imagine NYPD officers having a cartoon pigeon on their cards," one cop said to me.  "They'd be the laughing stock of cops everywhere."  I just smiled.  Here again is cute Japan.  To each their own.  If Japanese cops need a mascot to make themselves more likeable then so be it.  Sort of.

I draw the line at Fukuppy.  Fukushima tried to offer up Fukuppy as their mascot in October, 2013.  Fukuppy has since disappeared having been made fun of online by those who saw the name as mock-worthy.  On this, I stand with the mockers.  Really?  No one checked?  Fukuppy?

Not having the answer on why these mascots are as popular as they are I go back to Hello Kitty.  These mascots are giant versions of Hello Kitty.  If Hello Kitty can survive and make her way around the world for thirty years then perhaps there's some wisdom in having ambiguous creatures represent a prefecture.  Or cops.  Then again, I think one needs to be Japanese to appreciate this side of cute Japan.  Too many foreigners have said to me after looking at these things, "I guess I don't get it."  Yours truly included.

Random musings on things.

When Warnings Fail: Chicken Little, the Boy Who Cried Wolf, and the Japan Meteorological Agency

The drama all started with an e-mail I received four days ago on a news thread I subscribe to for updates on post-disaster radiation in Fukushima.  I read it so I'm in the loop.  I'm not worried about radiation in Japan but feel better being informed.  I want to be clear on this.  Japan is not some radioactive, glow-in-the-dark hot bed of nuclear waste.  Certain parts of Fukushima are.  Don't assume all of Japan is.

The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow.  This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared.  The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.

I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before.  Everything coming from Japan is contaminated.  (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death.  (It doesn't.)  When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look.  I wanted to be clear in how I responded.  While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate.  I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago.  As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading.  The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy.  "Pure bullcrap."

This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth.  I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk.  The sky is not falling, Chicken Little.  Chill.

These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism.  When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously.  Postings like these are an egregious public disservice.  Knock it off.  Please.

Now I will switch gears and contradict myself.  My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency.  If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning.  This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right.  I trust their numbers.

Tsunami warnings are another matter.  When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters.  The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters.  One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building.  Sixteen?  No.  This error is too big to dismiss.  On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.

Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?"  We saw the tornadoes on television.  They already hit.  How is telling us this helpful?  Why hold a press conference?  Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know.  Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful.  At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.

Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States.  Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively."  I almost spewed tea reading that line.

Allow me to make the following observation:  define obsessively.  Quantify this please.  Am I to wash often, or wash for longer?  Or, is it both?  How often is often enough?  How long is long enough?  How do I know the water is safe to use?  Do I wash just with water or do I use soap?  You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice.  Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.

Language can be beautiful.  The word "warning" contains the point it makes:  to warn.  Let's allow language to do what it's meant to.  Warn me when I need to act.  The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.

Death in Syria, Japanese Politicians Fail Again, and the Myth (?) of Energey Conservation

Blame insomnia.  Or, perhaps it's the combination high-temperatures and humidity.  I'm cranky.  For my self-imposed Japanese lessons, my attempt to keep up with current events while adding to my vocabulary, I turn to my "trusted" news source:  TV.  The coverage of the news over the past several days is anything but happy.  Grim, stupid, and disappointing, I struggle to keep from turning it off.

Pick a channel, any channel, the news being reported focuses on the death of Ms. Mika Yamashita, by all accounts an incredible, brave, and well respected journalist who was shot to death in Syria.  Those around her are adamant in saying she was in Syria to cover the plight of women and children.  I keep seeing myself in her.  Not the whole "incredible, brave, well respected" part.  I'm not that arrogant.  That there are other women out there who do things few understand, following a drum beat perhaps only they can hear, that she will no longer do this, that some asshole took her life, I really can't describe the sadness and rage I feel.  What a waste.  What an incredibly stupid, stupid act of violence.

Then there are the politicians and those who feel entitlement in commenting on the acts (or lack thereof) of said politicians--here I'd like to make a suggestion.

The gist is, foreign policy in Japan is in shambles.  It's in shambles because the prime minister and his cabinet are busy fending off those who want a new group in power (again), and because there have been four foreign ministers in three years.  The ever-revolving door of politicians is tiresome.  This, too, is stupid.  I understand the consequences of what I'm saying.  I stand by it.  It's not rocket science.  With new people at the top every year or so (sixteen prime ministers in 23 years) how can they possibly be effective?

Here's my suggestion.  Stick it out, folks.  People want your head?  Say you won't go.  No more "I take responsibility, and I'll resign."  No.  Show some umph.  Show the country and the rest of the world you have the courage to fend off criticism.  Fight.  I mean it.  Fight.

Because, and here's a biggie, mothers are taking their children to protest Japan's nuclear energy policy, standing outside the Prime Minister's residence in the heat.  The Japanese are taking to the streets.  There are real protests, perhaps unlike anything seen here since students made noise about the Viet Nam War right around the time I was born.  These protests are a big deal.  I've stayed away from the nuclear issue, especially as it pertains to Fukushima, as it's a highly emotional topic for both sides, pro-, and anti. 

But, I will say this.  After the Fukushima Plants went down last year everyone in Tokyo was bombarded with daily reminders to conserve energy. (Tokyo got its energy from these Fukushima Plants.)   Trains cut their air conditioning, turned off lights, and used fans to circulate air.  Not well, mind you.  Department stores used giant fans.  All we could get was sort of cool, very stale air.  I can't think of anywhere I could go last summer to experience real air conditioning.

Not so this year.  Some buildings are almost cold.  Trains and subways are back blowing cold air, most welcome.  Air conditioning is back.  Which begs the question.  Where is Tokyo getting its energy?  Not Fukushima, of course.  There's energy left to spare?  Since when?  Where's it coming from?  Japan does or does not have an energy crisis?

Between the senseless murder of an otherwise incredible woman half way around the world, politicians who just don't get it, mothers who are teaching their children to speak up, and confusion over whether we get to or don't use this energy that may or may not exist--you can see why summer in Japan makes me a bit cranky.  Let's see if fall changes anything.

Peaches from Fukushima

There's simply no other way to put this.  No amount of money spent on advertising, neither on television nor in print, like these posters hanging in trains running through the Tokyo underground will ever convince me. 

And, I'm sorry about that.  But, and really, peaches grown in Fukushima?  An advertising campaign is supposed to make me go buy them?

They are grown with care.  The farmers in Fukushima "put our hearts and souls" into these peaches.  They're juicy and sweet.  So the posters tell me.  I'm sure they are grown with care.  I have no difficulty believing the farmers did everything in their power to pick the best, ripest, pinkest peaches to sell.  They might even be extra juicy.

But, and really, but they're grown in Fukushima.  People.  I can't.  I just can't. 

Can you really prove to me they're safe?  The radiation levels may have been measured and measured again.  I'm not actually coming out and saying I don't believe the results.  I'm just saying, again mind you, they're grown in Fukushima.

That the farmers in Fukushima need income I get.  That the farmers in Fukushima need hope I understand.  It's the getting from "wanting to help" part to "buying food raised in potentially radioactive soil" part that I have difficulty with.  This is why this ad blitz confuses me.  Do they really hope to change our minds?  My mind?

Here's the thing.  It is peach season.  And, white peaches here in Japan are something else.  There's no eating them without a towel in hand.  Juices drip down my chin.  They're practically messy they're so wet and full of pulp.  Peach season is summer.  Watermelon, barley tea, muggy weather, fireworks, mosquitoes, and peaches--this is summer in Japan.  That Fukushima is trying to be a part of traditional Japan, summer food, family fun, I want to help with this.  But, sorry.  Dear Farmers, I just can't do it.  I'll let you know if I change my mind.  'Til then.

Perception, Fukushima, and Modern-day Seppuku

My first encounter with what I call "modern-day seppuku" was at age 12.  Our sixth grade had three homerooms.  Our teachers must have been in cahoots, testing us, telling us all specifically not to do something and wondering if we would obey.  All three classes did exactly what we were told not to do.  All three classes were caught.  Busted.

An emergency meeting was held.  The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather.  From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended.  Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility.  I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that,  "you're not going to resign."  I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on.  We will fix this.  We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."

I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do.  Why was he running away?  You don't resign.  You fix your mistakes.  You stay and fight.  Right?

I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style.  He was supposed to resign.  As was I.  Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement.  I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition.  This is how Japan apologizes.  This is how Japanese take responsibility.

Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years.  Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously.  They apologize.  They resign.  It's done.  This is modern-day seppuku.

I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did.  But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves.  Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional.  Perception matters.  It really matters.  I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do.  Nice beats mean.  It just does.

The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up.  People lied.  TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied.  Politicians lied.  To what extent?  About what?  That will come out.  Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll.  Can anyone prove these lies?  Can anyone prove there was no lying?  Finding those answers is important, yes.  The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful.  How did this happen?  How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this?  Again?

Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer.  This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission:  "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.'  Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity.  Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)

These are incredible words.  I've never seen anything like this.  The Commission in its report calls out all of Japan, its culture, people, ways of thinking and essentially says "this must stop."  No modern-day seppuku.  No resignations.  No new prime minister.  These powerful words bear repeating.  Mr. Kurokawa goes on to say that the emphasis should not be "blame" but "to fix."  I could not agree more.  This is the new "perception" of Japan I've been waiting for all my life.

The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year.  It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree.  When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year.  Eight weeks later this tree is huge.  Why does this matter?  Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown.  It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring.  I asked around.  "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"

The answer, mathematically at least, is eight.  The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago.  However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me.  Eight is the wrong number.  People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker.  But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong.  It's perception again.  While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right.  That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.

Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan.  It's hardly working in Japan.  The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world.  The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this."  It's bad enough the problem is enormous.  How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance.  If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.

Food Buying Etiquette

The upside of being one of the very few foreigners in town (wherever I am in Tohoku) is that people stop me on the street.  We chat.  They share stories.  Dates are set for tea.  The downside of sticking out is that my actions are noted, observed, scrutinized.  A recent dinner invitation is proof.

"Where shall I meet you?"  I'm given the name of a restaurant.
"Where you had lunch yesterday," my friend says.  Just like that I want to ask, "And, how did you know?" but I already have the answer.  I said hello to the chef.  He said "Welcome back."  Word spreads.

So, I'm being watched.  This isn't anything new.  Growing up in Japan, there was a long stretch of time where I could count the foreigners in our town of 150,000.  I knew all of them, because there were less than twenty.

I'm not bothered by the fact I need to watch my step.  Most of the time, that is.  Oddly enough, buying groceries is when I find the eyes following me most troubling.  Take today for example.  There's no supermarket within walking distance to my friend's apartment where I stay.  There is, however, a convenience store.  They sell pretty much everything.  I walked down to buy lunch, and was thrilled (!) to find they had cucumbers in stock today.

I should point out here while there's nothing wrong with American cucumbers, there is something beautiful about Japanese cukes.  Crunchy and sweet, they are the perfect afternoon snack.  They are even better dipped in sesame dressing.  Life is perfect if I can smother them in sesame dressing made by Onizaki.  Truly.

I see cucumbers.  I grin.  I put them in my cart.  They come two to a bag.  This will be my snack today.  Then I see another packet.  Do I buy these, too?  I can surely eat two more cucumbers, say, tomorrow.  Yes?  Yes.  I put those in my cart, too.  There's one remaining bag.

Herein lies my dilemma.  It's not as if food is scarce.  People pretty much have access to transportation now, although maybe not consistently if they don't have a car or can't drive.  The supermarkets are stocked.  It's a very different scene from when I arrived back in Japan after the tsunami, last March.  Shelves in Tokyo even were sparse.  They weren't empty, but they certainly weren't filled with the usual merchandise I was accustomed to seeing.  Coming up north, the scene was even more stark.  The frozen food section had no ice cream.  The fish counter had more ice than fish.  The produce isle didn't shine with the colors of vegetables and fruit usually seen.

Throughout this time, the general sentiment in Japan was "don't hoard."  People didn't stock up on toilet paper or buy out the bottles of water.  The expectation was to "leave something behind for the next family."  Certainly, there were exceptions.  Japan's equivalent to FedEx drivers stealing relief supplies, people selling relief goods meant for others are only some of the stories I've heard.  This is not the norm, however.  Bad behavior, especially in a time of crisis, is a violation of the most basic of courtesy and manners.  People known to have done this are not well received, and that's putting it mildly.

Back to my cucumbers, then.  Surely, I'm allowed to take the last bag, right?  Or, am I?  The store hasn't had cucumbers in stock since Monday.  I've looked.  I bought carrots to dip into my sesame dressing (not Onizaki, alas), but it's just not the same.  They're carrots.  They're still uneaten.

On a totally different note, on Saturday when I was shopping for dinner in Fukushima I found a huge pile of cucumbers.  "¥45 each" the sign read.  That's cheap!  I then read on further.  "Grown in Fukushima."  Produce labels now show where the food was grown.  Anything grown or raised in Fukushima doesn't sell.  This explains why they were so cheap.  I didn't buy cucumbers on Saturday.

I didn't buy the last bag of cucumbers.  I wanted to.  I really did.  If they're there tomorrow, I might.  Then again, maybe I won't.  Or, maybe this a dilemma I no longer need wrestle with?  Am I too sensitive to the fact my every move seems to be noted?  I will mull this over while I eat my cucumbers.  Perhaps this will provide me with clarify.

Seasons: Cycles and Circles

The more time I spend in Tohoku, the more aware I become of the differences between men and women.  There's nothing wrong with these differences, per se.  My observations are just that:  I notice the subtle nuances, changes in behavior and expectations, scene after scene in how these traits are played out.

I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons.  Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events.  (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.)  Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones.  Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter.  That's what quarters are for.  They peg the calendar.

Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles.  Quarters are seasons.  Months are not simply a bunch of dates.  It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events.  Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this.  We are biologically, naturally cyclical.

It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles."  One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato.  It's a "knitting circle."  Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause.  Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand.  I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet.  Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking.  I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.

Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato.  The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle."  They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how.  Not being a knitter, my role is to connect.  That, I can do.  Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation.  Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.

We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back.  We drove on highways and winding mountain roads.  One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.

It's the season for wisteria.  The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes.  Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender.  We rounded one corner and gasped.  (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?)  In front of us was a wall of wisteria.  The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves.  Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush.  It was simply beautiful.

Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.

The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.

Energy: Individual vs. Collective, Positive vs. Negative

There's a store I got to in Salem, Massachusetts whenever I'm in the mood for a new scent.  There's nothing quite like walking into Aroma Sanctum (http://www.aromasanctum.com/), and saying to the owner Akuura, "I want...." and then describe how I want to smell.  I simply love having my own custom blend.  That she's delightful only adds to the experience.

Someone once said Salem, Massachusetts has a vortex of energy.  That witches have lived there for years, en masse, is part of what creates this source of energy.  (And, can we please not spend time here discussing the virtues or evils of witches.  That's not my point today.)  It evidently has the highest concentration of witches living in one city--at least in the United States.

This vortex of energy, then.  Surely there is something to the power of collective energy.  We talk of "the power in numbers."  Christians say about God "when two or more gather, I am there."  Simply put, the more people who gather together and utilize their energy for good, the more power there is in that energy.  Right?

I have been keenly aware of late, just how finite my own individual energy levels are.  My mother used to say, "Don't waste energy on that" whenever I would rail against the latest injustice I experienced.  Thinking I have extra reserves of energy I could always tap into, her comments annoyed me.  Of course I had energy to expend on my woes.  I have all the energy in the world!

She was right, of course.  I don't.  The amount of energy I have at any given moment is most definitely limited.  There is no secret stash of "extra energy" I can access whenever I want or need.  Living in Japan away from family, I feel this even stronger.  I am not Wonder Woman.

The Japanese would call Salem, Massachusetts a "Power Spot."  I am exposed to these magical, energy-rich places on Japanese television and in print.  There's a fascination the Japanese have with these sacred spots where something is different, and something is special. 

What then is the opposite of a "Power Spot"?  If these places are blessed with some source of positive energy, what do we call places where there seems to be an energy vacuum?  How do we refer to those locations where the energy is not blessed with beauty?

Fukushima is one such location for me.  In Fukushima, I experience the exact opposite of a "positive source of energy."  There's nothing scientific or fact-based about what I'm saying.  That I go to Fukushima and find it "off" and get "bad vibes" is purely my personal experience.  Then again, I have heard others say something similar.  What's going on?  I can't put my finger on what it is about Fukushima that leaves me drained, exhausted, and sucked dry.  I don't want to feel this way, but I do.  Is there something about Fukushima that oozes negativity, or am I hitting Fukushima when I happen to be exhausted? 

This concept of energy--how much I have at any given moment, whether I should find others who can add to it (and if so where), and what to do about a geographic location I sense is lacking in the positive--this is what I've spent the past 24 hours thinking about.  Never one for keeping life simple, I am using energy on questions with no easy answers, except this time I have people around me whom I can tap.  Collective energy at its best.

ばあちゃんパワー

友達の友達に、この素晴らしい女性を紹介され、気付いてみれば福島に連れてこられていた。南相馬市の仮設住宅に身をよせている。原発避難地域に指定されているこの場所は、いつもくもり空だ。ここへ来るのは3度目になる。今回の目的は、米国と日本で売るための手作りの品物を見つけること。被災者の方々が収入をえるための支援。ここで私を待っていたのは、予想もしないものだった。

外国人女性（私）、私を招待してくれた人、そして、地元の窓口でもある仮設住宅地の自治会長の奥様とが部屋に入る。テーブルを囲んで6人のばあちゃんたちが座っている小さな部屋。四方の壁にかけられた洗濯ロープには、私がこれまでに見たことのないような繊細で美しく複雑なデザインの折り紙でできた作品がぎっしりとかけられている。言葉が出ない。

自己紹介と訪問の目的を説明する。ばあちゃんたちは全く人おじしない。

「ほんとうにこれをアメリカに持っていきたいの？」

「ああ。いいよ。」

アメリカ人が折り紙のよさを本当にわかるかどうか、気にいってくれるかどうか、どうやって持って行くつもりなのか、といった内容の複数の会話が同時にすすむ。「持っていってもらおう」という全員一致での結論に満足して、ばあちゃんの一人が会長の奥様に質問する。「ほんとうにこれを売ってもいいの？おらたち怒られない？」

「怒られないわよ。お正月にくつしたを売ったのだって収入になりましたよね。」

また会話がはじまっている。めんどりたちがコッコとなく姿が頭にうかび、思わずほほえむ。

「ほんとうにいいんだな？」別のおばあちゃんが聞く。

「いいんだ。自治会長の奥さんだねん。奥さんが大丈夫といえば大丈夫だ。」皆がいっせいに笑う。めんどりが甲高くないているような感じ。

「じゃ、持って行っていいんですね？」ロープにかかっている芸術品を見ながら、私が聞く。

「もちろん。好きなだけ持って行ってよ。」

数々のくすだまを眺めながら、もう一度聞いてみる。

「このくすだまたち、ほんとうに持って行ってもいいですか？」

「どうぞ、どうぞ。」また別のおばあちゃんが言う。

「玉、全部持っていって。」と他のおばあちゃんも加わる。

「おら、べつに玉は必要ないものね。」と違うおばあちゃんが言うと、爆笑。

説明させてもらうと、最後の文章は表向きには「おらには玉はもう必要ない」と言っているのだが、「玉」の意味するところにはちょっとした含みがある。もちろんくすだまの「玉」とかけているのだが、おばあちゃんの冗談の意味がみなには分かった。

きちんと育てられた外国人の女の子が、どうして日本語の「たま」の持つ意味を知っているのか説明しないといけないなんてとんでもないので、私は下を向いて床をみつめながら、こっそりと笑うことにした。まったく。このおばあちゃんたちったら……。

部屋をあるきまわって、折り紙をひとつずつ外して、テーブルの上に積みあげる。すぐに大きな折り紙の山ができる。4月にボストンで開かれる春祭りで売ってもらえるように、アメリカへ送る手配をする。

「もっとたくさん作れますか？」と私は聞く。

「もちろんよ！」と怒られる。当たり前だ。このおばあちゃんたちには、ほかにすることがない。農家の奥さんたち、土にふくまれる放射能のせいで農業ができないでいる。みなで一緒にすわって折り紙をひとつずつ折る。できるだけはやくたくさんの人に作品を届けると約束する。

「おばあちゃん、写真をとっていいですか？皆にみせたいので。」と私は声をかける。

「だめだめ！」と一番おしゃべりだったおばあちゃんが立ち上がって、ドアのうしろに隠れる。皆で出てきてと頼むが、姿をあらわさない。

ドアのかげから「まだかいな？」という声を聞きながら、残りのみなで写真をとる。別のおばあちゃんには、顔がみえるようこっちを向いてもらうようにたのむ。あんなに恥ずかしい話でも平気でしていたばあちゃんたちが、どうしてここまではずかしがり屋なのか、私にはわからない。自分たちを呼ぶのに「おら」と男性言葉をつかうのも印象的。いいばあちゃんたちだ。みなの活気がたまらない。

アメリカからもどってくる5月に「また来ます。」と言い残して、

「いくらで売れるかわかりませんよ」と警告しておく。

「いくらでもいいよ。皆におらたちのことを話してくれれば。」

「おらのことは言わないで。」とカメラぎらいのばあちゃんが言う。

「あら、おばあちゃんのことを中心に話そうと思ってたのに。」と私はからかう。

「もう、あんたったら……。」と、ばあちゃんは私を軽くたたくふりをする。

「冗談、冗談！」と私が逃げるまねをすると、皆がまた大笑いする。

手作り仲間の輪にいれてもらうのは光栄である。ただ、いれてもらう努力はしないといけないし、みなに信用してもらえるためなら何でもしようと思う。

Granny Power

Friends of friends put me in touch with this woman, an amazing woman, and next thing I know, she takes me to Fukushima.  I'm at a temporary housing complex in Minami Soma.  Right on the outskirts of the nuclear zone, it's always cloudy when I'm there.  It's my third trip here.  My goal this time is to find hand-made items to sell in the US and Japan--the first steps towards helping people earn an income.  What awaited blew me away.

Enter gaijin girl (me), my host, and the housing complex chairman's wife, our local point of contact.  In a small room is a table with six grannies sitting on all sides.  Hanging on clothes lines on all four walls is the most delicate, beautiful, intricate origami creations I've ever seen.  I'm speechless.

I introduce myself, explaining my visit.  The grannies are not shy.

"You really want to take this back with you to America?"
"Yes, I do."
Several conversations take place at once, the gist of it being whether Americans "get" origami, will like what's made, how to get it there, etc.  Satisfied with the consensus they've reached (it's a go), one of the grannies asks my local host,  "Is it really okay for us to sell this stuff?  Won't we get in trouble?"
"No, you won't get in trouble.  Remember the socks that we sold over the new year?  We made money off that, too."
More side conversations.  The "hens clucking" image comes to mind and I smile.
"You're sure?" Another granny asks.
"Of course she's sure.  She's the chairman's wife.  If she says it's okay, it's okay."  They all laugh.  Cackle might be more accurate.
"So, I can take these?" I say, looking around at the various pieces of art hanging. 
"Sure.  Take whatever you want," I'm told.
I wander over to the various kusudama (intricately folded origami made into a ball) and decide to ask one more time.
"I can really takes these kudusama?  As many as I want?"
"Take them," the same granny says.
"You can have all the tama you want," another adds.  (Tama is singular; dama is plural.  Literal translation:  Ball.)
"I've got no need for tama," yet another granny says, and the room explodes with laughter.

Let me explain:  That sentence, literally translated, would read "I've got no need for balls."  As in those balls.  Kusudama balls, too, supposedly, but we all know what granny meant.

God forbid I would have to explain how a properly raised gaijin girl would know the Japanese word for "balls"  I decide to put my head down, face the floor, and keep my grinning and laughter to myself.  I swear.  These women are something else.

I walk around the room taking down one display after another, hauling them over to another table.  Soon I have a big pile.  I make arrangements to have them sent to the US to be sold in Boston at a Japan Festival sale in late April.

"Can you make more?"  I ask.
"Of course we can make more," I'm scolded.  Touche.  These women have nothing else to do.  Farmers' wives, they can't farm because of the radiation in the soil.  They sit together and fold one beautiful piece of work after another.  I vow to find a way to get these items to as many people as possible.

"Granny," I pause, "Can we take some photos?  I want to show people who you are."
"Oh no, you don't!" The most outspoken of them all gets up and marches over to the sliding door.  We all beg her to come out.  She doesn't.
"Just take the picture," the chairman's wife says.  We do, while hearing from behind the door, "Are you done yet?"  I have to ask another granny to turn around, so we can see her face.  How they can be shy after all the spicy talk from before is a question I can't answer.  That they use the masculine term for "me" when they speak is also noteworthy.  I like them.  I like their spunk.

I make plans to come back in May, after I return from the US. 
"I can't promise you how much they'll sell for," I caution.
"We don't care.  Just tell them about us."
"Not me, though," camera shy granny says.
"You, most of all," I tease.
"Oh you," and she comes towards me about to give me a motherly scolding slap.
"I'm kidding!  I'm kidding!" I half run away.  They all laugh again.

Being adopted into their circle of craftswomen would be an honor.  I need to earn that, and will do what it takes to earn their trust.

"Why do you do this?"

This questions, phrased differently from many people has been asked over and over in the past year.

"Why are you helping us?"

Why did I go to a region of Japan I was completely unfamiliar with last March? What made me do something I was so profoundly uncomfortable doing?  I've tried several answers.
"Japan was home to me for many years."
"I thought I could help."
"I was in a position where I could.  My family was supportive, and I had the freedom in my professional life to take time off."

None of these responses have really convinced anyone.  The explanations I've offered are incomplete to those in Tohoku who simply don't understand why a gaijin would drop everything and do something, to them, so odd and yet meaningful.

I now have two answers, both of which (to me, at least) speak volumes.

Here's one answer.

This was given to me by a boy at a day care center back in December when I made the trip up as Mrs. Claus, handing out candy to kids.  After the kids had opened their stockings filled with bits of chocolate and candy canes, one boy came up to me from behind, tugging at my Mrs. Claus skirt.

"Give this to Santa," and he hands me these two sheets.
"What is it?"
"Money.  I want Santa to have it."  I look at the two "bills" and fight tears.
"Okay," I manage, and then "Thank you."
One of the men with me, seeing I'm about to lose it, asks, "How much are you giving Santa?" pointing to the amounts written on the origami paper.
"One hundred thousand million billion."  Or, it could just have easily been "a bajillion."
I laugh.  The boy laughs.  I thank him again.  He smiles and runs away.

Then there are the women.  Those who did not lose their homes in the tsunami have reached out to the women now living in temporary housing quarters.
"Let's knit together," is the invitation extended as they try to rebuild the sense of community and neighborhood lost to the women who don't know their new neighbors in the temporary housing complexes.

They need yarn.  They don't care what kind, color, amount, or quality.  I set up a site on Amazon.com (the Japanese site: amazon.co.jp) where people can send yarn to them.

Here's the link.
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/registry/wishlist/ref=wish_list

In sharing this story about women coming together, news spread to women in Fukushima who also now want to start their own knitting group.  I reached out to the "knitting teacher" in Ofunato, asking if her group would host the women from Fukushima.  Now women in Iwate are helping women in Fukushima.

This is why I do what I do.

A new kind of honesty

At the risk of making a controversial statement bordering on a gross generalization, I believe this strongly:  Japan has always allowed for a delicate dance around truth-telling.  I say this without judgment.  It is what it is.  I'm in no position to critique such a broad cultural phenomenon.


Multiple television commercials I've seen since arriving in Japan a week ago have given me pause and make me reconsider whether Japan is entering a new stage in truth-telling.  One such commercial was from a construction company.

"At xxxx, we destroy nature."  Whoa.  That caught my attention.  "Because we destroy nature to build our homes, we do everything we can to give back to nature by planting trees."  They go onto to highlight the projects the company is involved as they attempt to offset their environmental destruction.

I find myself impressed.  I'm not accustomed to this level of honesty in Japan, much less on television.  Then there is the open and  frank mention of menopause.  The product advertised is specifically for menopausal women.  All women go through menopause.  Nothing shocking there.  Today's Japan, evidently sees no shame in offering products to these women, even though in my life in Japan to date I have never heard of menopause ever being discussed openly.  I'm both surprised and pleased by Japan's ability to showcase this publicly. I see this as a new attempt at telling the truth.

Then I see it:  "Who lied?"  A magazine advertisement on a train blatantly implies a cover-up about the nuclear disaster in Fukushima.  The assumption is not insinuated as much as it is stated.  Someone lied.  Many people lied.  The question is who?  Who will reveal the truth?  What will be done about those who lied?

What I take away from all this is a new appreciation for the truth and a lesser tolerance for lying.  In today's Japan, it is okay to talk about things previously not discussed.  It's okay to be honest.  It's also okay to call out those who tell lies with consequences that are no longer acceptable.

This should be interesting.