Earthquake Drama

I woke up to a grey skies outside my window.  Another cold day in Tokyo.  I made and took calls, wrote e-mails, finished a report, and got ready for my lunch appointment.  A childhood friend who called me butterfingers as I let the basketball slip through my grasp, we didn't get along well when we were in our teens.  Now an accomplished journalist and bureau chief of a major foreign news outlet in Tokyo, we were going to get caught up.  I made my way to our rendezvous point as my phone started to ring.  Taking calls on trains is a no-no in Japan.  I answered anyway, keeping my voice low.
"Something's happened in North Korea," he says.
"No problem.  We'll reschedule."  I got off at that station and began retracing my steps home.

Cue internet searches on what happened in North Korea.
"M4.9 seismic activity reported" reads a headline.  It was my next reaction that step off a chain reaction.

"Pffft.  M4.9.  That's nothing.  We go through worse, bigger earthquakes here all the time."
That's what I thought.  Really.  Now, for the record, I am sorry.  Truly sorry.  This is wrong.  That it wasn't an earthquake, per se, but a nuclear test isn't the point.  I am now guilty of earthquake superiority.  I've become an earthquake snob.  This is not okay.

There is surely a psychological word describing the process in which within thirty seconds, one's mind ticks off a chain reaction of memories.  Walking past a cafe, I see a slice of apple pie.  This takes me right back to my grandmother's kitchen smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm with more than just the heat from the oven.  This takes me to the time I was in third grade when walking home from school I passed a hair salon encountering a scent I had only smelled in my great aunt's kitchen.  Bliss.  This took me to my best friend of the time, Yumi walking that same route for four years.  Remembering Yumi took me back to the time we fought about her skin allergy. (Why?)  I didn't like Yumi much.  That reminded me of my other best friend, this one from sixth grade.  Her, I liked.  Which reminded me of the little book of rules we had to carry around in middle school, making sure our hair did not touch our collars, and our bangs above our eyebrows.  Enter the drama surrounding hair cutting in our home.  Always wanting to experiment, I needed my father's permission to go short.  Next, I think about the time I grew my hair out into a bob ten years ago or so, thinking I needed hair in order to look feminine.  My husband pops into my mind next with his words, "Don't ever let your hair grow long again.  You look much better with short hair."  And, now I'm wondering if I need another hair cut.

All that in thirty seconds.  This isn't the jog down memory lane I took today, but rather an example of how fast our minds recall incidents otherwise inconsequential but clearly tucked away only to be pulled out when there's a trigger.  Today, my reaction to the M4.9 "earthquake" in North Korea jump-started a similar process.

I remember back to a time an associate of mine, finding she was pregnant said to me, "I'll lose my gold status on the airlines and hotels now.  I won't be able to travel for at least a year."  I believe I shot back with "You've become quite the travel snob" reeling at how her priorities were as horribly askew.  Today, the word "snob" also applies to me.  Word and memory association stopped there today.  I was stuck on the the fact I've become a snob.

Who gets her socks knotted up into a bunch over "who's earthquake is bigger"?  Where's the concern, sympathy, and genuine hope no one was injured?  Why did my mind jump to competing over the size of an earthquake as opposed to valuing human life?  I'm ashamed.  I'm embarrassed.  I'm also more than a bit peeved with myself.

The conclusion I've come to over my little mental connect-the-dots snafu is this:  I'm reminded all over again I've simply become complacent.  When leaving my apartment, I no longer ask myself if I'd really like to walk home in these shoes if the trains stop running.  I used to, and in the summer would carry around a pair of flip-flops, just in case.  I don't carry extra cash around knowing if there's a massive black out, shutting down banks for days or even weeks I'll certainly need cash to survive.  There are earthquakes somewhere in Japan every day.  While I can't live my life always worrying about "the big one" I similarly can't be as laissez-faire as I am about the fact there will be consequences to having an uncharged cell phone, no cash, and heels that will leave me with blisters the size of Montana if I have to walk more than a kilometer.

North Korean nuclear tests aside, the mental exercise I took today jolted me back into a mode of consciousness  I've been lax about of late.  And, I hope everything's okay in North Korea.  Not in the, oh-go-test-another-bomb-why-don't-you way, but in that the people there, the ones who don't have a say are really okay.

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Porn on the Train

I first heard about the Mayan calendar, the "December 21st is the last day for humankind" story on a camping trip to New Mexico years ago.  Let's just say nature called out.  I needed to reconnect.  True I was burnt out; tired of airports, hotels, and living out of a suitcase.  I camped with a group of women in the hills of New Mexico.  This is most unlike me.  I don't camp.  It was one of those things in hindsight I can't explain.  Nature has not called me to reconnect since, and I don't expect I'll commune with it even if it does.  I'm simply not a nature girl.  But, I digress.

It's December 21st in Tokyo, and while there are several hours left yet in the day, the world has not come crashing down around me.  In fact, I had a most wonderful lunch and dinner.  Coming away from it feeling tall and useful, happy and loved, I was convinced life is truly good and no way would the world come to an end today.  On that note, who's December 21st are we to be looking at anyway?  Whose clock officially kicks off this day?  Are we to calculate this day using GMT, or on Mayan time?  If the latter, December 21st starts around Pacific Standard Time in the US? That actually means December 21st is about 36 hours long for us here in Tokyo.  This is too much math for me to contemplate.

I'm heading home on the subway after dinner, yawning because I haven't had enough tea today.  I'm looking off into space, not really paying attention to my surroundings.  Still happy from my meetings, I let myself dwell in this special moment.

I yawn again, and cover my mouth but a bit too late.  Looking to see if anyone noticed I see the man sitting across from me staring.  What?  You've never seen a woman cover her mouth only half-way through a yawn?  Sorry.  Bad manners on my part.  Our eyes have met.  Here, he looks down to the magazine he has open in his lap.  He looks up at me again.  I look down at the magazine.  It's porn.  It's actually child pornography, but in anime, Japanese cartoons.  The front cover facing me has a barely dressed preteen in an erotic pose.  Well now.  I look back up at him.  He nods.  Am I being challenged?  I sit still.  He nods again, this time to the empty seat next to him.  Is he serious?  He wants me to sit down next to him?  I ponder this.  Briefly.  He nods again, gesturing down at the seat with his head. 

I decide there is this vortex of confusion over the earth today, December 21st and all, and that our planet is trying to decide whether or not to stay alive.  In this confusion, I'm thrown in front of a man reading child pornography on the train who evidently wants me to read it with him.  I get up and sit down next to him.  Be prepared, dear man.  Bring it.  You have no idea what you're getting into.

Sitting side by side, he looks at me and I look back at him.  This is a fight.  I can feel it.  I'm determined not to lose, although I can't quite pinpoint what exactly "losing" would mean.  He starts reading the magazine again.  I join in.  It's not reading as much as it is looking at the pictures.

Of girls being raped.  Of girls giving blow jobs.  Of girls.  There's nothing about these drawings that would make anyone think these characters are anything but six-year olds.  This is child pornography.  This is smut.  Possession of this child pornography in Japan is legal.  He's not breaking any laws. Attempts by foreign governments to shame Japan into proposing legislation that would categorize even anime as child pornography have a). not succeeded, and b). been met with furious opposition from the "artists" who draw these scenes of torture and debauchery.  "It's art," they say.  Bite me.

We're both quiet.  He flips pages and I follow along.  The "stories" are short.  He starts another and I see this one contains a dog.  That's it.  That's my limit.

I look at him.  "You like this?"
He looks back.  "Yeah."
I turn my ahead away from him and look straight ahead.  People are watching us.  I'm silent for a minute and then say, "Huh."
"You don't like it?"
I turn, then pause, and cock my head to the side.  I'm giving him my best "you're-kidding-me" look, hoping he gets it.  Straightening back up, I say, "No, I don't."
I'm not done.  "I don't get why looking at this is fun.  I think it's gross.  This," and I point to the dog, "Really?"
"Yeah, the dog is a bit much."
"The dog is a bit much?  The rest is okay?"
"Yeah.  The rest is okay.  It's not real."
Aaah.  There it is.  It's a cartoon so no one's getting hurt.
"You're foreign so you don't get it.  This is okay in Japan," he says and I feel my eyes widening and I'm so close to punching him and I have to force myself to exhale.
"Well," and I take a deep breath because I'm now shaking, "in my country this is illegal."  I pause for effect.  "This is considered counter-culture, stupid, dirty, and the worst kind of perversion out there.  You'd be arrested for reading this in my country."
"Good thing I'm in Japan then," he says.
"Yeah, only in Japan.  The rest of the world thinks this is wrong.  You guys are way behind the times in what's considered decent," I say and this is my cue.  I get up.  I've had enough.

I did not punch him.  For this I'm proud of myself but only sort of.  I got off the train three stations before mine.  I needed air.  I could feel my heart in my chest, beating furiously.   I wasn't expecting to change his mind, lead him to an epiphany where he would see how morally and socially corrupt this whole "it's not real so it's okay" argument is.  I equally did not see myself coming away feeling this deflated.  I feel gross.  My hands feel oily.  I want to scrub myself clean.

It was a matter of time before this happened.  Today it did, and it some how makes sense that it would on this particular day, but I know this argument will hold no water when I face a similar experience again in future and it's not a day the world is to come to an end.  Deal with that then?  I guess.  It's frightening how wrong that answer is, and yet.  And, yet.