When Global Means Local

Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains.  These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky.  We can see for miles.

This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside.  Today we're cold.  Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.

People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous.  These towns are like any other; we're just like you.

Except that we're not.  Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different.  Adjectives describing emotions are more intense.  Not better or worse.  Just intense.

Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago.  For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous.  A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people.  Today, this is personal.

I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities.  We know each other.  We stand out in town.  There are very few of us.

Some lived through the disaster.  They too lost.  Homes.  Cars.  Friends.  A sense of normalcy.  Their lives have received significantly less coverage.  A victim is a victim is a victim.  Right?  Wrong.  We still quantify pain based on loss.  When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here."  Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners.  Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.

Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix.  Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns.  We brought food.  Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt.  Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.

My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate.  Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.

In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles.  For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy;  a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.

With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's what happened in December.

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

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

And then...

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

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

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

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

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

More on Baseball in Japan

"My son's baseball game is tomorrow," I hear Kazu say on the phone.  "It's the first game of the season without the sixth graders.  He's starting.  Can you be there?"
"Of course," I say.  "Definitely.  What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him.  "I'm looking forward to it."

I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready.  Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible.  In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren.  I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?"  I say, trying not to mumble.  I hear Mika's voice on the other end.  Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30??  So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh?  Did I hear her right?  I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up.  That means she'll be here shortly after 9am.  What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.

An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not.  I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before.  I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot.  She's early.  (Of course.)  I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.

I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills.  I've not been to this part of Ofunato before.  It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own.  I'd be lost for hours.

We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice.  I notice the mothers are all in blue.  There must have been a memo.  Team colors.  I'm in black.  Oh well.  We exchange our good mornings.  There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes.  I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing.  One of the teams has a large cheering section.  The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand.  I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when.  Pop fly caught?  There's a chant.  Strike out?  Something different.  Base hit?  A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out.  These moms are serious about cheering.

I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question."  They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too?  Are we going to cheer?"  Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of.  But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise.  We do what we can though, right?"  She turns to ask the moms.  More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style.  We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error.  "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan.  We're maybe the worst of the bunch.  We take baseball seriously.  Our cheering gets nasty.  I don't know that you want me cheering.  I might yell at the ref or something."

Instantly they begin to talk.  I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling.  In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms.  I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles.  "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know.  I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.

I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play.  Our team stinks.  We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend.  Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score.  I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.

Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing.  There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku.  I see Kazu running out to the third base ref.  I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers.  Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose.  Again.

The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision.  There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy.  I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms.  I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me.  The boy can throw.

He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins.  The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect.  Another out.  We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket.  The next batter hits the ball high to right field.  The mothers and I collectively cringe.  None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball.  We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly.  This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five.  Our team rocks.

All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison.  That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize.  One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time.  We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field.  I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?"  I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.

Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers.  "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning?  That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings.  You saw how well that small boy pitched.  I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."

Here we go.  Age trumps merit.  I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't.  The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended).  I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules.  It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan;  Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different.  It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy.  Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age.  There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters.  Good employees, even younger ones are promoted.  In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out.  In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.

The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes.  I dare not assume anything in Japan.  The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind.  Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm.  I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh.  Most days I believe that.  On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers.  I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.

Mayor Dad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate

Let me be clear.  I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual.  These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings. 

Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu.  Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.

First, a brief history lesson.  Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town.  This was in the 1600s.  More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000.  Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk.  Park benches were strategically placed.  By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.

The key word here is "was."  All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people.  Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching.  They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.

Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing.  Or, again, was. 

The short version is this:  this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died.  Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011.  The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do.  On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting.  "Life goes on" is what it says.  "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out.  The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose.  Or, it could attempt to preserve it.  But, how?  How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree?  And who pays for this?

Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips:  "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument?  That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did.  It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial."  There's some sense to this.  Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster.  What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this:  people died here.  For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders.  Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together.  Save the buildings?  So others can visit and learn and understand?  What about those with band-aids?

The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made.  Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost.  It was war.  No apples and oranges comparison here.  Apples and spaghetti, maybe.  War and tsunamis are both disasters.  Apples and spaghetti are both food.  The comparison ends there.

Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree.  The cost for this was unprecedented:  preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date.  The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars.  That's a lot of money for a tree.  Yes.

Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?"  Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg."  Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to."  Here's where I roll my eyes.  Dear people.  Do your homework before you cast stones.  Please.

The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment.  Fine.  It's no longer a "tree."  So what?  The tree died.  Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"?  That provides hope?  To whom?  How?

True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep.  But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat.  The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics.  I live in Tokyo.  As far as I can see, we're fine here.  We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive.  Why is no one writing about that?  Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds? 

If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing.  This is not the case.  I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city.  Right there is proof money is not drying up.

As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey.  You really have no clue, do you?  We would be building homes faster if we could.  Typical of what the city faces is this:  thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing.  That's the problem.  Not a tree.

Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive.  I get that.  I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales.  It's the name of the game, I suppose.  Sad, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Long Black Coat

"We knew it was you when you were at the other end of the block."  One of the socialite women I'm taking up north says to me as I hand her husband my bag that has created permanent creases in my hand.
"Oh?"  I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me.  None.  Right?  Of course they knew it was me. 
"How did you know it was me?"  I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat.  It's too long."  And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in.  "It's not too long.  It's just very long.  None of us in Tokyo dress like that."  Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag.  "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds.  "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me.  "You look nice.  Very east coast America.  Very New York.  Very Boston.  Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent.  My confusion is still with me.  They evidently now pick up on it.

"But, it's good," I'm reassured.  I decide to believe them. 

Or so I thought.  One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center.  The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato.  They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals.  I was their tour guide.

Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books.  It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side.  The kids have long since stopped listening.  I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me.  I just brought them here.  They're the ones bringing books.  I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san.  You speak, too."

I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice.  They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back.  I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food."  And then it happens.  One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing.  I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher.  The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap.  Everyone laughs.  I'm mortified.
"Oh, no!  I'm so sorry!"  And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.

This is a first.  I'm stunned.  I made a girl cry?  Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium?  And spoke English?  Wow.  This has really, truly never happened before.

We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry."  More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?"  Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat.  It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.

Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this.  At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip. 
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first.  I high five, pat heads, smile.  And then I hear it.  Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."

Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan.  Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos."  Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?"  I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.

For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire.  (I did actually put thought into this.)  None of my other coats would have been appropriate.  My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again.  All this over a coat!  Living in learning in Japan.  Still.  One day at a time.

The honesty of children

The volunteer organization I first came to Iwate has come and gone.  They insert themselves into disaster zones, clean things up, and then leave.  I'm told over 1,000 volunteers, many of them foreigners, came to this area and did their thing.

"We've only seen foreigners in movies," one grandmother told me back in the spring.  "It's kind of strange to see you in person.  You're actually real."
"We are," I said, and tried very hard not to grin at the fact there are still those who think foreigners are some strange group of people that only show up on television.

The sense of "you're not quite real" is still present.  I stayed last night at a facility that hosts volunteers, foreign and domestic.  As I walked down the long hallway and passed an elderly man, I said hello.
"Hello," he says, and then looks at me long and hard.
"You're not from here."
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."  Evidently, we're still a bit of an oddity here.

My primary goal for this trip is to hang out with kids.  The sentiment held by some that while it's quite alright and appreciated for all these foreigners to have come in and dug out ditches, that they've now gone has left people feeling empty.

"It's a wrap," one volunteer wrote on Facebook.  No, it's not.  It's a wrap for you, but it's most definitely not a wrap for those left behind whose lives have changed in ways they still have difficulty articulating.

I was asked if I would be willing to continue the foreign exposure, focusing my time on being around children.
"Of course!"
"Really?" a principal of a local day care center asks.
"Really.  Use me.  That's what I'm here for."  Today was the first day I was "used."

We counted to ten.  We sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', we practiced "hello" and "good-bye" and "how are you?" and "see you soon."  I was then shuttled off to the class of five-year olds and was asked to go into more detail.  I held up a large colorful card of a cartoon renkon (a root) and told them "kids your age don't eat renkon in America."  I look down at the kids and see looks of shock and awe.
"Why?  Renkon is so good!" One boy says.

I hold up colored origami paper.  We're going to practice our colors.
"What color is this?" I say as I show them a sheet of red.
"Red!"  Several kids say in English, while others call out the word for red in Japanese.  We practice saying "red" in English and more boys pipe up and start talking about their favorite anime characters who are dressed in red.  I hold up pink, orange, yellow, green, black, white, and blue.  All the kids know the English words for these colors.  I'm impressed.
"What about siruba?" another boy raises his hand and immediately starts talking about his favorite anime character who is evidently silver.  I look for something silver in the room.  Finding it, I point and ask "What color is this?" to which the group of 20+ kids all scream out, "Siruba!"
"Yes!  Silver!"  I then point to something gold.  "What about this?"
"Gorudo!"
"Good!  Gold."  I'm impressed.  Thank god for anime!
In my twisted and perverse need to stump five-year olds I look for a color they won't know.  Finding one and feeling slightly triumphant in advance, I point to a boy's sweatshirt and ask, "What color is this?"  The room falls silent.  That was mean.  Really, woman.  That was not necessary.
"Oh, I know this," one girl says.
"Really?  Think.  Try.  Do you remember?"
"It starts with pa," she says and starts silently mouthing something I can't hear.  I start to say "purple" and mouth it to her, at which point she jumps in her seat, her hand shooting up and not-quite screams, "papuru!"  So much pride in that little body of hers.  It's oozing.
"Right!  Purple!  Good girl."  I smile down at her and she beams back at me.  Success.

I'm invited to share their lunch.  I'm given an adult-sized tray full of food after being asked several times if there are things I can't eat.
"I'm okay," I say and secretly hope they don't serve fried eggs or natto.  I chance it.
It takes the class of 20+ kids and three teachers another 15 minutes to serve everyone.  I'm famished.  I skipped breakfast to get her on time, and the food in front of me has me wondering when we're eating.  I pick up my chop sticks and stick one slice of carrot in my mouth.  I try to sneak it but am caught.  Totally and completely caught red-handed.
"She ate!" the girl next to me says, pointing, and I'm busted.
"Sorry....." I say and try to change the topic.  Not a chance.
"She did!  She ate!" the boy across from me now announces to the rest of the class.  Evidently this faux pas was a lot more of an issue than I thought.
"I promise I won't eat again." I bow to the five-year olds I just tried to teach colors to.  They seem satisfied and we're silent for awhile.

Four kids in chef's hats and white smocks line up at the front of the class and lead the class in what seems a very elaborate ritual of before-we-partake-of-our-food sing-song chant.  I say the right things when I'm supposed to (making it up as I go along, sort of) and am finally allowed to eat.
"You had to wait for that," the girl next to me whispers.
"Okay," I whisper back.

So begins the first of many trips to Ofunato to hang with kids.  I will learn to mind my manners.  I'm sure I will continue to be impressed at how much energy they have, the English they already know, and their ability to call me out when I step out of line.  It's most definitely not a wrap.  There's much to do.

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.

The green field of silence

I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May.  I chose not to go there when I returned in late June.  At that time, I didn't need to see it.  Ofunato was where I wanted to go.  There, I left my past behind.  Or, so I thought.

I'm with three very good people.  They're all safe, and I can be myself with them.  We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company.  They're all important to me.  We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there.  Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going.  I see their shock.  It's palpable.  Our laughter is gone.  We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses.  We park the car near the Port of Ofunato.  I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline.  We're all again speechless.

"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look."  I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house.  A commode.  It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door."  The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence.  The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque.  More silence.

We head to Rikuzentakata.  I warn them of what they will see.  Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists.  Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood.  We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner.  That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There.  See those two white things?  Those are a few of the remaining buildings left.  They're apartments, five stories high.  You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...."  We drive in silence for a very long time.

As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green.  Weeds grow everywhere.  Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds.  Everything is covered in tall, green grass.  If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited.  Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence.  I see a front end loader here and there.  Cars are few and far between.  Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.

Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way.  I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy.  "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car.  The tears come.  Here, over 1,000 people are still missing.  People died here.  The city is essentially gone.  How will this town survive?  Will it?

The green field of silence is filled with pain.