Red Shoes and Baby Goats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's a different story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sent photos.

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

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

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

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.

On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)

A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R.  Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat.  As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r.  Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice.  Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced. 

When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm.  My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm.  Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating.  Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing.  In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player."  Very, very different things.  Perhaps you had to be there.  I didn't find much om that day.  Too much giggling.

On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused.  Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands.  "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased.  Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you."  Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!"  I stop.  Are they saying, "Love you"?  I can't tell.  If they are, this is huge.  Like is a safe word.  Like a lot is also okay.  But, love is reserved for the super special.  I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured.  The tots don't let up though and I must respond.  I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.

I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh!  A new word!" or a "Pffft.  We knew that one."  We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.

Picture This

April brings a new school year.  The most immediate effect this change has on me is the new faces in the preschools I visit with every trip to Tohoku.  Having spent the entire school calendar year with the five-year olds the year before, I knew names and faces, who liked what, who acted up, and family histories.  With this crop of kids, I’m nowhere close.  With three visits under my belt, we’re still working through details.  It feels like we’re perpetually on a first date.

My main goal with the kids hasn’t changed:  I want them to not fear foreigners, know they already have a large vocabulary of foreign words, and grow up with a sense of wonder at the world beyond.  My job is to bring consistent joy to their lives, give them something to look forward to, play, offer acceptable touching in the form of hugs and pats and high-fives.  I want them to be happy.

I learned quickly almost every child ages three and above can count from one to ten in English, know most colors in English (thank you Power Rangers), and all I need to do is add to this list.  When I tell them the common words they use everyday—the romanized ones—are also English, Italian, Portuguese, French, and Chinese their eyes pop. 

Which is why I take my laptop full of photos, pointing to each one and as they identify ice cream, chocolate, cake, potato chips, taxi, ball, dress, belt, donuts, and lions.  “These are all English words.  See!  You already speak English!”  It’s a hit every time.  With every visit, I show more pictures.  With every visit, the kids are in total shock at how easy English is.

I saved teaching shapes until January for the last class but this year I’ve started with the book of shapes.  I make a heart with my hands and ask them what it is.  Then I ask what it means.  Through giggles, it’s the girls who answer, “It means you like something.  Or someone.”  Snicker, snicker.  I extend my heart-shaped hands out to them and tell them I like them.  Very much.

On days where the weather-gods shine down on us, we play outside.  I take the book of shapes out with me on this particular day, and as I scan the playground for suitable shapes to call out I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Amya-san, Amya-san.”  I see a boy looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“My daddy died in the tsunami.”  He gave me no indication this was coming.  I’m completely caught off guard.  No “hello” and no “what are we doing today?”  Just straight up, “My daddy died.”  

To which I say what exactly?  I don’t know his name.  This is the third time we’ve played together.  I don’t know his family.  I know nothing about him.  I crouch down in front of him and am about to speak when I see his teacher walking towards me.  “Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get ready to play.”

Do I let her walk away?  Is she pulling him away from me for my sake?  Do I let him go?  She takes him by the shoulders and starts to take him back to the larger group when he turns around.  A screenplay writer couldn’t have cued that better.

“Wait,” I say.  “It’s okay.”  The boy turns around and gently releases himself from his teacher and walks towards me.  This is unreal.  He stops in front of me and I quickly sneak a glance at his nametag.  Now I have a name.
“Do you miss your daddy?”  I ask.  There’s no point pretending this isn’t happening.  He nods.

“I have a brother who died so I kind of know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”  He nods again.

“But, I know your daddy is right here,” I say pointing to his heart.  He looks down at my finger.  “In your heart,” I rephrase.  I swear I’m about to lose it.

“We visit his grave sometimes,” he says.

“That’s good.  Do you take flowers?”

“Uh huh.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know what they’re called.  Before it got cold I picked some flowers from the field and took those to him.”

“I’m sure he really, really likes that.”  The boy nods.

The other kids have gathered around us now, coming over in twos and threes wondering what this boy has done or said to warrant all this attention.  Most kids have heard the grave part of his story and now the floodgates are open.  Blown open.  The kids start talking at once: who lost their home, who lost their dog, who lost their grandmother, bicycle, toys, a favorite doll.  I’m overwhelmed.  I look up at the teacher, signaling with my eyes I need help.  Two plus years up north and this is the first time I’ve had kids come up and tell me their stories.  Unprompted and unscripted, everything is pouring out.  I honestly don’t know what to say.  With all these children talking to me at once I can’t possibly answer everyone or address every comment.  Then again, I can’t ignore their words either.

I stand up.  This quiets them.  “You’re all really brave,” I say.  “I know it’s hard, but you’re all really strong and you’ll grow up to be amazing adults.  When you’re all grown ups let’s get together and have ice cream.  Okay?”  The kids squeal and run away.  Just like that, we’ve moved on.

This unexpected outpouring of unfiltered honesty caught me off guard in ways I’ve not experienced in the time I’ve spent up north.  Yup.  I’m exhausted.  And, it’s not even noon.

“Amya-san,” I hear, from a voice behind me.  It’s the same boy.  I was walking toward the center of the playground but I stop.  He runs up to me.  I kneel down, meeting his eyes.  “Yes?”  He looks down at his moving and twisting fingers.  At last he holds up his hands.  For an instant I’m confused, but then I get it.  I make a heart with my hands folding his into mine and smile.  I stand up quickly because I don’t want him to see me cry and I kiss the top of his head.  “Let’s go play.  I’ll race you,” and with that we dash off to play color tag.

School Violence in Japan: More Questions Than Answers

Japanese news over he past month has been peppered with stories about the effects of school violence.  A high school student committed suicide after repeated beatings from his team manager, and the womens' judo coach for the national team resigned after the athletes filed a mass complaint accusing him of violence.  Unfortunately such stories are not new.  I've often reflected upon multiple and similar incidents from my elementary and middle school days at times like this.  In the end I'm left with more questions than answers.

It seems for those of my generation growing up, what is now being referred to as violence and beatings were more the norm in school.  Coaches would routinely slap disobedient baseball players, kick legs, or throw buckets of water on them.  I use baseball players only as an example.  Back in our day, it was more unusual for coaches to not "train" by means of a shove here, a smack there.

"It instilled in us a sense of competition," one friend tells me.  "It was embarrassing and it hurt.  I wasn't going to let my coach get the best of me so I tried harder."

I call Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan who has an answer for everything and ask to meet.
"Sure I was slapped.  Not punched, but slapped across the face.  I didn't think of it as a beating.  For me though, it wasn't the coach that did this but rather the older students.  It was just part of life for us in high school.  This is how sports clubs functioned.  We got stronger.  It pissed us off so we got back by practicing more than before.  We got better."

I ask, "Why do some students commit suicide then?  Don't the coaches know when to stop?  Why was it not 'violence' for you but it is for these kids?"
"Students these days are taught they have options.  'If you try one thing and it doesn't work, you can try something else.'  On the one hand, this is good.  On the other hand, and don't take this the wrong way," Alpha Male looks at me sideways, "It's more of a western way of thinking.  We weren't taught that growing up but kids these days are.  When we were in middle and high school we just took it because that's how things were.  Now, kids are taught more independence, freedom and that they can choose.  It's good, but the educational system has changed into something not quite Japanese."

I ponder this.  Multiple incidents from my childhood come to the surface, each competing for the "which is the worst" category.  One teacher, someone I liked, routinely called up one boy to the front of the class, pulled him up by his sideburns and continued to judo-trip him while he cried and screamed for help.  Half the class laughed, the rest of us sat stunned.  He didn't do anything wrong.  He wasn't a trouble-maker.  One day it just started.  How long did he go through this?  All I remember is the announcement the teacher made out of the blue one day that this boy was diagnosed with diabetes.  The "beatings" stopped that day, never to continue.  I'm still baffled by what this teacher did, and why.

Another teacher mercilessly picked on a girl who moved into the community and into our classroom.  She didn't bathe often.  The teacher, with every opportunity would let her and the rest of us know she smelled, making her cry.  Why do this?  Is this a hint?  It didn't work because it didn't change anything.  Except that one day she didn't come back to school.  We were told she moved away.

What was normal at one time in recent Japanese history is no longer.  Feedback is consistent:  Japanese education is to blame.  People my age and older are disgusted by Japan's youth.  "Spineless," and "Too opinionated" are two ways today's young are often described.  Should we be adding to this "Can't take a beating"?  I find myself confused.