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.

The Problem With Giving

Large organizations, UNHCR and Harvard Medical School and the like are said to offer up "two" as the magic number.  Two years post a natural disaster and things change.  Aid dries up, and those left behind must find their own way.  I've pondered this of late as I found myself muddling through a sea of obnoxious requests, outrageous comments made about aid received, and an overall ugly sense of entitlement creeping into the Tohoku disaster region as a whole.  Two-plus years since a series of tsunamis wiped out Japan's northeastern coastline, there's absolute truth work still needs to be done.  Equally, a victim-mentality and a "gimme gimme" environment is now just as prevalent as is the community of those who are striving to move on.

If the statement "what doesn't break you makes you stronger" is true, many in Tohoku are now broken.  How and where does one find the will to rebuild without an income?  Those who are elderly (adult diaper sales surpassed baby diaper sales for the first time in Japan) should take out a loan to build a house where they will ... what?  Move in and die?  Words like these sound crass and cold.  That doesn't make them untrue.

Wide-spread depression, questions on how to move forward, whether life is worth living are all present.  This is not to say most feel this way.  I say this to point out with the passage of time and little tangible improvement hope wanes.

Is it then natural for those so used to the twisted combination of grief and pain who have also asked for and received pretty much all they need to now use their loss to ask for more?  The word to focus on is "natural" and the implication, "is this normal?"  That I am being asked to raise funds for items no one would dare have wished for just a few months back ... what does this mean?

Some complaints I've heard about items received remind me of an ill-behaved child who would scold grandma for giving her a birthday cake with white icing instead of pink.  Others impress me with their justification for why they need a new (insert pretty much anything here).

I can't quote the Rolling Stones and sing to them "you can't always get what you want."  Nor can I bring up the example of how ridiculous it is for little girls to ask for ponies for Christmas, the ultimate in a "but I want one thus deserve it" argument.  In the minds of many disaster victims, they truly "need" that item the rest of us don't have.  Does their pain explain their behavior?  Does being a victim mean they should get to ask for whatever they want and expect it?  If you knew the kinds of requests I'm getting I think you would agree, the answer is "NO."

Giving in post-disaster Tohoku needs to change.  For this to happen, donors must know what defines a "must have" versus "wouldn't it be nice if."  This requires a level of honesty among those in Tohoku that is lacking.  There's no other nicer way of saying this.  For many outside of Tohoku there's a real desire to help, especially now that time has passed and the residents left behind feel forgotten.  Offering up everything on their wish list is not the way to offer aid.  They won't like me saying this, but again, that doesn't make it any less true.

The ugliest part about this is what I can't and won't share:  the actual examples.  I purposely block the nasty parts of the reality of Tohoku giving (and receiving) from reaching you because if you knew what some wanted and that word got out to the donors ("they asked for what?") aid would dry up right then and there.  (At least from that donor and others they choose to tell.)  This is why I post updates like this.  You're getting the truth.  Just not all of it. 

My point is this:  I ask for reflection from donors going forward.  Are you giving because you want to check off your "I donated" box?  Is this a real need?  Whom does it help?   This is not a band-aid?  Where are you getting your information?  How much of this aid is actually reaching the recipient?  Do you trust the NPO/NGO/organization you're donating to?  Are you sure they're not sucking up your donation as they "spread it out among the locals"?

The magical "two year mark" has come and gone.  Going forward, I ask for and urge caution, care, honesty, and rechecking facts before checks are cut, items sent, offer extended.  No, little girls in Tohoku do not deserve a "pony" for their birthday.  Grandma gives you a birthday cake?  The words you're looking for are "thank you" and not a complaint about the color of the icing.  Yes, these are examples.  I settle for these as the truth would make us all weep.

Think before you give.  I'm gently working in Tohoku on the "think before you ask" part.  Hopefully between the two parties putting more thought into what is truly needed there can be more of the kind of aid truly needed.

Behold The Power of Santa

Christmas in Japan is about Christmas Eve.  Christmas Day is not a holiday.  No one I know is taking the day off tomorrow.  This means anything Christmas-related needs to happen today.  If I may spin this for a moment, in my defense I couldn't have gotten Santa's letter to this child on Christmas Eve if I tried.  Let me back up.

Dozens of Santas visited Tohoku schools prior to Christmas Eve last year in an attempt to bring joy to children who had gone through varying degrees of trauma post March 11th.  In theory, this was good.  In reality, this confused the kids.

"Which one is real?"
"Why is Santa Japanese?"  Pictures of Santa these kids have seen show a foreign-looking grandpa.
"Will Santa still come on Christmas Eve?"

Touche.

School principals made it clear to me "No Santa" this year.  In an attempt to be creative while finding a way to continue the Christmas tradition of gifts-to-kids-in-Tohoku, I took Santa's son.  It worked.  Not accustomed to thinking Santa has a family but still making sense Santa would be generous to come early via his son, the kids ate it up.  And, the candy Santa's son brought.

At one preschool, after gifts had been given out and Santa's son and the reindeer (me and another friend) had been serenaded with songs, kids came up to us sly looks on their faces.  The three of us were handed home-made Christmas trees--pine cones decorated with glitter, sitting in a bottle cap for a base.  We oohed and aahed appropriately.  I believe I even giggled a bit.

After the cheering died down, one boy got up standing out in the sea of seated children.  He walked over to the podium and pulled out a cardboard Christmas tree.  Making his way to Santa's son, the tree passes from boy to man and everyone starts talking at once.  The principal shushing us, says, "Daisuke made this just for you," and I swear I'm about to lose it.

Santa's son leans down, pats the boy's head and says, "I'll take this to my dad, Santa.  He'll be so glad you made this for him."  The boy beams.  I blink hard.  I will not lose it.  I will not lose it.  I will not lose it.  We left touched, loved, basking in the feeling we did something good on this day.  So far so good. 

Fast forward a week and I'm back with Santa's son.  He hands me a letter.  "Can you get this to Daisuke?"  I'm stunned.  He remembered.  I open the card, a pop-up Christmas image inside.  On the back Santa wrote,

"Dear Daisuke,
Thank you for the wonderful Christmas tree you gave me.  My son gave it to me.  It made me very happy.  I will never forget you or this gift.  Thank you very much.  Be a good boy next year, too.  Love, Santa Claus."

I look up at Santa's son and am speechless.  "I'll get this to Daisuke.  I promise."  That was Saturday afternoon.  I make a mental note to make my way to the post office on Monday (today) to send Santa's letter express so it will get there on Christmas Day.  I'm pleased with myself.  I can make this happen.

Or not.  I wake up on Monday morning and it hits me.  The Emperor's birthday was yesterday.  A Sunday.  That makes this a holiday as well.  I run to my laptop.  They have to be open.  I find my local post office branch and look at their hours.  "Not open on holidays."  No.  No, no, no!

I resolve to make this work.  I breathe.

The preschool is closed today.  That means I can't reach the principal.  No problem.  I call a friend in town who is surely to have her number.  I make the call, reach my friend, and trying not to sound frantic tell him the situation.  Five minutes later, the principal calls and I explain again.

"I can send it overnight, right?  If I FedEx it?"  Is FedEx open on national holidays?  I fight the urge to panic.
"I think so," and I hear her conferring with her husband in the background.
"Or, I can just tell Daisuke Santa's running a bit behind because he was busy."
"No, I don't want that.  Santa's supposed to be organized."  I skip the "unlike me" part.
"Can you call someone in Daisuke's family and tell him the letter is in the mail?"
 I choose my words carefully because it was made very clear to the three of us who received special gifts on that day that Daisuke's gift was extra special.
"He came from Rikuzentakata," the principal tells us later.  "He's had it hard.  He lost so much in the tsunami."
I don't ask what this means.  Did he lose him home?  His family?  I want him to know Santa's letter will arrive, but I don't know who in his family the principal can contact.
"I can take care of that.  I'll call his mother" the principal reassures me.  I feel better.  At least his mother is around.
"I'll run down to my local Seven Eleven and see what I can do."

It worked.   Santa's letter to Daisuke will arrive tomorrow.  The 740 yen I spent to make sure this boy gets a thank you card from Santa Claus is the best money I've spent in a long time.  I can exhale again, deeply.  Merry Christmas, Daisuke.