March is always a crazy month. The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies. We tie up loose ends. Students graduate. New hires arrive in April needing to be trained. Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April. Before April there is March. Wrap everything up and move on.
Which is why we're all busy. Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call. Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode. The loud ones, demanding an answer get it. Everyone else? Pick a number, sit, and wait.
I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse. People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy. I see "busy" as an issue of priorities. Let's face it: You DON'T rank. When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another.
Which is why I'm struggling this month. I'm truly busy. I get up early and stay up late. I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys. Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day. I'm sorry. But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later. It's about priorities. I triage. I'll reply tomorrow. I use the same line others use on me. I hate March.
I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment. As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year. I vowed not to. I swore I needed to focus on me. I changed my mind. I can and will do this for one more year. It's the right thing to do.
But, I reserve the right to say "NO". I've not done this until now. You needed something? I obliged. You wanted something done? I did it. Those days are gone. Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own. Long-term dependency is not the answer.
City hall will not be accustomed to this new me. So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan? Do people just say it? Refuse? Shake their heads?
No.
The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult." That's a cue. That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want. I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases. Bring it on. Sorry people. To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want." I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."
Side note: I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.
"Are you coming to our high school reunion? If not, why?"
It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion. It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.
We are busy. That's the truth. The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else. As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco. On this, I renege my point from earlier. We're not blowing each other off. We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group. That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.
With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day. None of the men in my gang are subtle. We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk. All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys. They're jerks and I absolutely love them.
Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point. I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face. With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics. We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs. (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)
Perhaps a rambling post without any real point. Then again. Then again.
Showing posts with label Rikuzentakata. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rikuzentakata. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Friday, August 1, 2014
Opinions That Matter Not
Awhile back a friend introduced me to his high school buddy. This man becomes my accountant. This man then introduced me to his mistress who becomes my "older sister". She runs a small pub in my neighborhood so I go there every now and then when I crave potato salad. (She makes the best potato salad in Tokyo.)
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
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.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Post-Christmas Update: What Happens When Santa Comes to Rikuzentakata
I did not see this coming. Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce. Allow me to explain.
In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku. American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry. Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted. A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day. Here the real Santa was arriving. No faux "Santa's brother" at this place. Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal. Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date. About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.
No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather. No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole. He lived in Boston. In America. No full bearded Santa would arrive. The kids were fine with this. Santa was Santa. So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?
So, Santa arrived. The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located. He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.
I was Santa's warm-up act. Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?" Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am. I'm happy to make the introduction. Truly. I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids. Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle? Sure. Why not?
The teacher gets up and quiets the children. They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed. She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave. Etcetera, etcetera.
"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here? If we can see him?" The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.
And, there he is. My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders. Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back. The cheering is deafening. A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.
That's what happened in December.
Fast forward to March. I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine. Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all. He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me. I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.
"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say. "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good. Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.
And then...
And then. One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.
Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same. In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata. Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen. It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.
There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise. I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left. She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too. But, after I get divorced."
Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard. And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.
So, Boston friends. Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome. Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.
In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku. American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry. Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted. A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day. Here the real Santa was arriving. No faux "Santa's brother" at this place. Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal. Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date. About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.
No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather. No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole. He lived in Boston. In America. No full bearded Santa would arrive. The kids were fine with this. Santa was Santa. So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?
So, Santa arrived. The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located. He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.
I was Santa's warm-up act. Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?" Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am. I'm happy to make the introduction. Truly. I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids. Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle? Sure. Why not?
The teacher gets up and quiets the children. They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed. She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave. Etcetera, etcetera.
"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here? If we can see him?" The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.
And, there he is. My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders. Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back. The cheering is deafening. A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.
That's what happened in December.
Fast forward to March. I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine. Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all. He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me. I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.
"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say. "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good. Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.
And then...
And then. One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.
Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same. In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata. Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen. It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.
There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise. I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left. She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too. But, after I get divorced."
Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard. And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.
So, Boston friends. Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome. Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Mad Men Japan Style
Of course there are exceptions. Don't get all wound up over gross generalizations. I'm trying to make a point.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
When Warnings Fail: Chicken Little, the Boy Who Cried Wolf, and the Japan Meteorological Agency
The drama all started with an e-mail I received four days ago on a news thread I subscribe to for updates on post-disaster radiation in Fukushima. I read it so I'm in the loop. I'm not worried about radiation in Japan but feel better being informed. I want to be clear on this. Japan is not some radioactive, glow-in-the-dark hot bed of nuclear waste. Certain parts of Fukushima are. Don't assume all of Japan is.
The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow. This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared. The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.
I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before. Everything coming from Japan is contaminated. (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death. (It doesn't.) When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look. I wanted to be clear in how I responded. While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate. I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago. As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading. The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy. "Pure bullcrap."
This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth. I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk. The sky is not falling, Chicken Little. Chill.
These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism. When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously. Postings like these are an egregious public disservice. Knock it off. Please.
Now I will switch gears and contradict myself. My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency. If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning. This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right. I trust their numbers.
Tsunami warnings are another matter. When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters. The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters. One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building. Sixteen? No. This error is too big to dismiss. On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.
Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?" We saw the tornadoes on television. They already hit. How is telling us this helpful? Why hold a press conference? Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know. Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful. At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.
Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States. Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively." I almost spewed tea reading that line.
Allow me to make the following observation: define obsessively. Quantify this please. Am I to wash often, or wash for longer? Or, is it both? How often is often enough? How long is long enough? How do I know the water is safe to use? Do I wash just with water or do I use soap? You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice. Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.
Language can be beautiful. The word "warning" contains the point it makes: to warn. Let's allow language to do what it's meant to. Warn me when I need to act. The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.
The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow. This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared. The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.
I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before. Everything coming from Japan is contaminated. (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death. (It doesn't.) When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look. I wanted to be clear in how I responded. While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate. I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago. As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading. The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy. "Pure bullcrap."
This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth. I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk. The sky is not falling, Chicken Little. Chill.
These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism. When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously. Postings like these are an egregious public disservice. Knock it off. Please.
Now I will switch gears and contradict myself. My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency. If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning. This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right. I trust their numbers.
Tsunami warnings are another matter. When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters. The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters. One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building. Sixteen? No. This error is too big to dismiss. On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.
Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?" We saw the tornadoes on television. They already hit. How is telling us this helpful? Why hold a press conference? Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know. Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful. At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.
Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States. Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively." I almost spewed tea reading that line.
Allow me to make the following observation: define obsessively. Quantify this please. Am I to wash often, or wash for longer? Or, is it both? How often is often enough? How long is long enough? How do I know the water is safe to use? Do I wash just with water or do I use soap? You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice. Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.
Language can be beautiful. The word "warning" contains the point it makes: to warn. Let's allow language to do what it's meant to. Warn me when I need to act. The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Crows, Blowing Winds, and Conspiracy Theories
The wind has been fierce for the past three days in Rikuzentakata. Stepping outside means noses run, eyes tear, cheeks burn, and hair requires rearranging. It's hard to walk. It's hard to stand upright. Window panes rattle causing an eerie whine.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
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.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Parents Who Snap At Their Kids: What Post-disaster Recovery Looks Like Today
I am in no position to diagnose. With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what. What I can say is this: I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku. Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm. Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.
Kazu is drunk. The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes. Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons. His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.
"They're just too well behaved," he says. "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem. We snap at the kids. We're all tense. We've got short fuses. We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids. It's not right but we do it anyway." He sips his drink. How many has he had? I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out. They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry. Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile. When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. "I did it, too," he says. "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him. "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb. It's true I was mad. Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device. "I hate those things," he says. "I had told Yuuki to go to bed. He didn't, of course." Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh. "So I yelled at him. Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed. We're all like that, us parents. We're all stressed."
It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety. Do some? Yes. Do many? Perhaps. Probably. The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too. Why wouldn't he be? Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy. "People are giving up," he tells me. "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting. Change and improvement, it's so slow. It's taking so long. Too long." He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.
In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year. Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available. It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going. In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors. The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents. Or so Kazu says.
Clearly I don't have the solution. I listen. I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them. I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him. I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.
Kazu is drunk. The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes. Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons. His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.
"They're just too well behaved," he says. "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem. We snap at the kids. We're all tense. We've got short fuses. We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids. It's not right but we do it anyway." He sips his drink. How many has he had? I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out. They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry. Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile. When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair. "I did it, too," he says. "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him. "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb. It's true I was mad. Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device. "I hate those things," he says. "I had told Yuuki to go to bed. He didn't, of course." Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh. "So I yelled at him. Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed. We're all like that, us parents. We're all stressed."
It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety. Do some? Yes. Do many? Perhaps. Probably. The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too. Why wouldn't he be? Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy. "People are giving up," he tells me. "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting. Change and improvement, it's so slow. It's taking so long. Too long." He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.
In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year. Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available. It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going. In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors. The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents. Or so Kazu says.
Clearly I don't have the solution. I listen. I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them. I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him. I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Tsunami Tendenko: Save Yourself, No Matter What
Depending on who you are, depending on where you live the date of September 11 holds a different meaning. Today marks the 12th memorial of the terrorist attacks in the United States. Two and a half years ago on this day, the coastline of most of northeast Japan was forever changed. Regardless of how this day is important to you, and even if it's not, this day allows us to learn.
There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan. The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko. These words contain a simple but powerful meaning: if facing a tsunami save yourself first.
I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years. People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents. Evacuation drills stress safety and survival. For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given. The only escape is to get to higher ground.
It's a simple message. Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011? The answers are many. Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic. The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating. Fair warning: what sounds easy isn't.
Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011. I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them. Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami. Another part of my job is to convey a message. Prepare. Think. Have a plan.
Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents. Many cannot be avoided. While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.
This is where tsunami tendenko comes in. Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake. What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows: stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.
The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake. Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance. The lesson learned? Don't.
On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region. A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened. Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th. No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either. They paid for their mistake with their lives.
Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam. Logic dictates cars run faster than people. The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.
What does it mean to have a plan? What does it mean to think through this plan? Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves. On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.
For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural. Our instinct is to live. To survive. For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them. Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message: don't.
This begs the following question: Are you willing to die for others? If so, whom?
Parents naturally want to protect their children. Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids? If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose? What about your colleagues? Your friends? Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?
The message is simple. Think. Have a plan. Stick to it. Live.
My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one. None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake. That said, none of us can see into our futures. Life is precious. Have a plan.
There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan. The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko. These words contain a simple but powerful meaning: if facing a tsunami save yourself first.
I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years. People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents. Evacuation drills stress safety and survival. For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given. The only escape is to get to higher ground.
It's a simple message. Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011? The answers are many. Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic. The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating. Fair warning: what sounds easy isn't.
Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011. I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them. Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami. Another part of my job is to convey a message. Prepare. Think. Have a plan.
Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents. Many cannot be avoided. While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.
This is where tsunami tendenko comes in. Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake. What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows: stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.
The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake. Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance. The lesson learned? Don't.
On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region. A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened. Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th. No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either. They paid for their mistake with their lives.
Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam. Logic dictates cars run faster than people. The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.
What does it mean to have a plan? What does it mean to think through this plan? Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves. On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.
For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural. Our instinct is to live. To survive. For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them. Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message: don't.
This begs the following question: Are you willing to die for others? If so, whom?
Parents naturally want to protect their children. Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids? If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose? What about your colleagues? Your friends? Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?
The message is simple. Think. Have a plan. Stick to it. Live.
My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one. None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake. That said, none of us can see into our futures. Life is precious. Have a plan.
Friday, August 23, 2013
On Death and Selective Visual Intake
One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to
me yesterday saying he has something to tell me. Ichiro has the ability to know when to be
serious and when to cut loose. Because I
like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my
favorite people in city hall.” That
said, I enjoy his company immensely. With
each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings
linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have
intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me. I like my co-workers.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette. I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.
“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow. I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s
talking about. Ichiro switches to the
man’s last name. “XXX-san,” and I nod,
“he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed
away.”
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second. Here was one of those moments. I’m struck by two facts immediately. There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall. I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest. Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names. I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku. At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply. We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age. Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names. The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.” Instead they referred to this man by his first name. I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to. Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.
This second fact hits me hard. As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall. I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence. It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.
What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look. I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself.
Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant. At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.
“Look,” I say and point. “Here are pieces of a bowl. Here’s a cooking pot. Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.” He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him. These were homes. People lived here. People died here. Then I see it. A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds. I point it out to him. That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved. Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere.
I was just here last week, at this exact same spot. I was here several times. How did I miss these? The slippers, pot, and shards I remember. The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to. The wasabi? No. The bra? There’s no way these were there last week.
I glaze. Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t. I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking. Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items. Did they not register? Did I not see them? Was I glazing? Did I choose not to see?
Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest. I didn’t see these before. They’ve surely been here all day. All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.
Lilies are not my favorite flower. They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin. Let me rephrase. I hate lilies. All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.
Routine and patterns; when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details. It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.” If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.
I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself. If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience. I have to block things out. Right?
Or do I?
I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku. I’m not quite sure what to do with that.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
What the handsome man had to say
Oh, if I could just make these stories up. Fantastic imagination that I have, what happened today is not a scene I could concoct. Here's the story.
I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours. We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us. I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.
"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine. Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch. "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.
He's right. Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot. I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.
The man is tall with short cropped white hair. He's young, maybe in his thirties. Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome. (Not that this matters.) If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.
But he is an ass. He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.
Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would. He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper. He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying. "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card. "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."
I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car. If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness. They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."
Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then. Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter. "You said so yourself. Japan is strict about these things. We'll need your contact information." I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling. This is a command. Not a request.
And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing. I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.
What I want to say is this: a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"
I don't say any of this. Of course. Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall. I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window. "Who is that guy? He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with." I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot. There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might. The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.
Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity. I hope we meet again. I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.
I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours. We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us. I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.
"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine. Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch. "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.
He's right. Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot. I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.
The man is tall with short cropped white hair. He's young, maybe in his thirties. Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome. (Not that this matters.) If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.
But he is an ass. He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.
Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would. He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper. He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying. "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card. "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."
I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car. If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness. They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."
Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then. Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter. "You said so yourself. Japan is strict about these things. We'll need your contact information." I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling. This is a command. Not a request.
And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing. I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.
What I want to say is this: a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"
I don't say any of this. Of course. Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall. I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window. "Who is that guy? He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with." I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot. There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might. The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.
Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity. I hope we meet again. I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Mayor Dad
It was April 2011 when I first met Mayor Futoshi Toba. Thinking back, this must have been a few days after a policeman in Rikuzentakata, the mayor's cousin, found the body of the mayor's wife. I didn't know this at the time.
On this same day, standing in front of what was the make shift city hall a young boy of about six walked by me, carrying his sister of three or so on his back piggy-back style. He called out a hearty "good morning!" and this sight made me choke up instantly. Here was a classic example of post-disaster strength. I wasn't expecting to see it from a child.
Having lost his wife on March 11, 2011 Mayor Toba became a reluctant single parent. I'd never heard of Rikuzentakata until this day, much less stepped foot in it so I've not ever met Mrs. Toba. The stories I hear make me want to have known her. I never will. I have, however, gotten to know the mayor well. His two sons, too. With so much change in their lives, it would be understandable if these two teenage boys were confused, troubled, or even wild. They're not. In fact, I don't think I've met boys who are so well behaved, well adjusted, and happy even.
I visited the mayor's home the night before the second memorial this year. He held a small dinner, and I joined the gang. The boys are ardent basketball fans so I took Boston Celtics gear, chiding them for having other team paraphernalia on their bedroom walls. We compared notes on who the best NBA players were, with me making sure Celtics heroes were named often.
The mayor has been frank in sharing the younger boy is the one who's had the most difficulty with his mother's death. Indeed, the morning of the memorial service, he was silent, sullen, and pained. The joking from the night before was gone. I realize this is neither the time nor place to remind him of how he silently handed me a Celtics mug, both of us grinning at his conversion to a true basketball fan. I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would change the meaning of this day.
Which is why Mayor Toba's recent postings on his Facebook page celebrating the fact both boys are now able to talk about their mother in daily conversation is such welcome news. Until now the mayor's reminders of their mother's words, "No, you can't have ice cream before dinner! What would your mother say?" were not met with grins or replies. Today they talk about their mother more freely, with real and imaged words that may or may not have come from Mrs. Toba.
The boys are well mannered. They get along well. Teenage angst does not seem to have kicked in. On one particular night, however, the mayor came home to two boys who were on the verge of quarreling.
The older, "He won't let me read his comic book!"
"The pages are always smudged and messy whenever he gives them back to me after he reads them!" the younger objects.
"Are not!"
"Yes, they are!"
Somewhere in this not-quite-yet-a-fight, one of them said, "Remember when mom said..." which prompted the other one to reply, "I'm like mom in that..." as the mayor stood by and listened letting the boys hash it out on their own. Happy they can talk about their mother in this way, it was not important who was saying what, but more they were both able to talk about their mother.
I'm an observer standing on the sidelines watching this unfold. I'm proud of the mayor, and proud of his boys. On my trip up to Rikuzentakata in early August I'm taking bagels for the younger boy (his new favorite food) and a big Celtics mug (to compete with his brother's) for the older son. I'm looking forward to what fodder this might become for boy-and-auntie banter.
On this same day, standing in front of what was the make shift city hall a young boy of about six walked by me, carrying his sister of three or so on his back piggy-back style. He called out a hearty "good morning!" and this sight made me choke up instantly. Here was a classic example of post-disaster strength. I wasn't expecting to see it from a child.
Having lost his wife on March 11, 2011 Mayor Toba became a reluctant single parent. I'd never heard of Rikuzentakata until this day, much less stepped foot in it so I've not ever met Mrs. Toba. The stories I hear make me want to have known her. I never will. I have, however, gotten to know the mayor well. His two sons, too. With so much change in their lives, it would be understandable if these two teenage boys were confused, troubled, or even wild. They're not. In fact, I don't think I've met boys who are so well behaved, well adjusted, and happy even.
I visited the mayor's home the night before the second memorial this year. He held a small dinner, and I joined the gang. The boys are ardent basketball fans so I took Boston Celtics gear, chiding them for having other team paraphernalia on their bedroom walls. We compared notes on who the best NBA players were, with me making sure Celtics heroes were named often.
The mayor has been frank in sharing the younger boy is the one who's had the most difficulty with his mother's death. Indeed, the morning of the memorial service, he was silent, sullen, and pained. The joking from the night before was gone. I realize this is neither the time nor place to remind him of how he silently handed me a Celtics mug, both of us grinning at his conversion to a true basketball fan. I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would change the meaning of this day.
Which is why Mayor Toba's recent postings on his Facebook page celebrating the fact both boys are now able to talk about their mother in daily conversation is such welcome news. Until now the mayor's reminders of their mother's words, "No, you can't have ice cream before dinner! What would your mother say?" were not met with grins or replies. Today they talk about their mother more freely, with real and imaged words that may or may not have come from Mrs. Toba.
The boys are well mannered. They get along well. Teenage angst does not seem to have kicked in. On one particular night, however, the mayor came home to two boys who were on the verge of quarreling.
The older, "He won't let me read his comic book!"
"The pages are always smudged and messy whenever he gives them back to me after he reads them!" the younger objects.
"Are not!"
"Yes, they are!"
Somewhere in this not-quite-yet-a-fight, one of them said, "Remember when mom said..." which prompted the other one to reply, "I'm like mom in that..." as the mayor stood by and listened letting the boys hash it out on their own. Happy they can talk about their mother in this way, it was not important who was saying what, but more they were both able to talk about their mother.
I'm an observer standing on the sidelines watching this unfold. I'm proud of the mayor, and proud of his boys. On my trip up to Rikuzentakata in early August I'm taking bagels for the younger boy (his new favorite food) and a big Celtics mug (to compete with his brother's) for the older son. I'm looking forward to what fodder this might become for boy-and-auntie banter.
Friday, March 29, 2013
The 2,000 Kilometer Trek Across Japan For Tohoku
For those not used to the metric system, 2,000 kilometers is around 1,200 miles. That's how far my husband and I drove in a 1956 Ford F-100 last week. Cart before the horse--again. Let me back way up.
When I first came back to Japan in late March 2011 to volunteer with post-disaster relief work I didn't know of this man who would play such an important role in my life. Fast forward six months, an ex-boyfriend living in Tokyo tells me, "Got someone I want you to meet." I'm not thrilled by these meetings he springs on me, mostly because my ex and I are just learning to get along again after a 20 year "we're not speaking to each other" phase and I'm not convinced I can read him. Born gambler that I am, I agree to go meet mystery man and my life is forever changed.
It's September 2011 and I need a visa sponsor in order to stay in Japan to continue my work. It's not supposed to be this hard to find a sponsor, is it? Offers fall through, people who swore they would move mountains for me don't, and I'm annoyed and angry and confused. Mostly angry, though. When my ex tells me "this is the guy" I mentally roll my eyes. But, (exhale) I'm desperate. So, on this fateful day I plunk myself down in front of this man and start talking.
I'm not six sentences into my request and he says it. "You need a visa sponsor? You want to keep working up in Tohoku? Sure. No problem."
That's it? Yes. That's it. We became fast friends. I think the world of this man. Truly.
And, it's precisely because I think so highly of this man that when he tells me he's loaning me his 1956 Ford F-100 for me to continue my PR work in Rikuzentakata I don't dare say no. We go over details, me making sure, twice and three times, "You're really okay giving up this truck?" and getting the same answer every time. "You won't blend up there in this thing. Not that you do now," and here he guffaws. "The truck itself is PR. People will know it's you, and people will know what you're doing, and this thing alone will get reporters up there." He's right about the part this truck will not blend. Reporters? I'm not convinced. "I'll put a giant sticker on the doors with a saying....something about Rikuzentakata. That should make it doubly hard to miss."
At the end of this conversation, I have agreed to drive this truck from Kyushu, the southern island of Japan, all the way up to Rikuzentakata, some 2,000 kilometers away. By myself.
Which doesn't happen. I don't dare drive this thing alone. Too many men cried foul, or more specifically, "You're a girl! You can't drive that thing all by yourself!" not mincing words. I want to spat, "Don't be an ass" but don't because I've just been told by my visa sponsor that this truck should "probably not be driven over 80 kilometers (50 miles) per hour." You've got to be kidding me. "And, don't break down on the road because we don't have any spare parts." Right. This is going to be a very long drive.
So, I recruit my husband to make the drive with me. He's up for these types of adventures--one of the many reasons I married him, and we embark on this trip, our second honeymoon. With one remaining request to my sponsor. "Does the truck have a GPS?" I ask him. "No. Why?" Here, I ponder how forthcoming my answer should be, but decide he will find humor in my honesty decide to come out with it. "My husband doesn't like the way I give directions." It's true I have this tendency to say things like, "Oh, you wanted to turn .... there," pointing to the road on the left as we whiz by. (My husband hates this.) "I'll get you a GPS," my sponsor is spot on. "Otherwise you'll fight." I didn't actually say that we'd fight but I choose to compliment him on his keen skills of observation and graciously accept the free GPS.
And so we drive.
And he's right. This truck does not blend. Cars that blitz past us slow down, gawk at the truck, read the sign and wave. And take photos. And roll down their windows yelling, "Hang in there!" and "Good luck!" and "We're still thinking of you!" A guy on a Harley passes us and gives us a thumbs up. This happened all the time.
At rest stops every hour and a half (because this thing was a beast to drive) we'd inevitably come back to the truck with people snapping photos, looking in the windows. When we'd walk up, there would be silence at first, and then some brave soul would ask if either of us spoke Japanese. I had this terrible cold that week so I sounded horrid but covering my mouth squawked out answers to all of their questions. And listened to their stories. This too happened over and over.
It took us four whole days to drive from Kyushu to Rikuzentakata. We didn't fight. We made it. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. My sponsor is right about how much press this truck will get, and in turn the city I work in. I'm grateful all over again.
When I first came back to Japan in late March 2011 to volunteer with post-disaster relief work I didn't know of this man who would play such an important role in my life. Fast forward six months, an ex-boyfriend living in Tokyo tells me, "Got someone I want you to meet." I'm not thrilled by these meetings he springs on me, mostly because my ex and I are just learning to get along again after a 20 year "we're not speaking to each other" phase and I'm not convinced I can read him. Born gambler that I am, I agree to go meet mystery man and my life is forever changed.
It's September 2011 and I need a visa sponsor in order to stay in Japan to continue my work. It's not supposed to be this hard to find a sponsor, is it? Offers fall through, people who swore they would move mountains for me don't, and I'm annoyed and angry and confused. Mostly angry, though. When my ex tells me "this is the guy" I mentally roll my eyes. But, (exhale) I'm desperate. So, on this fateful day I plunk myself down in front of this man and start talking.
I'm not six sentences into my request and he says it. "You need a visa sponsor? You want to keep working up in Tohoku? Sure. No problem."
That's it? Yes. That's it. We became fast friends. I think the world of this man. Truly.
And, it's precisely because I think so highly of this man that when he tells me he's loaning me his 1956 Ford F-100 for me to continue my PR work in Rikuzentakata I don't dare say no. We go over details, me making sure, twice and three times, "You're really okay giving up this truck?" and getting the same answer every time. "You won't blend up there in this thing. Not that you do now," and here he guffaws. "The truck itself is PR. People will know it's you, and people will know what you're doing, and this thing alone will get reporters up there." He's right about the part this truck will not blend. Reporters? I'm not convinced. "I'll put a giant sticker on the doors with a saying....something about Rikuzentakata. That should make it doubly hard to miss."
Which doesn't happen. I don't dare drive this thing alone. Too many men cried foul, or more specifically, "You're a girl! You can't drive that thing all by yourself!" not mincing words. I want to spat, "Don't be an ass" but don't because I've just been told by my visa sponsor that this truck should "probably not be driven over 80 kilometers (50 miles) per hour." You've got to be kidding me. "And, don't break down on the road because we don't have any spare parts." Right. This is going to be a very long drive.
So, I recruit my husband to make the drive with me. He's up for these types of adventures--one of the many reasons I married him, and we embark on this trip, our second honeymoon. With one remaining request to my sponsor. "Does the truck have a GPS?" I ask him. "No. Why?" Here, I ponder how forthcoming my answer should be, but decide he will find humor in my honesty decide to come out with it. "My husband doesn't like the way I give directions." It's true I have this tendency to say things like, "Oh, you wanted to turn .... there," pointing to the road on the left as we whiz by. (My husband hates this.) "I'll get you a GPS," my sponsor is spot on. "Otherwise you'll fight." I didn't actually say that we'd fight but I choose to compliment him on his keen skills of observation and graciously accept the free GPS.
And so we drive.
And he's right. This truck does not blend. Cars that blitz past us slow down, gawk at the truck, read the sign and wave. And take photos. And roll down their windows yelling, "Hang in there!" and "Good luck!" and "We're still thinking of you!" A guy on a Harley passes us and gives us a thumbs up. This happened all the time. At rest stops every hour and a half (because this thing was a beast to drive) we'd inevitably come back to the truck with people snapping photos, looking in the windows. When we'd walk up, there would be silence at first, and then some brave soul would ask if either of us spoke Japanese. I had this terrible cold that week so I sounded horrid but covering my mouth squawked out answers to all of their questions. And listened to their stories. This too happened over and over.
It took us four whole days to drive from Kyushu to Rikuzentakata. We didn't fight. We made it. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. My sponsor is right about how much press this truck will get, and in turn the city I work in. I'm grateful all over again.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate
Let me be clear. I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual. These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings.
Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu. Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.
First, a brief history lesson. Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town. This was in the 1600s. More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000. Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk. Park benches were strategically placed. By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.
The key word here is "was." All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people. Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching. They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.
Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing. Or, again, was.
The short version is this: this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died. Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011. The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do. On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting. "Life goes on" is what it says. "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out. The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose. Or, it could attempt to preserve it. But, how? How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree? And who pays for this?
Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips: "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument? That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did. It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial." There's some sense to this. Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster. What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this: people died here. For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders. Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together. Save the buildings? So others can visit and learn and understand? What about those with band-aids?
The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made. Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost. It was war. No apples and oranges comparison here. Apples and spaghetti, maybe. War and tsunamis are both disasters. Apples and spaghetti are both food. The comparison ends there.
Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree. The cost for this was unprecedented: preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date. The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars. That's a lot of money for a tree. Yes.
Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?" Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg." Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to." Here's where I roll my eyes. Dear people. Do your homework before you cast stones. Please.
The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment. Fine. It's no longer a "tree." So what? The tree died. Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"? That provides hope? To whom? How?
True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep. But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat. The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics. I live in Tokyo. As far as I can see, we're fine here. We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive. Why is no one writing about that? Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds?
If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing. This is not the case. I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city. Right there is proof money is not drying up.
As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey. You really have no clue, do you? We would be building homes faster if we could. Typical of what the city faces is this: thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing. That's the problem. Not a tree.
Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive. I get that. I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales. It's the name of the game, I suppose. Sad, really.
Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu. Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.
First, a brief history lesson. Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town. This was in the 1600s. More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000. Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk. Park benches were strategically placed. By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.
The key word here is "was." All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people. Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching. They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.
Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing. Or, again, was.
The short version is this: this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died. Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011. The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do. On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting. "Life goes on" is what it says. "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out. The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose. Or, it could attempt to preserve it. But, how? How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree? And who pays for this?
Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips: "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument? That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did. It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial." There's some sense to this. Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster. What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this: people died here. For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders. Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together. Save the buildings? So others can visit and learn and understand? What about those with band-aids?
The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made. Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost. It was war. No apples and oranges comparison here. Apples and spaghetti, maybe. War and tsunamis are both disasters. Apples and spaghetti are both food. The comparison ends there.
Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree. The cost for this was unprecedented: preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date. The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars. That's a lot of money for a tree. Yes.
Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?" Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg." Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to." Here's where I roll my eyes. Dear people. Do your homework before you cast stones. Please.
The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment. Fine. It's no longer a "tree." So what? The tree died. Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"? That provides hope? To whom? How?
True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep. But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat. The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics. I live in Tokyo. As far as I can see, we're fine here. We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive. Why is no one writing about that? Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds?
If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing. This is not the case. I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city. Right there is proof money is not drying up.
As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey. You really have no clue, do you? We would be building homes faster if we could. Typical of what the city faces is this: thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing. That's the problem. Not a tree.
Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive. I get that. I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales. It's the name of the game, I suppose. Sad, really.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
More Firsts in Japan: Pulled Over by Cops
The memorial services marking two years since a giant tsunami tore apart most of Tohoku are next week. This means the hotels along the coastline are booked with press and visitors. That means I'm staying in a hotel far inland, and hour and a half each way to Rikuzentakata City Hall where I work. I'm okay with this. I listen to books downloanded onto my iPhone as I drive safely tucked in my car in my own personal space. With no one around me this is precious alone-time I crave.
I'm deep into my book, listening and driving when my other phone rings. I see it's someone who's in New York City and know I need to answer this call. Not having time to unplug my headset, type in my password and stop the recording, log into my other phone and plug in my headset, on a whim I pick up the phone and put it to my ear. One hundred meters down the road, I see a blue car pulling up next to me, hear a honk, look in my review mirror, and a few seconds later see it's a police car. Crap. Not good. A cop is saying something to me over the loud speaker which I don't really hear--I'm talking on the phone after all--but I get the gist. I'm busted. I don't curse the way I would normally, not wanting to mystify the person in New York with my foul language but tell him I have to go and hang up on him. I see a young officer in the mirror jump out of the cop car, come to my window which I roll down, tyring to smile as he says, "You can't talk on the cell phone." I nod. "Please bring your license and your phone and follow me." Oh joy. This is the first time I've ever been pulled over by the police in Japan. I push aside the temptation to record this new experience as an anthropologist might, observing the process and noting it for future generations, instead deciding to be humble, obedient, and cooperative. I will not pick a fight the way I've been known to with Tokyo cops. I will not.
I sit in the back seat of the police car as the driver-cop says again, "You can't talk on the phone while you're driving."
"I know," I reply and decide not to apologize right off the bat. Clearly, my not-so-pleasant experiences with Tokyo cops not entirely out of my system, I sense in myself the combativeness starting to ooze out. "Control yourself" I say in my head. He takes my license, reads my name and asks if this is me. "Yes."
"This will be a fine. That's it." Here, I decide this is his way of saying I won't have points shaved off my license. I've been told of this dreaded points-system, something every driver fears. I've heard rumors about a license with points increasing my insurance rate, delaying the ability to obtain the coveted "Gold License" showing what a wonderful driver I am.
"Thank you," I say showing I am indeed capable of being remorseful and appreciative.
"You can pay your fine at any bank or the post office."
"I understand."
"What do you do here?" For a split second, I contemplate whether I should offer up my title at Rikuzentakata City Hall or say I work for my visa sponsor. I go for the former. "I'm the Global Public Relations Director for the City of Rikuzentakata." The cops look at each other. Are they contemplating whether this qualifies for an exemption? In the States, I've been known to conjure up tears when I want to get out of a ticket. It's worked and I'm not adverse to using this method to prove how sorry I am, worthy of a warning but not a fine. I've been told this won't work in Japan and decide not to tempt fate although I'm positive I could make myself cry on cue if I absolutely had to. Before I complete this thought I also realize in giving them my title, I must now inform the mayor, deputy mayor and several other people in city hall of this traffic stop. I immediately start writing the e-mail in my head, appropriately apologetic, explaining why I took the call, etc. I can visualize the mayor, half-annoyed and half-amused laughing as he tries to scold me. City hall will be buzzing with this news when I arrive tomorrow. Great.
I'm handed the form I'm to take to the bank or post office to pay my fine. I lean in, looking at it. I decide to try something.
"I've never been stopped in Japan so I don't know how to do this," I say, and then, "Can I pay this at any bank?"
"Yes," the driver-cop tells me very politely and I wonder if he's just a bit sorry he pulled me over. I allow myself a quick fantasy about how he'll have to explain to his superior who will surely read my title and yell at him for "not finding a way to let her go." A girl can dream.
"Once you pay the fine, that ends everything. It's not like you'll be on trial or anything," and here it takes everything I have not to crack up. A trial? For talking on a cell phone?
"I see."
"You must pay this by March 11th," he says, pointing to the date on the form. "This much," he says, pointing to my fine.
"I will."
They go over the paperwork, ask to see my phone, take down the model number (I kid you not) and then ask, "Was this a work-related phone call?" I decide I will give them all the details. That I've been playing phone tag with this man who's now in New York, that this has to do with children in Rikuzentakata, assistance for them, etc., etc., etc. (Just a few guilt-inducing facts in case it registers.) Maybe I'll end up on some list of people not to pull over? Again, a girl can dream.
"Please sign here," and I'm handed the form which I sign. And then, "And here," he points to the space above my signature, "Explain why you took the call." I look up from my signature blankly. He understands my confusion. "Say that you had an important call to take, that it was about work." Oh. I get it. I explain myself in the best Japanese handwriting I can muster up, adding for good measure the call came from the US.
When it's all done, I take the rest of the drive slowly and continue writing the e-mail to the mayor in my head wondering just how much of a scolding I'll get.
Life in Japan. And so it continues...
I'm deep into my book, listening and driving when my other phone rings. I see it's someone who's in New York City and know I need to answer this call. Not having time to unplug my headset, type in my password and stop the recording, log into my other phone and plug in my headset, on a whim I pick up the phone and put it to my ear. One hundred meters down the road, I see a blue car pulling up next to me, hear a honk, look in my review mirror, and a few seconds later see it's a police car. Crap. Not good. A cop is saying something to me over the loud speaker which I don't really hear--I'm talking on the phone after all--but I get the gist. I'm busted. I don't curse the way I would normally, not wanting to mystify the person in New York with my foul language but tell him I have to go and hang up on him. I see a young officer in the mirror jump out of the cop car, come to my window which I roll down, tyring to smile as he says, "You can't talk on the cell phone." I nod. "Please bring your license and your phone and follow me." Oh joy. This is the first time I've ever been pulled over by the police in Japan. I push aside the temptation to record this new experience as an anthropologist might, observing the process and noting it for future generations, instead deciding to be humble, obedient, and cooperative. I will not pick a fight the way I've been known to with Tokyo cops. I will not.
I sit in the back seat of the police car as the driver-cop says again, "You can't talk on the phone while you're driving."
"I know," I reply and decide not to apologize right off the bat. Clearly, my not-so-pleasant experiences with Tokyo cops not entirely out of my system, I sense in myself the combativeness starting to ooze out. "Control yourself" I say in my head. He takes my license, reads my name and asks if this is me. "Yes."
"This will be a fine. That's it." Here, I decide this is his way of saying I won't have points shaved off my license. I've been told of this dreaded points-system, something every driver fears. I've heard rumors about a license with points increasing my insurance rate, delaying the ability to obtain the coveted "Gold License" showing what a wonderful driver I am.
"Thank you," I say showing I am indeed capable of being remorseful and appreciative.
"You can pay your fine at any bank or the post office."
"I understand."
"What do you do here?" For a split second, I contemplate whether I should offer up my title at Rikuzentakata City Hall or say I work for my visa sponsor. I go for the former. "I'm the Global Public Relations Director for the City of Rikuzentakata." The cops look at each other. Are they contemplating whether this qualifies for an exemption? In the States, I've been known to conjure up tears when I want to get out of a ticket. It's worked and I'm not adverse to using this method to prove how sorry I am, worthy of a warning but not a fine. I've been told this won't work in Japan and decide not to tempt fate although I'm positive I could make myself cry on cue if I absolutely had to. Before I complete this thought I also realize in giving them my title, I must now inform the mayor, deputy mayor and several other people in city hall of this traffic stop. I immediately start writing the e-mail in my head, appropriately apologetic, explaining why I took the call, etc. I can visualize the mayor, half-annoyed and half-amused laughing as he tries to scold me. City hall will be buzzing with this news when I arrive tomorrow. Great.
I'm handed the form I'm to take to the bank or post office to pay my fine. I lean in, looking at it. I decide to try something.
"I've never been stopped in Japan so I don't know how to do this," I say, and then, "Can I pay this at any bank?"
"Yes," the driver-cop tells me very politely and I wonder if he's just a bit sorry he pulled me over. I allow myself a quick fantasy about how he'll have to explain to his superior who will surely read my title and yell at him for "not finding a way to let her go." A girl can dream.
"Once you pay the fine, that ends everything. It's not like you'll be on trial or anything," and here it takes everything I have not to crack up. A trial? For talking on a cell phone?
"I see."
"You must pay this by March 11th," he says, pointing to the date on the form. "This much," he says, pointing to my fine.
"I will."
They go over the paperwork, ask to see my phone, take down the model number (I kid you not) and then ask, "Was this a work-related phone call?" I decide I will give them all the details. That I've been playing phone tag with this man who's now in New York, that this has to do with children in Rikuzentakata, assistance for them, etc., etc., etc. (Just a few guilt-inducing facts in case it registers.) Maybe I'll end up on some list of people not to pull over? Again, a girl can dream.
"Please sign here," and I'm handed the form which I sign. And then, "And here," he points to the space above my signature, "Explain why you took the call." I look up from my signature blankly. He understands my confusion. "Say that you had an important call to take, that it was about work." Oh. I get it. I explain myself in the best Japanese handwriting I can muster up, adding for good measure the call came from the US.
When it's all done, I take the rest of the drive slowly and continue writing the e-mail to the mayor in my head wondering just how much of a scolding I'll get.
Life in Japan. And so it continues...
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
The Perils of Japanese Language: Semantics, Nuances, and Dialects
I came back down to Tokyo from Tohoku for a quick meeting. Done with my day, I head back up to Tohoku to continue my work at Rikuzentakata City Hall. I'm in Tokyo Station. Return ticket bought, I walk around the station for a few minutes looking for this famous bento store (boxed meal). This is the only place in Tokyo that sells the most amazing sushi box and I have high hopes they'll have a box left. I take my ticket out of the back pocket of my wallet, go through the gate and proceed towards the store. I find it, make my way through the swarms (why is this place to packed??) and do not find my sushi box. Undeterred and convinced I just can't find it, I ask one of the staff members where it would be. He checks.
"We're out."
Crap. I decide to settle and pick what has to be the next best box of goodness and reluctantly proceed towards the cashier. At which point I begin 24 hours of major hassle.
My wallet is gone. It's really gone. I dig through my bag. I move things around, take things out. It's not here. I had it five minutes ago when I took the ticket out. Someone I bumped into in the last five minutes grabbed everything I need to operate fully in Japan and walked off with it. It's not panic I feel. It's the five-stages-of-pickpocket-angst that hits me in 15 seconds. Disbelief, shock, rage, "oh, this is so not cool" and then reality. I have no cash, no cards, no paperwork. My passport is in another little bag in my purse. Is it there? Yes. Relief. I must find a cop and report this. And so it began.
I make calls. Alpha Male first.
"What do I do? I've not ever been robbed in Japan."
"Go find a station employee and ask where the nearest police box is."
I look around.
"I can't find a station person."
"Relax. Keep looking. They're there."
I keep looking and still can't find anyone in station uniform. Where have they all gone?
"I can't find anyone!"
"Where are you? Specifically. Which exit did you come through. Go back there. Someone will be at the gate you walked through." Of course he's calm.
"I see them."
"Good. Go. Call me again when you're at the police station."
"Okay."
I call another friend, a cop, and leave a message. I call a friend and say I'll need to borrow some money, completely forgetting she's on a date. I call someone up north and say I won't be coming back up, until at the very least I have a new driver's license. Really? Do I have to go through that whole process again? The last time I went to the two police stations in Tokyo that issue licenses to foreigners, I left having had words.
I find the police station and tell them what happened. So began three hours of paperwork.
Here is where Japanese language comes in. The cops, two of them in full uniform (what are all those gadgets for?) are polite but unsympathetic. I tell my story, and they make me repeat it. I do. And again.
Several times in the three hours I filed my report, the younger one taking my statement said, "When you lost your wallet" and I politely corrected him by saying, "When my wallet was stolen." Semantics, I know, but "lost" is when I put a credit card on my desk piled up high with things, and then can't find it in that pile whereas "stolen" is having something taken from me by someone who shouldn't have it. The cop, evidently not accustomed to being corrected, does. Correct himself, that is.
"Right. Stolen. Not lost."
"Yes. Stolen."
I head back to my apartment. With no cash, I'm grateful for the fact the pickpocket did not get my train pass. It has enough money on it for me to ride the train.
The next day I start the process of going to all the right offices and banks filing more paperwork, explaining again what happened the night before. At the immigration office (foreigners in Japan have to carry an ID card) I sit with other foreigners all speaking different languages. When my new card is issued, I'm handed it with a warning. "This is a very important document. Don't lose it again."
It's the nuance of the word "lost" here again that rattles me. I didn't lose my card. I didn't misplace it. It was stolen. I decide not to correct the official who is surely tired of dealing with opinionated foreigners but am not happy with the insinuation. Fine. Whatever. Since when has the Japanese language gotten this passive-aggressive?
On the way home, I receive a call on my cell phone. I don't recognize the number but decide today to take the call. It'll be fine. I usually let calls from unknown numbers go to voicemail but today I'm feeling risky.
It's one of the grandmothers from temporary housing in Minami-Soma whom I've worked with. She introduces herself in thickly accented Japanese, her Fukushima dialect coming through loud and strong.
"Oh, hello!" I say. It goes downhill from there. I do not understand what she's saying. In person, I can figure out what's being said. When she's in front of me, I can keep up. On the phone, however, I'm guessing, assuming, hoping I'm getting the nuances of what she's trying to tell me.
I'm pretty sure she's telling me they've made something new, this group of grandmothers in temporary housing who in the past have made beautiful origami kusudama balls.
"Oh, really?"
And, here I think she's trying to explain to me what these are. If I'm wrong, my answer will mean nothing--be completely out of context, so I think fast about how to respond safely, not giving away the fact I have no idea what she's saying. I decide to go with "I see." It seemed to work.
Next I think I'm being invited up. I'm pretty comfortable with this assumption.
"I won't be able to make it until some time in late February" I say, and she replies with something, oh please help me, but I'm lost. Say what to this?? Think, woman.
"Uh huh." Now there's silence. Crap. Did that not make sense? Not giving her a chance to think through my incorrect (?) answer further, I decide to butt in.
"Is it okay that I can't come until late February?" She's excited, rattling fast and I'm so lost.
In the end, I believe I agreed to go down for a visit sometime in the spring to see something they've made, but I honestly can't be sure.
Having spoken Japanese since I was a child, I'm not accustomed to having to correct, stand down, defend myself, explain, listen hard, and hope I'm making sense. Between the pickpocket incident and having to make sure my Japanese is clear to cops and government officials, conveying exactly what I'm putting out there, I'm exhausted. Twenty-four hours of drama, indeed.
"We're out."
Crap. I decide to settle and pick what has to be the next best box of goodness and reluctantly proceed towards the cashier. At which point I begin 24 hours of major hassle.
My wallet is gone. It's really gone. I dig through my bag. I move things around, take things out. It's not here. I had it five minutes ago when I took the ticket out. Someone I bumped into in the last five minutes grabbed everything I need to operate fully in Japan and walked off with it. It's not panic I feel. It's the five-stages-of-pickpocket-angst that hits me in 15 seconds. Disbelief, shock, rage, "oh, this is so not cool" and then reality. I have no cash, no cards, no paperwork. My passport is in another little bag in my purse. Is it there? Yes. Relief. I must find a cop and report this. And so it began.
I make calls. Alpha Male first.
"What do I do? I've not ever been robbed in Japan."
"Go find a station employee and ask where the nearest police box is."
I look around.
"I can't find a station person."
"Relax. Keep looking. They're there."
I keep looking and still can't find anyone in station uniform. Where have they all gone?
"I can't find anyone!"
"Where are you? Specifically. Which exit did you come through. Go back there. Someone will be at the gate you walked through." Of course he's calm.
"I see them."
"Good. Go. Call me again when you're at the police station."
"Okay."
I call another friend, a cop, and leave a message. I call a friend and say I'll need to borrow some money, completely forgetting she's on a date. I call someone up north and say I won't be coming back up, until at the very least I have a new driver's license. Really? Do I have to go through that whole process again? The last time I went to the two police stations in Tokyo that issue licenses to foreigners, I left having had words.
I find the police station and tell them what happened. So began three hours of paperwork.
Here is where Japanese language comes in. The cops, two of them in full uniform (what are all those gadgets for?) are polite but unsympathetic. I tell my story, and they make me repeat it. I do. And again.
Several times in the three hours I filed my report, the younger one taking my statement said, "When you lost your wallet" and I politely corrected him by saying, "When my wallet was stolen." Semantics, I know, but "lost" is when I put a credit card on my desk piled up high with things, and then can't find it in that pile whereas "stolen" is having something taken from me by someone who shouldn't have it. The cop, evidently not accustomed to being corrected, does. Correct himself, that is.
"Right. Stolen. Not lost."
"Yes. Stolen."
I head back to my apartment. With no cash, I'm grateful for the fact the pickpocket did not get my train pass. It has enough money on it for me to ride the train.
The next day I start the process of going to all the right offices and banks filing more paperwork, explaining again what happened the night before. At the immigration office (foreigners in Japan have to carry an ID card) I sit with other foreigners all speaking different languages. When my new card is issued, I'm handed it with a warning. "This is a very important document. Don't lose it again."
It's the nuance of the word "lost" here again that rattles me. I didn't lose my card. I didn't misplace it. It was stolen. I decide not to correct the official who is surely tired of dealing with opinionated foreigners but am not happy with the insinuation. Fine. Whatever. Since when has the Japanese language gotten this passive-aggressive?
On the way home, I receive a call on my cell phone. I don't recognize the number but decide today to take the call. It'll be fine. I usually let calls from unknown numbers go to voicemail but today I'm feeling risky.
It's one of the grandmothers from temporary housing in Minami-Soma whom I've worked with. She introduces herself in thickly accented Japanese, her Fukushima dialect coming through loud and strong.
"Oh, hello!" I say. It goes downhill from there. I do not understand what she's saying. In person, I can figure out what's being said. When she's in front of me, I can keep up. On the phone, however, I'm guessing, assuming, hoping I'm getting the nuances of what she's trying to tell me.
I'm pretty sure she's telling me they've made something new, this group of grandmothers in temporary housing who in the past have made beautiful origami kusudama balls.
"Oh, really?"
And, here I think she's trying to explain to me what these are. If I'm wrong, my answer will mean nothing--be completely out of context, so I think fast about how to respond safely, not giving away the fact I have no idea what she's saying. I decide to go with "I see." It seemed to work.
Next I think I'm being invited up. I'm pretty comfortable with this assumption.
"I won't be able to make it until some time in late February" I say, and she replies with something, oh please help me, but I'm lost. Say what to this?? Think, woman.
"Uh huh." Now there's silence. Crap. Did that not make sense? Not giving her a chance to think through my incorrect (?) answer further, I decide to butt in.
"Is it okay that I can't come until late February?" She's excited, rattling fast and I'm so lost.
In the end, I believe I agreed to go down for a visit sometime in the spring to see something they've made, but I honestly can't be sure.
Having spoken Japanese since I was a child, I'm not accustomed to having to correct, stand down, defend myself, explain, listen hard, and hope I'm making sense. Between the pickpocket incident and having to make sure my Japanese is clear to cops and government officials, conveying exactly what I'm putting out there, I'm exhausted. Twenty-four hours of drama, indeed.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
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.
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.
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