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 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. 

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.

The Other Election

It's hard to write about this topic without sounding like I'm mocking the group, its founder, and the girls and women.  Observing this phenomenon as an anthropologist might, my goal is to report without casting judgment.  On this particular subject objectivity is hard to muster up.  Feel free to look for a tone in what I write.  Cloaked as it is (might be?) here is a side of Japanese culture I struggle to understand.

Let's first define the topic.  AKB48 is a group of young women and girls who were handpicked by Yasushi Akimoto.  In his own right, Akimoto, a lyricist, a television writer and producer is a genius.  Seemingly out of nowhere, he created AKB48 (AKB is short for Akihabara--Tokyo's tech district also known for its maid cafes and socially awkward men--otaku).  Now the highest grossing group in Japan with a ridiculous following by men and women, they're everywhere:  on television, documentaries, concerts, commercials, and the annual election.  To be sure, there's drama.  There's the sassy one, the cute and demure, the ones who break rules and are punished, rivals, competition, cat fights, those who pull off the not-so-bright act (?) with ease, the scary one, the sex pot, and everything inbetween.  Put them together and they make for good television.  Or so Akimoto says.

The following they have proves him right.  An idol group like no other, these women and girls have a major cult following.  One which, to date, I simply do not understand.

The highlight of the year is the election.  Let's call it what it is:  a glorified popularity contest.  For weeks building up to the big event, commentators spend time outlining their predictions--who will win and why.  From what I understand, the winner is picked by votes.  Possibly (?) the votes are cast by CDs bought?  That part is unclear.  (I haven't bothered to check.)  The election, called just that, was last week.  The winner?  The mouthy one.  She gets the middle spot as they sing and dance, the coveted position.

Except that the mouthy one was demoted last year to a regional, tier two group as punishment for something I forgot to follow.  Her victory means she gets to come back to Group A?  Akimoto will decide, I'm sure. 

The election is one major event for AKB48, the janken (rock-scissors-paper) championship is another.  Both of these shows get ratings that would make the Miss America pageant cringe with envy.  The janken championship is just that--they compete one-on-one with a quick game of rock-scissors-paper.  What skill is involved in a game of rock-scissors-paper continues to elude me (mathematical probability?) but the girls vow to win showing up in dresses and costumes befitting a group aimed at attracting the socially-challenged.

I applaud Akimoto's genius and talent, that he figured out this is exactly what Japan needs, delivering in ways that has shocked us all.  The spin-off groups throughout Japan are not as popular, only because they're AKB48 wannabes, not quite there yet, not quite ready for the big stage.  There's talk of additional spin-off groups in Taiwan and Indonesia, but I honestly have not been able to find the time to confirm, much less follow this.

I wish the sassy one well.  She'll have another year of guaranteed coverage unless (until?) she does something to piss off the big man again.

Without casting judgment, let me conclude by saying this:  I don't get it.  Akimoto's brilliance, yes.  It's hard to miss.  Hard to ignore.  The rest of it--the hype, massive following, and popularity--it's a mystery.

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. 

Women in Japan: On Being Womanly

Womanhood in Japan is like a souffle.  When rising, it’s soft, delicious, and full of potential.  Behind that potential is the possibility this sweet goodness will fall.  Sometimes the proverbial souffle comes crashing down.  Some days I spend quite a bit of time wondering how my life would be if I were a Japanese woman.  My answers waiver between “just like me now” and “not at all something I’d like to experience.”  This bothers me.

On a recent visit by a high-ranking female foreign dignitary to the tsunami-ravaged remnants of Tohoku, I was told the following by one of the men I was with:  “Foreign women in power still look womanly.  Japanese women, when they become powerful, politicians and the like, they look like men.”  I offered a “Huh” because that’s all I could come up with on the spot.  I’ve pondered this comment since.

What does it mean to be womanly in Japan?  I think of powerful foreign women I know personally and those I’ve seen on television.  I don’t think this man was saying women in pantsuits look manly.  I’ve seen plenty of foreign women in pantsuits.  I don’t think it has to do with hair length, the application of make up, or types of jewelry worn.  I go through lists of what it’s not, and come to one conclusion:  foreign women wear power better than Japanese women, because Japanese women aren’t meant to be powerful.

I ponder this some more.  Powerful women in Japan that I know are usually outspoken—not a flattering trait for a woman here to have.  Powerful women in Japan make decisions and give orders—upsetting the historical balance between who’s wearing the pants in any given scenario.  Powerful women in Japan make their own money—leaving no room for men to “provide for you.”  What was it then about this foreign dignitary that left an impression on this individual as being womanly?  Is it simply a matter of being pretty?  Was she some how able to exude professionalism and competence while not intimidating the men around her?  Why are strong women considered intimidating in Japan?  Why is it better for strong women to be womanly?  I feel like someone has poked my souffle and it’s rapidly falling.  My subconscious is screaming, “Plug the hole!  Plug the hole!”  Before I can, I need answers.  As of now, I'm stumbling, trying to work this through.

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 2

Alpha Male’s question hits hard.  I don’t want to answer him about whether I’ve been felt up on Tokyo trains by perverts.  I’m embarrassed.  In the silence between us it’s clear the ball is in my court.  It’s my turn to speak.  I look at him.

“I don’t want to tell you.”
“It’s okay.  You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical.  Except it’s not.  This is him trying.  We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know.  I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses.  “Yes, I know.  But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it.  At least not the way you want me to.”

I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk.  The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes.  We pass a car dealership.  I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it.  My mind is blank.

“Hey,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.  “I’m thinking.”  I lie.  Do I tell him?  How will he understand if I don’t?  It’s time.  Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me.  It’s eating away at my soul.

“Well,” I start, “let me tell you some stories.”  I decide to cover myself—a poor attempt to maintain anonymity.  “I won’t say whether any of these stories happened to me or someone I know.”  He doesn’t speak.
“Okay,” he says slowly.  “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.”  And, I begin.

“She was standing near the door.  She could see her reflection in the window because it was dark out.  The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck.  It smelled like beer.  Then she felt a hand on her butt, moving up and down.  ‘Nice ass,’ he said.  She glared at his reflection in the window.  He grinned back at her.  They were communicating through their reflections.  ‘It’s big, your ass,’ he said.  This shame,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “This shame—it’s powerful.  There’s shame, and then there’s anger.  It’s pretty scary stuff, making the heart race in a way that’s probably really unhealthy.”  I look out the window again.  “She’s wearing heels today, and decides to fight back.  She leans back into him, and two things happen at once.  He says, ‘So you like it?’ and she steps on his foot.  He’s wearing soft shoes, tennis shoes maybe, and so the heel digs down.  She hears, ‘Ow!’ so she knows she’s got him.  She keeps putting her weight down on her heel and feels him trying to pull his foot out.  He pulls his hand off her butt, and he’s now pushing against her back.  She keeps stepping down.  ‘Stop it’ he whispers, and it’s a violent whisper.  Something pops in his foot and he yelps.  People are looking at him.  She sees this in the window reflection and smiles, no sneers at him.  He gets off at the next train station, limping.”

Alpha Male laughs.  “Good girl!  She fought back!  I’m impressed.”

Feeling bold with what I take is his support, I go on.

“Then there was this time this woman just shamed him.  Feeling a hand moving up and down her thigh making its way toward her butt, she just said right there, out loud ‘Get your hand off my butt.’  Everyone went quiet.  Immediately.  He didn’t pull his hand away, so she said it again.  ‘Will you please get your hand off my butt.’  He did.  The man standing next to her asked if she was okay.  Before she could answer the doors in front of her opened and the man behind her pushed her aside and ran out, flying down the stairs in front of them.”

“She spoke up.  That’s good,” Alpha Male is encouraging.
“Yeah.”  My face is burning.
“So, when you say middle-aged women are targets, well I guess I appreciate the warning, but it’s hard to hear.”
“I’m telling you these things so you’ll know.”
“I know that.  I know, but…”

We pull up to a subway station.  This is where I’m to get out.  I stay in the car and say, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes.  “These are things we don’t hear a lot about.  Real stories, I mean.  I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife.  I guess I should ask her.  If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do.  My wife, too.  All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know.  Thanks.”  I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me.  Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence. 
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door.  This is ridiculous.  I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen.  “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”

I get out, wave good-bye and walk down the stairs towards my next ride through the tunnels of underground Tokyo.  When I get on the train, I look around me and see who is where and make my way to the corner, pushing my back up against the wall trying to look as nonchalant as I can.

Japan may be changing, visible warnings of impending arrest for those who assault women on trains.  For women who have been groped, these changes cannot happen fast enough.  The moral of the story is this:  whatever your type may be, it’s never okay to feel women up on trains; speak up; and, keep talking about this. 

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.