A Silly Story About Handwriting

I used to have recurring dreams.  Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical.  I dreamt about tornadoes.  Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me.  Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green.  Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me.  Never scared, I loved these dreams.  I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace.  These tornadoes did not destroy.

A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning.  All the books offered the same explanation:  trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.

Please.  Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift.  I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon.  Quite the contrary.  I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep.  I felt calm.  Happy.  In my dreams, tornadoes were good.

Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries.  I didn't agree.  They were wrong.  My dreams.  My rules.

Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries.  Allow me to share a story.

Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank.  Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp.  I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am.  (The stamp proves I'm me.  Not my ID.  Don't ask.)

I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address.  I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line.  I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.

"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So?  You know it's me," but I don't.  Here's why.

I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood.  Some days my writing is illegible.  Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name.  Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular.  Today it's a combination of the above.  The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account.  My mood today?  Okay.  I'm in a hurry.  I'm hungry.  Not cranky.  Generally good.  This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m".  So then, what was my mood when I opened the account?  How the hell am I supposed to remember this?

Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common.  All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years:  my parents, husband, son.  I'm baffled by this.  They're baffled by me.

I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me.  I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.

"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry.  No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.

"Okay.  Let me try again."  I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here.  Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry.  No."

You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay.  Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask.  "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen?  You've seen my photo ID.  You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry.  But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.

I sit back.  Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble.  Don't other people have this problem?  Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change?  And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read?  Am I weird?  I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day.  I'm actually stumped.

I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say.  "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago.  I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper.  I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't.  I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance.  He doesn't get it, of course.

I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance.  This is a challenge.  He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says.  "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."

Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names.  I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank.  How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.

Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done.  I pass.  Joy.

Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me.  There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath.  I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary.  Careful what you read, people.  It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.

Signed,

Amya

The Worst Possible Catch 22

This is one of those I-can't-make-this-up scenarios.  Honestly, I don't know how I would handle being in a situation like this.  I don't know how I'd keep going.  It's bad.  It's really bad.  Let me explain.

Homeowners in Tohoku whose houses were either totally destroyed (washed away or deemed unlivable), or partially damaged (still livable but needing repair) have the following options:  move into temporary housing (if they qualify), rebuild their home, or repair their home.  This post is about the latter two.

Here are the facts.  If a house was categorized as "completely destroyed" or "partially destroyed" but the owner has an outstanding mortgage, they are still responsible for paying that off.  Not having a livable home does not mean the loan magically disappears.  Now let's say they want to rebuild or repair their home.  They are responsible for repayment of the loan they take out for that, too.  That means they now have dual-mortgages.

There's good news.  Sort of.  Not really, actually, but there is an option pitched to these dual-mortgage homeowners that's meant to alleviate their financial burden.  Let me break it down for you.

If Mrs. W owes 20,000,000 yen (let's just say $200,000) on her original loan (for the house that's now gone), she can have her debt forgiven.  Again, sort of.  She can keep up to 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) of her own money (savings, if she has it).  Any other savings she might have goes to repay the original loan.  The bank will forgive the remainder of the loan if she hands over whatever savings she has beyond 5,000,000 yen ($50,000).  If she has land, say she owns the land the home was on, she must also give the bank that land.  She can buy that back from the bank over five years.  If she can't buy it back in that time, she loses it forever.  Any other land she might own (place of business) also goes to the bank.  She's left with the loan for the repair/rebuilding of the new house, plus the 5,000,000 yen ($50,000) she has in savings.  That's it. 

Here are some more stats.  The government initiated this program with the assumption 10,000 Tohoku homewoners would be interested in taking part.  To date 84 people have signed up.  There are two things wrong with this picture.  First, with hundreds of thousands of people displaced, the government created a debt-forgiveness program that would attract only 10,000 people?  Why?  Why not make it something that would appeal to 500,000 people?  Second, only 84 people have taken part?  Why?  Here's why.  Initially, the amount of money homeowners were allowed to keep from their savings was 990,000 yen ($9,900).  Everything else they had in savings had to go to bank.  Again, including land.  How are people supposed to live on $9,900?  Get a job?  Where?  What if they were fishermen or farmers?  To say the program had a very bad reputation from the start is being generous.  Add to this, most people don't know they are now allowed to keep 5,000,000 yen and not the originally reported 990,000 yen.  Why?  Many people, many people up north don't have a laptop, much less internet access.  They use e-mail only on their cell phones.  How would people who don't routinely surf the web ever find out about options available to them?  Then there's the problem of farmers getting up the courage to sit down in front of a banker to negotiate.  I'm most certainly not implying farmers are less intelligent.  I'm saying bankers have a tendency (generalizing here) to use big financial terms, throw around numbers and "Here's Plan A" and "Here's Plan B" as if it's no big deal.  Bankers are not knowing as the most empathetic bunch around.  For those who spend their days on a boat or in mud, the prospect of sitting down in front of a finance person is intimidating.

There's so much wrong with this, the worst possible catch 22.  I honestly don't know where to begin.  Let go of land and cash to have one mortgage forgiven?  Or, hold a dual-mortgage and work to pay it off (how?) over the remainder of their lives?  How and why isn't there another more creative solution?

The Japanese Government created this option and then handed it over to the banks with a "You handle this" message.  What's in it for the banks?  They can write off the loan they're forgiving, but is that enough incentive?

I find this catch 22 the worst example of inability to think outside the box.  Perhaps civil servants and bankers aren't the most creative group of people around, but the lack of empathy for those who have lost so much--even in a country as Japan with its rigid and strict adherence to rules--this is not okay.  I listen to those around me who honestly don't know what to do next and I ache for them.  I'm speechless all over again.