The Swaggerer

There was a time in my life were I was sort of a cop.  I say "sort of" because explaining what I really did gets complicated, and it's not necessarily untrue to say I was "sort of" a cop.  So ... I'm sticking with it.  I bring this up to tell you a story.

One day my partner and I were out on a stakeout.  Yes, it was one of those scenes-you-see-in-the-movies stakesouts.  We were in our car.  He had his giant camera with this super-charged lens and we were waiting for the bad guys to show up.  At one point, a group of people passed our car, so he quickly hid the camera and hissed, "Yell at me.  We need to be having a fight."  Happy to oblige, I started telling him what a loser he was, how "completely annoying you can be sometimes" and in short, let it all out.  I felt wonderful.  He was pretty amazed I could spew venom on cue.  I wasn't.  (He could be pretty annoying at times.)

When the bad guys started showing up, he'd click away, shutters rattling off one captured frame after another while I sat and tried to figure out who was who.  See, here's the thing.  We knew who they were, we just didn't know which one was which.  We had to match faces to names.  (It's a long story.)

Then I saw him.  He got out of his car (I think it was a Volvo) and after he chirped the car alarm he walked towards the meeting place.  Here's the clincher:  THE MAN SWAGGERED.  I kid you not.  It was definitely a swagger.  He was swaggering.

"That's so-and-so," I said to my partner.
"How do you know?"
"He's swaggering."
"I can't put that in a report!"
"Write what you want.  That's the guy.  That's the boss."

Here's where my partner started to guffaw.  I mean tears-and-snorts kind of a laughter with lingering giggles still minutes later.  Annoyed (which is why it was so easy to yell at him earlier) I stood my ground.  As it turned out, I was right.  He was the head honcho and his swagger proved it.

I bring up this story because I saw a man swagger today.  From the back, I swore to myself here was a Japanese mobster in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  The odds of me being right this time were slim.  But, the man had that swagger.  The same one Japanese yakuza guys have.  As do the arrogant, "do-you-see-this-giant-chip-on-my-shoulder" guys, and the "I'm-such-a-badass-you-can't-touch-me" guys who aren't really bad but want the world to think they are.  It takes a unique Japanese male to pull off a real swagger.  This guy today had it down pat.  When I saw him cross the street and climb into his cab, I was very sorry to admit there was no way this guy was a Japanese badass.  A wannabe, maybe.  But not the real deal.  It amazed me, though, that here would be a middle-aged Asian man who looks the part, walks the part, has that "I'm-a-tough-guy" routine all tightly choreographed, but is only a taxi driver.  (And I use the word "only" here with the utmost respect for taxi drivers.)

There's a swaggerer I work with up north in the Tohoku region of Japan.  He's one of these "I-want-to-look-bad" guys, and his reputation could be better.  He wouldn't be happy if he knew I was spilling to the world he's not nearly as badass as he thinks he is.  But, here again is that swagger.  With him, it's more a "get-out-of-my-way" walk but it's there.  People do scurry when they see him.  Children don't like him.  He's "that scary uncle" to most kids, and if they know he's coming for dinner, they'll find homework that didn't get done earlier or preparation for tomorrow that they swore they didn't need when asked before they knew of uncle's arrival.

Men who swagger are truly a breed of their own.  I hope some day you see one only because you really must see to believe.   And, try not to laugh when you do see them.  That act wouldn't be appreciated.

When Size Matters

There is an international boarding/day school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo known for its strict and rigid rules.  A decent number of alumnae live in Tokyo still, and every now and then a group of us get together to reminisce.  This walk down memory lane usually gets tawdry very quickly, the telling of stories causing gut-, and side-splitting laughter; the restaurant we're at on any given night almost always regrets letting us in. 

Last night was one such night.

Quite a sight, we are.  I am the lone woman who goes to these evenings out--the consensus being I'm the only one who can handle the abuse and stories of completely inappropriate behavior from days long past--a compliment, I know, albeit cloaked.  It's a good thing I can dish out similar libel, have thick skin and stories of my own, many of which include embarrassing moments my friends' memory has conveniently erased.

Our teachers would be surprised by the lives we lead today.  Collectively, our reputations and grades would have led most to assume none of us would end up this successful.  Proud of our accomplishments, we toast our teachers for being wrong.  Very wrong.

As we made our way out of one eatery to another, over-staying our welcome at the first place, we walk down stairs leading into what can only be described as a present-day dungeon sans the torture tools.  There are no chairs here.  It's dark, cramped, and as we file past those already standing with their food and drinks, we all mutter our "excuse me"s pushing up against the already imprisoned.  The hallway is that narrow and that tight.  This place is small.  Lamps hanging on the walls offer little light, and monsters and dragons could very easily poke their heads around any given corner.  I feel like I'm in 13th century France.  We file into the corner booth arguing over how much space my purse takes up, who stands where, who's claustrophobic.  And here it begins.  The Japanese man standing closest to us, clearly wanting to hang out with the "cool kids" comments on the height of one of the gang.  Again.  And again.

Which gets me thinking.  We are a hodge-podge of sizes.  There's the really tall one, the tall and thick one, the short and stocky one, and the medium-height thin one.  And then me.  We represent all sizes, makes and models. 

I ponder this for a moment.  Comments about height and weight fly out of the mouths of most Japanese I know with seemingly remarkable ease.  There is typically some discussion of my weight when I get together with those who haven't seen me for a month.  I've either lost weight or gained.   A discussion ensues among those who have opinions on my weight.  I'm usually not a part of these chats that take place as if I was invisible and unable to hear the result of the general consensus.  Fascinating.

No one I know back home would dare, ever comment on my weight, but here in Japan it seems to be a free-for-all topic.  I ponder this, too.  Casting aside judgment on why it's okay to comment on peoples' weight here in Japan, I instead think about how the Japanese have changed.

I am no longer the tallest or heaviest woman I know in Japan.  Anywhere I go, I'm surrounded by women who are larger than me.  Growing up here, for the most part, this was never the case.  While in the US, I am shorter than the average woman and "normal" in weight, here in Japan, I've always been tall and borderline heavy.  Today there are plenty of women who are taller (even without the four-inch heels) and who show the results of a diet rich in meat and milk.  Japanese bodies are changing.

And then there are the men.  Talk show hosts in Japan can often be heard discussing how young Japanese men prefer to remain single, living at home and interacting with the virtual world more than the real one, content to eat their mother's cooking.  Relationships?  Too bothersome.  Jobs?  Meh.

There is another crop of young men in Japan many find just as troubling:  the beautiful ones.  Arched and plucked eyebrows, coiffed hair full of product and seriously styled, clothes that make us all wonder who's credit card is being used, these men are elegant, beautiful, and thin.  Called "the vegetarians" for their--what?--lack of interest in anything hearty?  For the most part, boys don't grow up wanting to emulate this subculture of young men who personify nothing masculine. 

The fifteen days of sumo, the summer bout, which ended on Sunday shows the exact opposite.  Men meant to be large show off their strength and skill as they collide into each other.  Here, too, their weight and size is a topic of discussion.  Even in the world of sumo, the ultimate in sports where size matters there is evidently something to being too heavy.  I continue to marvel at how "appropriate" size is defined.

In a world where size continually matters, where we are all but defined by our height and weight, and in a country where comments about both fly out of mouths way too quickly I wonder what lies ahead for the new Japan.  Beautiful but seemingly weak men, women who are taller and larger than their mothers, and the ongoing commentary on observations regarding the size of gaijins (myself included) all make for interesting material for those inadvertently embroiled in the discussion over how size matters. 

On Women in Japan: "The Rules Are Different Here"

Sometimes it's the conversations we have with our best of friends who then turn around and say something we weren't expecting that hit us the hardest.  This is one such case.

I get a call from a dear friend in Tohoku.  Let's call him Yuta.

"A bunch of us are concerned about the amount of time you spend with Kiki," he says out of the blue.  (Kiki is not her real name.)
"Why?"
And so it begins.
"Well, this is a bit hard to say but Kiki doesn't have a very good reputation in town.  She's business first, and then there's the fact she spends so much time out drinking at night--away from her husband and kids."
I don't say anything.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"It's not okay that she's doing this."
"What do you mean by 'this'?  Is it the she's-focused-on-getting-her-business-off-the-ground part that's not okay or the staying-out-late-at-night part?"
"Well, the latter mostly.  Women, wives and mothers, can't just go out and party like she does.  And, to be focused on business over family, that's not cool either."

I like Yuta.  A lot.  Which is why his words pain me.  She's not allowed to be focused on her store and she's not supposed to be going out at night because she's a woman?  Because she's a wife and a mother?  Seriously?

"Let me get this straight," I say.  "It's because she's a woman that these things aren't okay."
Yuta pauses before he answers.  "Yeah."
"And, this is why you think I should spend less time with her.  That my reputation will some how be tarnished by being associated with her.  Is that right?"
"Something like that."

Poor Yuta.  If he were anyone else, if we weren't as close as we are he wouldn't have gotten the beating that came next.  I simply lost it.  I went for the jugular.

"You guys, you men, this is normal for you.  You're always out drinking, socializing, staying out late.  You guys prioritize your businesses over your families all the time.  That's okay, right?  That's what men do, right?  So, when Kiki does the same thing, trying to restart her business so she can contribute to the family income, and when she enjoys life with her unmarried friends for dinner or drinks, that's not okay.  Because she's a woman?  Are you kidding me?"  Yuta is trying to cut in but I won't let him.  "And, what about me then?  Some in the States say 'you left your husband behind to work in Japan.'  I go out with you guys, and Kiki.  We eat.  We stay out late.  Why is it okay for me and not for Kiki?  Is it because I'm American?  The rules are different for me?  Or is it just that the rules are different for Kiki because she should know better?  Local woman, married with kids, she's supposed to pack up her shop promptly at five pm and go home and cook dinner and bathe her children?  Yuta, this is dumb.  You can't say 'it's okay for Amya' but 'it's not okay for Kiki.'  You just can't."

I've hit a nerve.  Yuta's angry now, too.

"Look.  I'm just telling you what people are saying about Kiki."
"Back her up then!  You're in a position to tell those who say this about her that she shouldn't get read the riot act, get the cold shoulder just because she's a woman.  Do you say that?  Why don't you say that?"
Yuta sighs.  "The rules are different here," and adds, "for women."
"That's ridiculous," I snap.
"Yes, it is.  But it's also true.  You're right.  You don't get the same crap thrown at you because you're here helping us get back on our feet, and because you're a foreigner.  No one would dare say that about you."

We're both quiet.  I'm oddly completely drained from having yelled at him, and he's hurt his advice has been met with such a violent reaction.  Soon we mumble our good-byes and hang up.  The rest of my day I get very little done, my thoughts going back to Kiki, and Yuta's words.  The injustice of the existence of different rules for women infuriate me.  Do I stop seeing Kiki?  No way.  I won't get sucked into this muck.  Is Yuta right, though?  Will I get less done if I hang out with "the wrong crowd"?  Do I ignore these rules or play nicely in the sandbox?

The next time Yuta and I talk, I apologize.  I took it out on him, and that wasn't right.  He was giving me a heads up, and I could have taken that as valuable information but didn't.  He understands.  He agrees the double-standard is unjust.  There are more pauses in our conversation this time, each of us dancing around the uncomfortable air between us.

"I'm not going to stop hanging out with Kiki," I finally say.
"I didn't think you would.  Especially not after what you said last time."
"I realize I may be taking a chance, a risky one, that people will stop working with me because I spend time with Kiki.  But, I guess I honestly don't believe that will happen.  I'm associated with a lot of different groups.  Not everyone I work with is thought well of.  Right?"
"Right."
"If I as a woman stop supporting Kiki because she's a woman...well, that's a line I can't cross.  It's some code we have as women.  Or something."

Yuta says he understands and I choose to believe him.  The subject of Kiki hasn't come up since.  I've known the rules are different for women in Japan, and especially so in Tohoku.  To have them so clearly spelled out for me, however, is unsettling and off-putting.  My choice to ignore cultural protocol for the sake of supporting my kind may or may not have repercussions.  To date, I think I'm fine.  I'll let you know.

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 1

My first encounter with groping, a chikan, came at age 12.  The entire sixth grade went to an indoor skating rink to...play?  Practice?  I don't remember.  What I do remember about that day was the hand between my legs as we stood outside waiting for the bus to take us back to school.  Knowing in an instant what was going on, I was being felt up and groped, I spun around only to see a blue coat running away.  Shocked and livid, I followed the boy in the blue coat with my eyes until I lost him.  I must have had "the look" as a classmate next to me said, "What's wrong?" to which I replied,
"Find a boy in a blue coat."
"Why?"
"Just do it."  One boy, another classmate, laughed, "Were you felt up?" and I gave him a look I hoped would kill him on the spot.  Did he know?  How?  The anger I felt inside scared me.  What just happened?

I never did find that boy.  I don't remember what, if anything I said to my parents that night.  I do remember seething rage, shame, and an ultimate sense of violation.  Had I found the boy, I was truly prepared to get violent.  Not having physically fought at that age, I probably would have done the only thing I knew would cause boys immense pain, the thing I was specifically told not to do:  kick him in the balls.  Repeatedly.

Fast forward several decades and I'm in the car with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  The topic of chikans (gropers)  comes up for some reason, and he says, "You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I reply.
"No, I mean it.  You're a target.  Your type is 'in' right now."
"What's that supposed to mean?  My type?"
"Japan's going through a jukujo phase."  This is a new word for me.
"What's that?"
"Think about it.  The characters."  I do, but I can't place what the character for juku would be.  I ask him.
"Ripe," he replies.
"Ripe woman?"
"Uh huh."
"What the hell is a 'ripe woman'?"  He looks at me.
"Think," he says back.  "You're it.  Middle-aged.  Experienced.  Willing.  Desperate."
I'm shocked.  That's what Japanese men like now?  This is what Japanese men think middle-aged women want?  They think I project this?
"You're middle-aged," Alpha Male continues.  "You're presumably," pausing, "experienced."  I'm about to object to the "willing" and "desperate" part but before I can say anything he adds, "And, you've got, well, boobs--padding top and bottom.  You're what men are in to now."  I don't now whether this is a compliment or an insult.  I'm stunned.  I look down at my chest.  For what?  To see if my breasts are still there?  I don't know what to say.  Picking up on my confusion and shock, Alpha Males says, "Look.  Just be careful, okay?"

Browse any Japanese porn site and sure enough, there's now a jukujo category.  The requisite links to lolitas, maids, foreigners, and wives (the last fetish) are still present.  Clubs listing services, prices, faces of the women with their ages compete for men from sexless marriages.  Or, perhaps just those who want a little fun on the side.  Who knows.  The point is, there's now a category for men looking for ripe, middle-aged women.  We don't have to be pretty.  Or thin.  In fact, many I see on these sites are neither.  Willing and desperate.  Those two words haunt me.

What is it about Japan where women are bought for sex (but "legally"), felt up on trains to the point there are now cars for women only, and if strong are considered loud and "not-for-marriage-material"?

I noticed the signs in train stations two years ago when I came back to Japan for a longer stay.  These posters weren't there before.  Now prominent, they're everywhere--loud, angry.  "Groping is a crime."  "Report a chikan."  "Ask for help."  It's not just the women being groped who are supposed to call out for help.  Those who see what's going on are supposed to speak out as well.

This poster, specifically the writing in orange print has confused me.  The literal translations is something like, "'I did it on a whim' is not an excuse."  What?  I like to think I know a thing or two about Japanese ways of thinking.  That this warning is supposed to curb that desire to grope, that it would prevent assaulting a woman is, even by Japanese standards lame.  I ask Alpha Male about it.  "How's this supposed to deter?"
"The idea is to keep men who wouldn't normally grope from going through with it.  On a whim, as the poster says."
"That's stupid," I say angrily.  "That makes no sense."
"It also means, the reasoning 'I did it cause I felt like it' doesn't fly."
"And this poster would make men think twice?"
"Yeah."
"Really?  You really believe that?"
Alpha Male pauses.  "The point is, these posters are now visible.  They're posted in trains and throughout train stations.  Before they weren't.  Everyone knew about chikans but no one reported them.  Women wouldn't say 'Stop!' so men went on groping, whereas now men are aware women can say that.  And do.  It's supposed to make men think twice before they do something stupid."

This man is important to me.  He's my go-to man in Japan.  But, that the man I think so highly of comes out with this explanation pains me.  He can't believe this, can he?  Is Alpha Male just another Japanese man?  My silence and anger bothered him evidently, as he asks, "You okay?"  No, I'm not okay.  You don't get it either.  You never have to worry about this.  That you're huge is deterrent enough, but more than that you're male.  You're Japanese.  I can't possibly expect you to understand.  But, you of all people--I was counting on you to get this.

None of this comes out, but I think it.
"Hey," he says, touching my arm.  "You okay?"
"Yeah," I reply and don't meet his eyes.  "I'm fine."

I'm not, of course.  I think back to a television talk show I watched, a sort of "Facts About Japan" show where a group of foreigners on one side point out things uniquely Japanese, as another group of Japanese celebrities and the like offered back commentary.  The group of foreigners, thirty or so, are comprised of people from different countries.  On this day, a Russian woman did a report on why there was so much Japanese smut in newspapers and posters visible to all.
"It's called the 'pink pages' or something," she complained.  "Why is there Japanese pornography being advertised on trains?  Why do newspapers have a section reporting on where to go for sex?"
I remember this because a young woman representing South Korea spoke up following the Russian.
"Why don't women actually speak up when they're being groped on trains?  Why do they suffer silently?"
Bravo, dear woman.  My point exactly.

"You don't get it," I replied to Alpha Male after he checked to see whether or not I got what he was saying.
"You don't ever have to worry about groping or having unwanted advances hurled at you or being a target of harassment or assault.  No one's ever going to feel you up."  I'm angry.  Of all people, I want him to understand.  He doesn't speak for what seems a very long time.  When he does I know he's choosing his words carefully.
"I can see how you'd think that," he offers.  "But, Japan is changing.  Japan is trying to change."
"By creating a new target of women to grope?  Middle-aged women who, what?"  I wave my hand around in the air.  "Project it's okay to be felt up because we're desperate?"
"This is Japan," I hear him say and it almost sounds like he's pleading.  "It's not right.  I know it's not like this overseas," and I interrupt.
"You got that right."
He inhales.
"Look," but I cut him off.
"No.  It's not right.  What the hell?!  I'm now a part of a targeted group of women for groping?  Because of my age?  Because I've got 'padding' as you say?  What am I supposed to do?  Not ride trains?"
"Do you want me to tell you these things or not?"  He snaps at me.  Oh wow.  Are we fighting?

I recall this conversation to my husband.
"You've got to be careful with this 'you-can't-possibly-understand-because-your-male' attitude," he says.
"It's true, though.  You can't understand."
"But, saying it that way is off-putting.  It's not much of a leap for us to then say, 'Fine, then.  If I can't understand I won't try.'  That's not what you want."
"No, that's not what I want.  I want you to fight along with us.  I want you to be as upset as we are.  I know you can't empathize, but I want your anger."
"Some people will understand what you're saying.  Others won't.  You have to decide if Alpha Male is one of those guys who will understand."

I want Alpha Male in my corner.  I do want Alpha Male to tell me these tidbits about what's "in" even if I'm angered by the content.  Alpha Male epitomizes objectivity, safety and neutrality.  He's calm.  He doesn't rattle--except during this back-and-forth about me being the latest target for gropers.  I'm caught between my anger and not wanting to sound hysterical.  I feel hysterical.  And angry.  Not wanting to actually fight him futher, I decide to tell him a story.

"I was told once about this American woman who came to Japan on business.  She got felt up and fought back.  She grabbed the wrist between her legs, dragged the guy off the train at the next stop and proceeded to beat the shit out of him right there on the platform.  People came running over, and she was the one arrested--charged with assault.  He claimed he didn't grope her.  She said he did.  He got off but she got arrested, all because people saw her beating him and no one but her knew it was his groping wrist she grabbed."
Neither of us say anything for awhile.  "This is what I'm up against," I say finally.  "It's a he-said-she-said.  I can't actually prove it's him if he denies it."  When Alpha Male speaks, his words make my heart race.  I'm about to cry.

Softly, he says, "Has this happened to you, too?"

...to be continued.