I justify the nights in front of the television because it's simply too damn hot to be outside (true), and I need to stay current on Japanese pop culture (also true). No, I don't have much to say about Japanese television that falls into the complimentary category. I make no apologies. I am, however, relatively up to date on what passes for hip and funny in Japan. As I said, it's hot in Tokyo. I'm finding myself in front of television often and for long periods of time. All for current events and odd comedy.
Which is where I saw it. A Japanese man dresses in a high school girl's uniform on Sundays and walks the street of Harajuku. Bald except for his long, flowing white hair complimented by a similar long and flowing white beard (tied with ribbons, no less) he's hard to miss. Or so the reporter says.
He's quite a sight. What makes him newsworthy is the legend (of the urban type) people who have their photo taken with this man dressed as a teenage girl receive good luck. This middle-aged man in cosplay drag is a lucky charm? Japanese youth swear by him.
Hence his appearance on Japanese television. This is where it gets interesting because, let's face it, the story up to this point isn't sufficiently ridiculous. He's asked a series of questions.
"Are you a cross-dresser?"
"Are you doing this to express something in yourself?"
"Would you consider yourself shy?"
Yes, yes, and yes.
Except for the last one. He says he used to be shy but through this outfit can release his true self. It is at this point he releases the zinger. Asked about his wedding ring he shares the fact he married at 27 and divorced at 28. This was his shy phase. Is he married? He smiles. Yes. He's in a two-dimensional marriage.
The comedians surrounding him on this particular show are confused. No one comes out and asks, so he volunteers. This ring is to signify his marriage to an anime character. A famous cartoon girl whom I don't recognize but the comedians seem to know. There's a mixture of gasps and laughter and confusion as to how one goes about marrying an anime character but this is the point I stop listening. There are limits to my desire to follow trivia and this man crossed a line.
It must be an age thing. I don't get this marriage-to-a-cartoon-character phenomenon. How does this work? Aside from the obvious, of course. What are the rules and who defines them? Your partner lives in your laptop and smart phone. Seriously. How does this work?
Should we be concerned? Did people in the 1800s "marry" characters in literature? Perhaps this isn't new and I'm clueless on romantic fiction?
This is what I get (evidently) when I hole up indoors and refuse to venture out into the heat. Now I don't know what to do.
Showing posts with label Japanese culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Japanese culture. Show all posts
Monday, August 10, 2015
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Thoughts on the Very Unlikely Candidate
This is what happens when I get sick. I binge-watch all the shows I've ignored to date, I type strange and long-winded e-mails saying a whole lot of nothing to friends all over the world, and I click on random but possibly interesting articles I see posted online. This blog post is about the random click that introduced me (virtually) to a most unlikely candidate running for office: Mr. Ueno Ryutaro of Chiba.
He calls himself society's trash. He calls himself a piece of shit. He is open: how he dropped out of school and society at 15, how he's a shut-in, how it's not anyone's fault but his, and that he's 25 years old. He has no qualifications. He's never had a job. He's never been in love. But, he wants to be a city council member.
Interesting.
I read his manifesto. He's an articulate young man. He makes good points. He says Japan needs to become a country where people from all walks of life are welcome. He talks about the rights of those who are asexual and now I'm really impressed. (LGBTQ rights are one thing. To expand the list to asexual people is a bit of a coup, I think. All this from a 25-year old!)
Part of the problem, why this strikes such a nerve right now is that part of the binge-watching of shows has included the third season of House of Cards. Which, by the way, if a very depressing show to watch when you can't breathe through your nose. And, Mrs. Clinton is running for president. My friends will be for or against her disagreeing politically but agreeing vehemently they're right and all others are wrong. I don't think I'm particularly fond of elections. They seem to bring out the worst in people.
But, this Mr. Ueno, the 25-year old self-proclaimed shut-in, trash, piece of shit wants to be on city council. What are we to think? What makes him qualified (he's not, he says), and if he's not qualified why should anyone vote for him? Is it possible that watching the world go by for 10 years, only from the point of view of television, library books, and the internet gives him unique insight into Japan the rest of us miss? Maybe, having time on your hands is really the best way to form ideas--in his case a manifesto--clear in thought and well defined. Do we need more idealists in office instead of the same old system that churns out political dynasties that preach the same message year in, year out?
Mr. Ueno says in his manifesto that Japan should be a country people with one-letter names and people with names in katakana can live together happily. One letter names refer to people who are Chinese and Korean, and katakana names mean the rest of us foreigners. Thank you, Mr. Ueno. These are kind words. And, I do agree. I would like to live together with my friends (and others) in Japan without discrimination or indifference.
Can a shut-in be a politician? I'm not addressing the question whether he will need to actually leave his home to go to city council meetings (will he attend virtually? will this be allowed?). My focus is on whether cut-throat politics like those of Frank Underwood are really the only way to get things done in this world, or whether perhaps an idealistic man who hasn't left his home in 10 years should be given a chance to speak on behalf of those he feels have less of a voice. I don't get to vote in Japan so it's all moot in the end. That said, I'm intrigued.
He calls himself society's trash. He calls himself a piece of shit. He is open: how he dropped out of school and society at 15, how he's a shut-in, how it's not anyone's fault but his, and that he's 25 years old. He has no qualifications. He's never had a job. He's never been in love. But, he wants to be a city council member.
Interesting.
I read his manifesto. He's an articulate young man. He makes good points. He says Japan needs to become a country where people from all walks of life are welcome. He talks about the rights of those who are asexual and now I'm really impressed. (LGBTQ rights are one thing. To expand the list to asexual people is a bit of a coup, I think. All this from a 25-year old!)
Part of the problem, why this strikes such a nerve right now is that part of the binge-watching of shows has included the third season of House of Cards. Which, by the way, if a very depressing show to watch when you can't breathe through your nose. And, Mrs. Clinton is running for president. My friends will be for or against her disagreeing politically but agreeing vehemently they're right and all others are wrong. I don't think I'm particularly fond of elections. They seem to bring out the worst in people.
But, this Mr. Ueno, the 25-year old self-proclaimed shut-in, trash, piece of shit wants to be on city council. What are we to think? What makes him qualified (he's not, he says), and if he's not qualified why should anyone vote for him? Is it possible that watching the world go by for 10 years, only from the point of view of television, library books, and the internet gives him unique insight into Japan the rest of us miss? Maybe, having time on your hands is really the best way to form ideas--in his case a manifesto--clear in thought and well defined. Do we need more idealists in office instead of the same old system that churns out political dynasties that preach the same message year in, year out?
Mr. Ueno says in his manifesto that Japan should be a country people with one-letter names and people with names in katakana can live together happily. One letter names refer to people who are Chinese and Korean, and katakana names mean the rest of us foreigners. Thank you, Mr. Ueno. These are kind words. And, I do agree. I would like to live together with my friends (and others) in Japan without discrimination or indifference.
Can a shut-in be a politician? I'm not addressing the question whether he will need to actually leave his home to go to city council meetings (will he attend virtually? will this be allowed?). My focus is on whether cut-throat politics like those of Frank Underwood are really the only way to get things done in this world, or whether perhaps an idealistic man who hasn't left his home in 10 years should be given a chance to speak on behalf of those he feels have less of a voice. I don't get to vote in Japan so it's all moot in the end. That said, I'm intrigued.
Monday, October 20, 2014
A New Meaning to the Statue of Liberty
I have no idea who came up with this translation. Someone should look into it and get back to me.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Small Faces, Russians, Redefining Fun, Kyushu Folk, and the Truth About Kimonos
The verse in the Bible, "one cannot serve two masters" does not apply in this context. Here's why. I juggle two bosses just fine. I have a boss-boss who allows me legal status here in Japan by serving as my work sponsor, giving enough money to pay my rent and bills. I also have my mayor-boss whom I report to in Rikuzentakata. I'm a libra. Balance is my middle name. This arrangement works for all.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Compliments, Sumo, My Latest Crush, and Xenophobia
It's been awhile. Hi.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
Monday, August 11, 2014
I Am Not Depressed
I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another. Elements of a culture may be beautiful. More beautiful than others. Elements of a culture may be cruel. How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine. Yours may differ. Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way. Some days this is just fine. Other days it's anything but.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
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.
"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.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
The Man I Didn't Punch
Japan finally decided to make possession of child pornography a crime.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Mary's Skunk and PTSD
Once upon a time, Mary may indeed have had a little lamb. I'm sure it was a cute, fluffy thing. Several months back, the animal belonging to Mary was a skunk. Which she gave to me, she said, because it matched my outfit and because I reminded her of Liza Minnelli. Okay.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
A Weighty Topic
It's funny but it's not. Everywhere I go in Japan, my weight becomes a subject of much discussion and debate. I'm big. I'm tall. I've lost weight. I've gotten fat. I have a small face. I have "impressive" breasts. I'm well proportioned. How nice it must be to be me.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A New Approach to Letting it Go (Let it Go)
It's been some time since I watched a Disney movie. With my son now a grown man I've not had the pleasure. Or need. Or, frankly, the desire. But, because I am not one who follows convention but rather my own mind I pick and choose. While Disney has long ago left the category I search to decide what to watch today, the latest blockbuster has caught my eye. "Frozen" or "Anna and the Queen of Snow" as it's called in Japan and its theme song has brought me a whole new kind of joy.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
Monday, April 7, 2014
On Seat Mates Who Read Girlie Magazines
Never have I woken up and wished to be seated next to a man reading porn on a train. Evidently, and I'm learning this the hard way, not wishing for something specific has nothing to do with the universe and it's ... sense of humor? ...
As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.
My seat mate is reading porn. A girlie magazine. There are photos. There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness.
Porn in your bedroom? Fine.
Porn in public? On the train? Next to me? Not fine.
Do I say something?
What would I say?
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?" Scratch that. I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.
Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a crowded train does not mean it is in Japan. Whose morals rule in such a case? Japan is not my country. He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner. Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency. Right? Really?
What if I read it with him? Is that being passive-aggressive? If that were the case, would that be so bad?
What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman? Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better? It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.
What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now? I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls. Sorry. Dumb foreigner. I don't know the rules. Do I dare? Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind? Would he care?
So far I have no answers. Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think. I'm open for suggestions.
As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.
My seat mate is reading porn. A girlie magazine. There are photos. There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness.
Porn in your bedroom? Fine.
Porn in public? On the train? Next to me? Not fine.
Do I say something?
What would I say?
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?" Scratch that. I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.
Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a crowded train does not mean it is in Japan. Whose morals rule in such a case? Japan is not my country. He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner. Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency. Right? Really?
What if I read it with him? Is that being passive-aggressive? If that were the case, would that be so bad?
What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman? Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better? It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.
What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now? I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls. Sorry. Dumb foreigner. I don't know the rules. Do I dare? Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind? Would he care?
So far I have no answers. Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think. I'm open for suggestions.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
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
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
Saturday, March 1, 2014
On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter
I was cheated. All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo. Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set. All my girl friends had them. All of my girl friends had them. Not me. I am forever scared. My parents did me a great disservice. Send me a box of Band-Aids.
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Ad in the Train
Tokyo subways are covered with ads. Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip. Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform. I don't mind these much. I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news. Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo. Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Men Behaving Badly and Women Who Push Back
I mean, really. The remarks themselves are sexist enough, but the whole lack-of-creativity part also irks me. You want to put women down? Come up with something other than "if you bleed you can't lead."
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Friday, January 31, 2014
The Art of Complaining
The magnet on my grandmother's refrigerator read, "The more you
complain, the longer God lets you live." I believed this because
grandma did. In my corner of the world, this woman did no wrong.
Conclusion? Don't complain. When I found this same magnet in a gift
shop I bought it, displaying it proudly on my dishwasher at eye-level,
certain my son would see, learn, and agree.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion
To each their own. Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong? I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine. Hard is just hard. Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that. Let's not compare. Let's not one-up each other.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories
Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once. Even today, I feel cheated. Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew. Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist. No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
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