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 Tohoku. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tohoku. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Monday, October 20, 2014
A New Meaning to the Statue of Liberty
I have no idea who came up with this translation. Someone should look into it and get back to me.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Small Faces, Russians, Redefining Fun, Kyushu Folk, and the Truth About Kimonos
The verse in the Bible, "one cannot serve two masters" does not apply in this context. Here's why. I juggle two bosses just fine. I have a boss-boss who allows me legal status here in Japan by serving as my work sponsor, giving enough money to pay my rent and bills. I also have my mayor-boss whom I report to in Rikuzentakata. I'm a libra. Balance is my middle name. This arrangement works for all.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
Monday, August 25, 2014
PTSD and Me
Evidently doctors hate it. Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed. "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes. Do I do this, too? Yes. Watch me. I'm going to right here.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A New Approach to Letting it Go (Let it Go)
It's been some time since I watched a Disney movie. With my son now a grown man I've not had the pleasure. Or need. Or, frankly, the desire. But, because I am not one who follows convention but rather my own mind I pick and choose. While Disney has long ago left the category I search to decide what to watch today, the latest blockbuster has caught my eye. "Frozen" or "Anna and the Queen of Snow" as it's called in Japan and its theme song has brought me a whole new kind of joy.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
When Global Means Local
Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains. These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky. We can see for miles.
This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside. Today we're cold. Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.
People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous. These towns are like any other; we're just like you.
Except that we're not. Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different. Adjectives describing emotions are more intense. Not better or worse. Just intense.
Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago. For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous. A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people. Today, this is personal.
I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities. We know each other. We stand out in town. There are very few of us.
Some lived through the disaster. They too lost. Homes. Cars. Friends. A sense of normalcy. Their lives have received significantly less coverage. A victim is a victim is a victim. Right? Wrong. We still quantify pain based on loss. When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here." Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners. Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.
Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix. Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns. We brought food. Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt. Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.
My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate. Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.
In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles. For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy; a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.
With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.
This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside. Today we're cold. Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.
People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous. These towns are like any other; we're just like you.
Except that we're not. Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different. Adjectives describing emotions are more intense. Not better or worse. Just intense.
Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago. For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous. A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people. Today, this is personal.
I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities. We know each other. We stand out in town. There are very few of us.
Some lived through the disaster. They too lost. Homes. Cars. Friends. A sense of normalcy. Their lives have received significantly less coverage. A victim is a victim is a victim. Right? Wrong. We still quantify pain based on loss. When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here." Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners. Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.
Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix. Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns. We brought food. Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt. Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.
My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate. Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.
In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles. For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy; a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.
With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.
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, March 1, 2014
On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter
I was cheated. All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo. Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set. All my girl friends had them. All of my girl friends had them. Not me. I am forever scared. My parents did me a great disservice. Send me a box of Band-Aids.
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Friday, January 31, 2014
The Art of Complaining
The magnet on my grandmother's refrigerator read, "The more you
complain, the longer God lets you live." I believed this because
grandma did. In my corner of the world, this woman did no wrong.
Conclusion? Don't complain. When I found this same magnet in a gift
shop I bought it, displaying it proudly on my dishwasher at eye-level,
certain my son would see, learn, and agree.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
On The Woman-Who-Rhymes-With-Witch and Learning How To Move On
Shit happens in threes. Everyone knows this. Our run with bad luck started back in December. We received a call. The police arrested one of the two who robbed our home two years ago. If we were still pressing charges we would need to fly home for the trial and testify. Or, we could drop the charges and she would go free. We called and said, "We need time," and "We'll get back to you." They said, "Fine." Fine. We would deal with this later.
Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage. Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess. Because two is a stupid number there was more. We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S. Shit happens in threes. Indeed.
This was a bit much. Where do we start? How do we move through these events? Why was this happening to us? We're good people. We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches. What did we do to deserve this?
Frantic transpacific calls ensued. We split the work. I would handle the robbery case. David would handle the water damage. We told our accountant to fix the other problem. In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down. This served to raise our blood pressure and little else. Wallowing felt good but only briefly. We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans. That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good. David found living without water utterly horrid. Neither of us were happy.
Happiness. This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused. "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Yeah. We all want to be happy. There's nothing wrong with that."
How do we define happiness? What makes us happy? The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad." The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness. Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply." Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.
How we process pain differs for us all. I need laughter. With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me: my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies. I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.
Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense. I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on. I do encourage the grieving to laugh. Often is good. Once a day is a must. For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.
As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud. I feel very little relief.
Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014. We're certain we are correct in our assumption. This is most excellent news. It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go. This makes us happy. We will get through this string of bad luck.
In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same. Pain is not funny. Deep pain takes longer to move through. That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.
In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem. Good boy.
Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage. Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess. Because two is a stupid number there was more. We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S. Shit happens in threes. Indeed.
This was a bit much. Where do we start? How do we move through these events? Why was this happening to us? We're good people. We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches. What did we do to deserve this?
Frantic transpacific calls ensued. We split the work. I would handle the robbery case. David would handle the water damage. We told our accountant to fix the other problem. In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down. This served to raise our blood pressure and little else. Wallowing felt good but only briefly. We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans. That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good. David found living without water utterly horrid. Neither of us were happy.
Happiness. This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused. "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Yeah. We all want to be happy. There's nothing wrong with that."
How do we define happiness? What makes us happy? The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad." The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness. Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply." Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.
How we process pain differs for us all. I need laughter. With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me: my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies. I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.
Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense. I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on. I do encourage the grieving to laugh. Often is good. Once a day is a must. For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.
As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud. I feel very little relief.
Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014. We're certain we are correct in our assumption. This is most excellent news. It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go. This makes us happy. We will get through this string of bad luck.
In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same. Pain is not funny. Deep pain takes longer to move through. That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.
In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem. Good boy.
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.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
The Post Two Years in the Making and the Most Un-Christian Christmas Ever
I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor. He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter. An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me. In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working. Work. I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here." Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation. I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Hell Ramen, Umami, and Chocolate of the East
Just so we're clear, I did not write "hellish ramen" or "ramen from hell." Hell ramen is a type of ramen available in Ofunato up in Tohoku. I'd heard the rumors, something about the tongues of those who eat this burning off, or some hell-like analogy of hotness and pain and fire. One night last week I ended up at the restaurant serving this boiling, steaming, red broth of noodles. The gang I am with was determined to eat this famed dish.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
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.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion
To each their own. Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong? I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine. Hard is just hard. Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that. Let's not compare. Let's not one-up each other.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories
Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once. Even today, I feel cheated. Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew. Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist. No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."
Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns. The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II. Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions. They come from a time where modesty was the norm. I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share. He's already one of a kind. I consider him a total and complete exception.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
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