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 Women in Japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Women in Japan. 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, July 12, 2014
The Man I Didn't Punch
Japan finally decided to make possession of child pornography a crime.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
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, February 9, 2014
Men Behaving Badly and Women Who Push Back
I mean, really. The remarks themselves are sexist enough, but the whole lack-of-creativity part also irks me. You want to put women down? Come up with something other than "if you bleed you can't lead."
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Friday, February 1, 2013
Women in Japan: On Being Womanly
Womanhood
in Japan is like a souffle. When rising,
it’s soft, delicious, and full of potential.
Behind that potential is the possibility this sweet goodness will
fall. Sometimes the proverbial souffle
comes crashing down. Some days I spend
quite a bit of time wondering how my life would be if I were a Japanese
woman. My answers waiver between “just
like me now” and “not at all something I’d like to experience.” This bothers me.
On a recent visit by a high-ranking female foreign dignitary to the tsunami-ravaged remnants of Tohoku, I was told the following by one of the men I was with: “Foreign women in power still look womanly. Japanese women, when they become powerful, politicians and the like, they look like men.” I offered a “Huh” because that’s all I could come up with on the spot. I’ve pondered this comment since.
What does it mean to be womanly in Japan? I think of powerful foreign women I know personally and those I’ve seen on television. I don’t think this man was saying women in pantsuits look manly. I’ve seen plenty of foreign women in pantsuits. I don’t think it has to do with hair length, the application of make up, or types of jewelry worn. I go through lists of what it’s not, and come to one conclusion: foreign women wear power better than Japanese women, because Japanese women aren’t meant to be powerful.
I ponder this some more. Powerful women in Japan that I know are usually outspoken—not a flattering trait for a woman here to have. Powerful women in Japan make decisions and give orders—upsetting the historical balance between who’s wearing the pants in any given scenario. Powerful women in Japan make their own money—leaving no room for men to “provide for you.” What was it then about this foreign dignitary that left an impression on this individual as being womanly? Is it simply a matter of being pretty? Was she some how able to exude professionalism and competence while not intimidating the men around her? Why are strong women considered intimidating in Japan? Why is it better for strong women to be womanly? I feel like someone has poked my souffle and it’s rapidly falling. My subconscious is screaming, “Plug the hole! Plug the hole!” Before I can, I need answers. As of now, I'm stumbling, trying to work this through.
On a recent visit by a high-ranking female foreign dignitary to the tsunami-ravaged remnants of Tohoku, I was told the following by one of the men I was with: “Foreign women in power still look womanly. Japanese women, when they become powerful, politicians and the like, they look like men.” I offered a “Huh” because that’s all I could come up with on the spot. I’ve pondered this comment since.
What does it mean to be womanly in Japan? I think of powerful foreign women I know personally and those I’ve seen on television. I don’t think this man was saying women in pantsuits look manly. I’ve seen plenty of foreign women in pantsuits. I don’t think it has to do with hair length, the application of make up, or types of jewelry worn. I go through lists of what it’s not, and come to one conclusion: foreign women wear power better than Japanese women, because Japanese women aren’t meant to be powerful.
I ponder this some more. Powerful women in Japan that I know are usually outspoken—not a flattering trait for a woman here to have. Powerful women in Japan make decisions and give orders—upsetting the historical balance between who’s wearing the pants in any given scenario. Powerful women in Japan make their own money—leaving no room for men to “provide for you.” What was it then about this foreign dignitary that left an impression on this individual as being womanly? Is it simply a matter of being pretty? Was she some how able to exude professionalism and competence while not intimidating the men around her? Why are strong women considered intimidating in Japan? Why is it better for strong women to be womanly? I feel like someone has poked my souffle and it’s rapidly falling. My subconscious is screaming, “Plug the hole! Plug the hole!” Before I can, I need answers. As of now, I'm stumbling, trying to work this through.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
On Women in Japan: "The Rules Are Different Here"
Sometimes it's the conversations we have with our best of friends who then turn around and say something we weren't expecting that hit us the hardest. This is one such case.
I get a call from a dear friend in Tohoku. Let's call him Yuta.
"A bunch of us are concerned about the amount of time you spend with Kiki," he says out of the blue. (Kiki is not her real name.)
"Why?"
And so it begins.
"Well, this is a bit hard to say but Kiki doesn't have a very good reputation in town. She's business first, and then there's the fact she spends so much time out drinking at night--away from her husband and kids."
I don't say anything.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"It's not okay that she's doing this."
"What do you mean by 'this'? Is it the she's-focused-on-getting-her-business-off-the-ground part that's not okay or the staying-out-late-at-night part?"
"Well, the latter mostly. Women, wives and mothers, can't just go out and party like she does. And, to be focused on business over family, that's not cool either."
I like Yuta. A lot. Which is why his words pain me. She's not allowed to be focused on her store and she's not supposed to be going out at night because she's a woman? Because she's a wife and a mother? Seriously?
"Let me get this straight," I say. "It's because she's a woman that these things aren't okay."
Yuta pauses before he answers. "Yeah."
"And, this is why you think I should spend less time with her. That my reputation will some how be tarnished by being associated with her. Is that right?"
"Something like that."
Poor Yuta. If he were anyone else, if we weren't as close as we are he wouldn't have gotten the beating that came next. I simply lost it. I went for the jugular.
"You guys, you men, this is normal for you. You're always out drinking, socializing, staying out late. You guys prioritize your businesses over your families all the time. That's okay, right? That's what men do, right? So, when Kiki does the same thing, trying to restart her business so she can contribute to the family income, and when she enjoys life with her unmarried friends for dinner or drinks, that's not okay. Because she's a woman? Are you kidding me?" Yuta is trying to cut in but I won't let him. "And, what about me then? Some in the States say 'you left your husband behind to work in Japan.' I go out with you guys, and Kiki. We eat. We stay out late. Why is it okay for me and not for Kiki? Is it because I'm American? The rules are different for me? Or is it just that the rules are different for Kiki because she should know better? Local woman, married with kids, she's supposed to pack up her shop promptly at five pm and go home and cook dinner and bathe her children? Yuta, this is dumb. You can't say 'it's okay for Amya' but 'it's not okay for Kiki.' You just can't."
I've hit a nerve. Yuta's angry now, too.
"Look. I'm just telling you what people are saying about Kiki."
"Back her up then! You're in a position to tell those who say this about her that she shouldn't get read the riot act, get the cold shoulder just because she's a woman. Do you say that? Why don't you say that?"
Yuta sighs. "The rules are different here," and adds, "for women."
"That's ridiculous," I snap.
"Yes, it is. But it's also true. You're right. You don't get the same crap thrown at you because you're here helping us get back on our feet, and because you're a foreigner. No one would dare say that about you."
We're both quiet. I'm oddly completely drained from having yelled at him, and he's hurt his advice has been met with such a violent reaction. Soon we mumble our good-byes and hang up. The rest of my day I get very little done, my thoughts going back to Kiki, and Yuta's words. The injustice of the existence of different rules for women infuriate me. Do I stop seeing Kiki? No way. I won't get sucked into this muck. Is Yuta right, though? Will I get less done if I hang out with "the wrong crowd"? Do I ignore these rules or play nicely in the sandbox?
The next time Yuta and I talk, I apologize. I took it out on him, and that wasn't right. He was giving me a heads up, and I could have taken that as valuable information but didn't. He understands. He agrees the double-standard is unjust. There are more pauses in our conversation this time, each of us dancing around the uncomfortable air between us.
"I'm not going to stop hanging out with Kiki," I finally say.
"I didn't think you would. Especially not after what you said last time."
"I realize I may be taking a chance, a risky one, that people will stop working with me because I spend time with Kiki. But, I guess I honestly don't believe that will happen. I'm associated with a lot of different groups. Not everyone I work with is thought well of. Right?"
"Right."
"If I as a woman stop supporting Kiki because she's a woman...well, that's a line I can't cross. It's some code we have as women. Or something."
Yuta says he understands and I choose to believe him. The subject of Kiki hasn't come up since. I've known the rules are different for women in Japan, and especially so in Tohoku. To have them so clearly spelled out for me, however, is unsettling and off-putting. My choice to ignore cultural protocol for the sake of supporting my kind may or may not have repercussions. To date, I think I'm fine. I'll let you know.
I get a call from a dear friend in Tohoku. Let's call him Yuta.
"A bunch of us are concerned about the amount of time you spend with Kiki," he says out of the blue. (Kiki is not her real name.)
"Why?"
And so it begins.
"Well, this is a bit hard to say but Kiki doesn't have a very good reputation in town. She's business first, and then there's the fact she spends so much time out drinking at night--away from her husband and kids."
I don't say anything.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"It's not okay that she's doing this."
"What do you mean by 'this'? Is it the she's-focused-on-getting-her-business-off-the-ground part that's not okay or the staying-out-late-at-night part?"
"Well, the latter mostly. Women, wives and mothers, can't just go out and party like she does. And, to be focused on business over family, that's not cool either."
I like Yuta. A lot. Which is why his words pain me. She's not allowed to be focused on her store and she's not supposed to be going out at night because she's a woman? Because she's a wife and a mother? Seriously?
"Let me get this straight," I say. "It's because she's a woman that these things aren't okay."
Yuta pauses before he answers. "Yeah."
"And, this is why you think I should spend less time with her. That my reputation will some how be tarnished by being associated with her. Is that right?"
"Something like that."
Poor Yuta. If he were anyone else, if we weren't as close as we are he wouldn't have gotten the beating that came next. I simply lost it. I went for the jugular.
"You guys, you men, this is normal for you. You're always out drinking, socializing, staying out late. You guys prioritize your businesses over your families all the time. That's okay, right? That's what men do, right? So, when Kiki does the same thing, trying to restart her business so she can contribute to the family income, and when she enjoys life with her unmarried friends for dinner or drinks, that's not okay. Because she's a woman? Are you kidding me?" Yuta is trying to cut in but I won't let him. "And, what about me then? Some in the States say 'you left your husband behind to work in Japan.' I go out with you guys, and Kiki. We eat. We stay out late. Why is it okay for me and not for Kiki? Is it because I'm American? The rules are different for me? Or is it just that the rules are different for Kiki because she should know better? Local woman, married with kids, she's supposed to pack up her shop promptly at five pm and go home and cook dinner and bathe her children? Yuta, this is dumb. You can't say 'it's okay for Amya' but 'it's not okay for Kiki.' You just can't."
I've hit a nerve. Yuta's angry now, too.
"Look. I'm just telling you what people are saying about Kiki."
"Back her up then! You're in a position to tell those who say this about her that she shouldn't get read the riot act, get the cold shoulder just because she's a woman. Do you say that? Why don't you say that?"
Yuta sighs. "The rules are different here," and adds, "for women."
"That's ridiculous," I snap.
"Yes, it is. But it's also true. You're right. You don't get the same crap thrown at you because you're here helping us get back on our feet, and because you're a foreigner. No one would dare say that about you."
We're both quiet. I'm oddly completely drained from having yelled at him, and he's hurt his advice has been met with such a violent reaction. Soon we mumble our good-byes and hang up. The rest of my day I get very little done, my thoughts going back to Kiki, and Yuta's words. The injustice of the existence of different rules for women infuriate me. Do I stop seeing Kiki? No way. I won't get sucked into this muck. Is Yuta right, though? Will I get less done if I hang out with "the wrong crowd"? Do I ignore these rules or play nicely in the sandbox?
The next time Yuta and I talk, I apologize. I took it out on him, and that wasn't right. He was giving me a heads up, and I could have taken that as valuable information but didn't. He understands. He agrees the double-standard is unjust. There are more pauses in our conversation this time, each of us dancing around the uncomfortable air between us.
"I'm not going to stop hanging out with Kiki," I finally say.
"I didn't think you would. Especially not after what you said last time."
"I realize I may be taking a chance, a risky one, that people will stop working with me because I spend time with Kiki. But, I guess I honestly don't believe that will happen. I'm associated with a lot of different groups. Not everyone I work with is thought well of. Right?"
"Right."
"If I as a woman stop supporting Kiki because she's a woman...well, that's a line I can't cross. It's some code we have as women. Or something."
Yuta says he understands and I choose to believe him. The subject of Kiki hasn't come up since. I've known the rules are different for women in Japan, and especially so in Tohoku. To have them so clearly spelled out for me, however, is unsettling and off-putting. My choice to ignore cultural protocol for the sake of supporting my kind may or may not have repercussions. To date, I think I'm fine. I'll let you know.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
What chivalry?
Not all women like, want, or appreciate the sentiment of "ladies first." I can appreciate that. Antiquated, sexist, implying women are the weaker sex, I've heard women say they don't need doors held open for them, to enter/exit the elevator first, or have chairs pulled out for them. I can appreciate this, too.
To these women, I'd suggest a trip to Japan. Certainly, chivalry here is an anomaly. Sorry guys. It's the truth. While many would argue the role of, and the rights that come with change have improved the lives of women in Japan, there's more truth that women here rank second to men.
Arriving in Japan yesterday, I'm hit with this reality even before I get off the plane. The flight attendants fuss over the man sitting next to me. Fuss is absolutely the right word here. I, on the other hand, am not fussed over. Is he a celebrity? Is he special? Perhaps. Or, perhaps he's male.
No one offers to take the bag down for me from the overhead compartment. It's more rare in the US that I get no offers for help from men to drag down my carry on. As we exit the plane, I'm assuming we'll file out zipper-like, letting people in the rows in front of us exit first. Nope. Men push past me, no space for me to cut in. None of them stop and offer to zip the zipper.
Dropped off at my apartment, I maneuver (and not well) my two suitcases and two carry on bags up the stair case while two men stand nearby and continue talking. I'm this close to saying, "Really? No help whatsoever? Am I making this look easy?"
The gods and stars, making sure I thoroughly understand this is not an isolated incident, point me to a news show last night where two men, an expert of some sort, and a well-known television host discuss why women with strollers should ride the train less. Simply put, they're in the way. Presumably, to make sure they're not perceived as being completely out of touch with reality, they pepper their statements with, "But of course they do need to be able to leave the house." The conclusion the two men come to is this: women with strollers shouldn't ride the train during rush hour. They take up too much space. The rest of the time, the Japanese should be more sensitive to the fact that these should be allowed to leave their homes to run errands. To run errands. Right. Got it.
Try running this segment on television in another country. I know I'd be on the phone to the news outlet saying, "Did your guys really just say this? You're okay with this?" How many groups can you name that would never let this go by without pointing out its absurdity? Women should stay home during rush hour because baby strollers get in the way of commuters? Really? Japan has to ask people to have good manners?
And, food for thought here, people: Tokyo wants to host the Olympics in 2020? Good luck with that. You don't have a chance, especially if women and foreigners start spreading the word tourists and athletes with bags and gear aren't welcome on trains during rush hour.
To these women, I'd suggest a trip to Japan. Certainly, chivalry here is an anomaly. Sorry guys. It's the truth. While many would argue the role of, and the rights that come with change have improved the lives of women in Japan, there's more truth that women here rank second to men.
Arriving in Japan yesterday, I'm hit with this reality even before I get off the plane. The flight attendants fuss over the man sitting next to me. Fuss is absolutely the right word here. I, on the other hand, am not fussed over. Is he a celebrity? Is he special? Perhaps. Or, perhaps he's male.
No one offers to take the bag down for me from the overhead compartment. It's more rare in the US that I get no offers for help from men to drag down my carry on. As we exit the plane, I'm assuming we'll file out zipper-like, letting people in the rows in front of us exit first. Nope. Men push past me, no space for me to cut in. None of them stop and offer to zip the zipper.
Dropped off at my apartment, I maneuver (and not well) my two suitcases and two carry on bags up the stair case while two men stand nearby and continue talking. I'm this close to saying, "Really? No help whatsoever? Am I making this look easy?"
The gods and stars, making sure I thoroughly understand this is not an isolated incident, point me to a news show last night where two men, an expert of some sort, and a well-known television host discuss why women with strollers should ride the train less. Simply put, they're in the way. Presumably, to make sure they're not perceived as being completely out of touch with reality, they pepper their statements with, "But of course they do need to be able to leave the house." The conclusion the two men come to is this: women with strollers shouldn't ride the train during rush hour. They take up too much space. The rest of the time, the Japanese should be more sensitive to the fact that these should be allowed to leave their homes to run errands. To run errands. Right. Got it.
Try running this segment on television in another country. I know I'd be on the phone to the news outlet saying, "Did your guys really just say this? You're okay with this?" How many groups can you name that would never let this go by without pointing out its absurdity? Women should stay home during rush hour because baby strollers get in the way of commuters? Really? Japan has to ask people to have good manners?
And, food for thought here, people: Tokyo wants to host the Olympics in 2020? Good luck with that. You don't have a chance, especially if women and foreigners start spreading the word tourists and athletes with bags and gear aren't welcome on trains during rush hour.
Friday, July 13, 2012
How Unintentionally Misquoting the Bible Led to a Revelation
I collect quotes. I have lists of them. One such list is to be read at my funeral. It's sealed, and my husband knows not to open the file it until the day comes. As much fun as I've had reading books and articles compiling this list, I've found myself unable to recite any of these quotes without actually reading them from paper. This means I refrain from repeating them out loud from memory lest I butcher it, misquote the author, losing any opportunity of conveying the zing they so often have. The list for my funeral is one I'm especially proud of, but it's tucked away in my husband's office. I won't try to share the quotes with you now. You will just have to wait.
I read somewhere recently, one of my favorite quotes from the Bible "God helps those who help themselves" is not actually in the Bible. Well now. That's a bit of a problem. Evidently, I've been misquoting someone for quite some time. That I've been mistaken in this quote, one that has to do with God at that is even more problematic. Needless to say I've stopped citing the Bible lest I misquote, say, God this time. Clearly, there's something to not quoting people or books unless I know it was really said. Really written.
Which made me think of another verse from the Bible (this time I looked it up) about the "gong." This is also a quote I've liked over the years. The verse is from I Corinthians 13. "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal." Often read at weddings (including ours), it always makes me smile. I particularly like the "I am only a resounding gong" part. I conjure up loud-mouthed gasbags who don't know when to stop talking, and people who stood on a box (I only imagine it to be a box) in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, reading something out to the masses. Resounding gong, indeed.
The idea of being a resounding gong, or being thought of as a resounding gong, going on and on about the plight of people and communities in Tohoku has been on my mind lately. A lot. How long can I keep this up? How long will people listen? How many have stopped listening? What am I doing? Am I just making noise? Am I a gong?
I had lunch with one of my best friends from university recently. She made a joke, what she thought was a joke, about me being in Tohoku. It hit a nerve. It was the proverbial straw. I told her I was "done talking." If she didn't "get it" there was no way I could get anyone else to understand. Apologizing, trying to get me to hear her out, she said, "You never told me why you're there. You never explained. I've supported you, but I honestly can't say I understand why you keep going back."
Ah yes. The question I am still, to date, unable to answer adequately. Why do I go? I've tried explaining my reasons using analogies, examples, logic, emotion, and humor. Most people nod politely. Most people don't understand. The question will be asked again. And again. I will likely still remain unconvincing.
I gave my speech. She listened, trying to understand. "I think I get it," she mused. I wasn't sure I believed her. We sat in silence for awhile, both of us frustrated. The next thing she said ended up being an explosive statement, opening up years of pent up frustration.
"You're bilingual. You're bi-cultural. You can do things in Japan because you're white, female, foreign. I get that. You know the rules. You get things done. I understand that. What you don't understand is that you're much more than that. You have a unique world view. Things make sense to you that many of us don't understand. A lot of us just don't get you."
She was right. I am often misunderstood. I am comfortable with who I am. But, I know, rather I have known for decades, many aren't. Take for example, my last two undergraduate years. I look back now and can say I was bullied. There was no physical violence. I wasn't hit, beaten, or cornered in the bathroom. There was, however, stupid and mean-spirited nastiness. From women. I didn't understand where it was coming from for a long time. It hurt. That it went on for two years took a toll on me. I loaded up on classes, hoping to graduate early. I wanted out. Significantly more polite and timid than I am now, I didn't push back. I didn't know how.
Then one day I had a break-through. I was sitting in class. I don't remember what it was anymore. Three of the "mean girls" sat several seats down from me. Evidently, I was clicking my pen. It wasn't a conscious act. Just something people do, right? Click down once, the tip sticks out. Click down again, it retracts. I must have been bored. I guess the noise I made with the pen annoyed these women. I looked over and saw one of the women nudge her head over towards me. They all looked at me. One woman sighed out loud. Another shook her head and rolled her eyes. Passive-aggressive and catty they were. Here we go again. What can I do wrong today?
I smiled. Had I not been in class I would have laughed. The ridiculousness of it came crashing to the forefront. Then, right there, I decided I was "over it." Enough was enough. I understood it then. Something "clicked" (no pun intended). I don't know what it was that made it so clear that day. But, clear it was. I was being bullied because I was "different." You don't "get" me? Fine. Honestly? I didn't care. I put the pen down and ignored them. I continued to ignore them for the remainder of my time at school. Life became easier starting that day.
Here's the thing. I look American. I sound American. But, evidently, I am not American enough. This isn't a problem I have in Japan. I don't blend. I can't. I look different. I'm taller and heavier than almost all women there, and some men even. I look foreign. There's nothing I can do to change the fact I am not "one of them." I'm totally and completely at peace with this. In the US, I am expected to be American. One of the gang. That I'm not made me the target of bullying. Today, it makes my choices harder for people to understand.
What is difficult to explain is how being different benefits my work in Japan. I get things done precisely because I am not "one of them." Doors open to me that don't for others. Add to this, I know the language, play by their rules (for the most part) and I'm good to go. I am uniquely qualified to be a gong right now. So long as I pepper my reports, this blog included, with stories about life in Japan in general, not just Tohoku, I simply have to hope I'm not one of those annoying gongs that people tune out. I like to think I make a gentle "booooong" as opposed to a loud clang.
So, gong as I may be, I will keep telling stories, making every effort to quote people accurately. This is my job right now. While I will continue attempting to explain why I am there, why I keep returning, for now I am content with the knowledge I'm okay being a gong because there is love in what I do.
I read somewhere recently, one of my favorite quotes from the Bible "God helps those who help themselves" is not actually in the Bible. Well now. That's a bit of a problem. Evidently, I've been misquoting someone for quite some time. That I've been mistaken in this quote, one that has to do with God at that is even more problematic. Needless to say I've stopped citing the Bible lest I misquote, say, God this time. Clearly, there's something to not quoting people or books unless I know it was really said. Really written.
Which made me think of another verse from the Bible (this time I looked it up) about the "gong." This is also a quote I've liked over the years. The verse is from I Corinthians 13. "If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal." Often read at weddings (including ours), it always makes me smile. I particularly like the "I am only a resounding gong" part. I conjure up loud-mouthed gasbags who don't know when to stop talking, and people who stood on a box (I only imagine it to be a box) in ancient Rome, dressed in a toga, reading something out to the masses. Resounding gong, indeed.
The idea of being a resounding gong, or being thought of as a resounding gong, going on and on about the plight of people and communities in Tohoku has been on my mind lately. A lot. How long can I keep this up? How long will people listen? How many have stopped listening? What am I doing? Am I just making noise? Am I a gong?
I had lunch with one of my best friends from university recently. She made a joke, what she thought was a joke, about me being in Tohoku. It hit a nerve. It was the proverbial straw. I told her I was "done talking." If she didn't "get it" there was no way I could get anyone else to understand. Apologizing, trying to get me to hear her out, she said, "You never told me why you're there. You never explained. I've supported you, but I honestly can't say I understand why you keep going back."Ah yes. The question I am still, to date, unable to answer adequately. Why do I go? I've tried explaining my reasons using analogies, examples, logic, emotion, and humor. Most people nod politely. Most people don't understand. The question will be asked again. And again. I will likely still remain unconvincing.
I gave my speech. She listened, trying to understand. "I think I get it," she mused. I wasn't sure I believed her. We sat in silence for awhile, both of us frustrated. The next thing she said ended up being an explosive statement, opening up years of pent up frustration.
"You're bilingual. You're bi-cultural. You can do things in Japan because you're white, female, foreign. I get that. You know the rules. You get things done. I understand that. What you don't understand is that you're much more than that. You have a unique world view. Things make sense to you that many of us don't understand. A lot of us just don't get you."
She was right. I am often misunderstood. I am comfortable with who I am. But, I know, rather I have known for decades, many aren't. Take for example, my last two undergraduate years. I look back now and can say I was bullied. There was no physical violence. I wasn't hit, beaten, or cornered in the bathroom. There was, however, stupid and mean-spirited nastiness. From women. I didn't understand where it was coming from for a long time. It hurt. That it went on for two years took a toll on me. I loaded up on classes, hoping to graduate early. I wanted out. Significantly more polite and timid than I am now, I didn't push back. I didn't know how.
Then one day I had a break-through. I was sitting in class. I don't remember what it was anymore. Three of the "mean girls" sat several seats down from me. Evidently, I was clicking my pen. It wasn't a conscious act. Just something people do, right? Click down once, the tip sticks out. Click down again, it retracts. I must have been bored. I guess the noise I made with the pen annoyed these women. I looked over and saw one of the women nudge her head over towards me. They all looked at me. One woman sighed out loud. Another shook her head and rolled her eyes. Passive-aggressive and catty they were. Here we go again. What can I do wrong today?
I smiled. Had I not been in class I would have laughed. The ridiculousness of it came crashing to the forefront. Then, right there, I decided I was "over it." Enough was enough. I understood it then. Something "clicked" (no pun intended). I don't know what it was that made it so clear that day. But, clear it was. I was being bullied because I was "different." You don't "get" me? Fine. Honestly? I didn't care. I put the pen down and ignored them. I continued to ignore them for the remainder of my time at school. Life became easier starting that day.
Here's the thing. I look American. I sound American. But, evidently, I am not American enough. This isn't a problem I have in Japan. I don't blend. I can't. I look different. I'm taller and heavier than almost all women there, and some men even. I look foreign. There's nothing I can do to change the fact I am not "one of them." I'm totally and completely at peace with this. In the US, I am expected to be American. One of the gang. That I'm not made me the target of bullying. Today, it makes my choices harder for people to understand.
What is difficult to explain is how being different benefits my work in Japan. I get things done precisely because I am not "one of them." Doors open to me that don't for others. Add to this, I know the language, play by their rules (for the most part) and I'm good to go. I am uniquely qualified to be a gong right now. So long as I pepper my reports, this blog included, with stories about life in Japan in general, not just Tohoku, I simply have to hope I'm not one of those annoying gongs that people tune out. I like to think I make a gentle "booooong" as opposed to a loud clang.
So, gong as I may be, I will keep telling stories, making every effort to quote people accurately. This is my job right now. While I will continue attempting to explain why I am there, why I keep returning, for now I am content with the knowledge I'm okay being a gong because there is love in what I do.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
"I'll protect you."
The innocence of babes, of children who do not know the impact their words have, is something we've all likely experienced. Facebook postings are riddled with the comments our children make, heartwarming, uplifting, genuinely kind, and unprompted. We're proud parents when we share our children's words. It's beautiful. It's love in its purest form. I firmly believe these acts of kindness bear repeating. Often is better.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Seasons: Cycles and Circles
The more time I spend in Tohoku, the more aware I become of the differences between men and women. There's nothing wrong with these differences, per se. My observations are just that: I notice the subtle nuances, changes in behavior and expectations, scene after scene in how these traits are played out.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Strong Women in Japan
I've seen it over and over. Even among educated men, men who know better than to be dismissive, men who are enlightened about worldly things, when women start talking about women-helping-women, their eyes glaze over. I hear the non-verbal, "yeah, yeah, yeah" oozing through their body language. Mind you, that's what I see/get from American men. Some American men. Let's just say, in Japan for the most part, I don't often actually talk with men about the women-helping-women phenomenon I'm lucky to be a part of. Saying this in Tohoku would instantly make me less productive. I would be one of those radical, American, femi-Nazis promoting western ideas about women, and that, in Tohoku, is a no-no.
Sitting in a restaurant surrounding by several men, I'm not really a part of their conversation as much as I am researching their "friend" recommendations on Facebook. I'm half-listening, half-reading, sending friend requests to those they tell me about. Then I hear it. One of the men says,「女のくせに」and I look up. The man who runs the restaurant quickly jumps in. "We're not talking about you, Amya-san." I mumble an "Uh-huh" and go back to my Facebooking, but I know what I heard. I'm furious.
The translation of that potent phrase encompasses several ideas. There's no literal translation. Rather, it's a combination of "She's only a woman" and "She should know her place" and "What the hell would she know" and "Too big for her britches" and more insinuations putting her down because she's a woman.
Men would never say about another man, "He can't possibly succeed because he's only a man." People around me just assume my male colleagues will succeed. The same is not true for me, or for the women I work with. When women try things, bold, brave, difficult, and different, the assumptions are "Good luck with that, sweet pea," and "Should you really be doing this?"
Before leaving for Japan, men (Americans) said to me, "How are you going to do this on your own?" and "I'd divorce you if you did what you're about to do." The latter, I ignored. I wasn't married to the man who said this, and that made his statement irrelevant. The former infuriated me. Did he say this to my male colleagues? No. If I can't even get some American men to take me seriously, how can I possibly expect men elsewhere to give me the benefit of the doubt that I'll actually make a difference? Get things done?
The statistics I'm shown outlining instances of depression and isolation (those with bordering tendencies of agoraphobia) have to do with men. Not women. Women take care of the men who won't leave their homes. Women get out and shop for food. Women say to me, "I don't have time to be depressed," and "My children depend on me to be okay."
Why then, is there resistance to the idea of women-helping-women? Why is this so threatening? What buttons get pushed that makes this idea of positive change and mutual support among women bothersome? I have no answers. That societies all over still are threatened by what women can accomplish--the absurdity of this is exhausting. I can deal with that later. For now, I will focus on getting things done.
Sitting in a restaurant surrounding by several men, I'm not really a part of their conversation as much as I am researching their "friend" recommendations on Facebook. I'm half-listening, half-reading, sending friend requests to those they tell me about. Then I hear it. One of the men says,「女のくせに」and I look up. The man who runs the restaurant quickly jumps in. "We're not talking about you, Amya-san." I mumble an "Uh-huh" and go back to my Facebooking, but I know what I heard. I'm furious.
The translation of that potent phrase encompasses several ideas. There's no literal translation. Rather, it's a combination of "She's only a woman" and "She should know her place" and "What the hell would she know" and "Too big for her britches" and more insinuations putting her down because she's a woman.
Men would never say about another man, "He can't possibly succeed because he's only a man." People around me just assume my male colleagues will succeed. The same is not true for me, or for the women I work with. When women try things, bold, brave, difficult, and different, the assumptions are "Good luck with that, sweet pea," and "Should you really be doing this?"
Before leaving for Japan, men (Americans) said to me, "How are you going to do this on your own?" and "I'd divorce you if you did what you're about to do." The latter, I ignored. I wasn't married to the man who said this, and that made his statement irrelevant. The former infuriated me. Did he say this to my male colleagues? No. If I can't even get some American men to take me seriously, how can I possibly expect men elsewhere to give me the benefit of the doubt that I'll actually make a difference? Get things done?
The statistics I'm shown outlining instances of depression and isolation (those with bordering tendencies of agoraphobia) have to do with men. Not women. Women take care of the men who won't leave their homes. Women get out and shop for food. Women say to me, "I don't have time to be depressed," and "My children depend on me to be okay."
Why then, is there resistance to the idea of women-helping-women? Why is this so threatening? What buttons get pushed that makes this idea of positive change and mutual support among women bothersome? I have no answers. That societies all over still are threatened by what women can accomplish--the absurdity of this is exhausting. I can deal with that later. For now, I will focus on getting things done.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
ばあちゃんパワー
友達の友達に、この素晴らしい女性を紹介され、気付いてみれば福島に連れてこられていた。南相馬市の仮設住宅に身をよせている。原発避難地域に指定されているこの場所は、いつもくもり空だ。ここへ来るのは3度目になる。今回の目的は、米国と日本で売るための手作りの品物を見つけること。被災者の方々が収入をえるための支援。ここで私を待っていたのは、予想もしないものだった。
外国人女性（私）、私を招待してくれた人、そして、地元の窓口でもある仮設住宅地の自治会長の奥様とが部屋に入る。テーブルを囲んで6人のばあちゃんたちが座っている小さな部屋。四方の壁にかけられた洗濯ロープには、私がこれまでに見たことのないような繊細で美しく複雑なデザインの折り紙でできた作品がぎっしりとかけられている。言葉が出ない。
自己紹介と訪問の目的を説明する。ばあちゃんたちは全く人おじしない。
「ほんとうにこれをアメリカに持っていきたいの？」
「ああ。いいよ。」
アメリカ人が折り紙のよさを本当にわかるかどうか、気にいってくれるかどうか、どうやって持って行くつもりなのか、といった内容の複数の会話が同時にすすむ。「持っていってもらおう」という全員一致での結論に満足して、ばあちゃんの一人が会長の奥様に質問する。「ほんとうにこれを売ってもいいの？おらたち怒られない？」
「怒られないわよ。お正月にくつしたを売ったのだって収入になりましたよね。」
また会話がはじまっている。めんどりたちがコッコとなく姿が頭にうかび、思わずほほえむ。
「ほんとうにいいんだな？」別のおばあちゃんが聞く。
「いいんだ。自治会長の奥さんだねん。奥さんが大丈夫といえば大丈夫だ。」皆がいっせいに笑う。めんどりが甲高くないているような感じ。
「じゃ、持って行っていいんですね？」ロープにかかっている芸術品を見ながら、私が聞く。
「もちろん。好きなだけ持って行ってよ。」
数々のくすだまを眺めながら、もう一度聞いてみる。
「このくすだまたち、ほんとうに持って行ってもいいですか？」
「どうぞ、どうぞ。」また別のおばあちゃんが言う。
「玉、全部持っていって。」と他のおばあちゃんも加わる。
「おら、べつに玉は必要ないものね。」と違うおばあちゃんが言うと、爆笑。
説明させてもらうと、最後の文章は表向きには「おらには玉はもう必要ない」と言っているのだが、「玉」の意味するところにはちょっとした含みがある。もちろんくすだまの「玉」とかけているのだが、おばあちゃんの冗談の意味がみなには分かった。
きちんと育てられた外国人の女の子が、どうして日本語の「たま」の持つ意味を知っているのか説明しないといけないなんてとんでもないので、私は下を向いて床をみつめながら、こっそりと笑うことにした。まったく。このおばあちゃんたちったら……。
部屋をあるきまわって、折り紙をひとつずつ外して、テーブルの上に積みあげる。すぐに大きな折り紙の山ができる。4月にボストンで開かれる春祭りで売ってもらえるように、アメリカへ送る手配をする。
「もっとたくさん作れますか？」と私は聞く。
「もちろんよ！」と怒られる。当たり前だ。このおばあちゃんたちには、ほかにすることがない。農家の奥さんたち、土にふくまれる放射能のせいで農業ができないでいる。みなで一緒にすわって折り紙をひとつずつ折る。できるだけはやくたくさんの人に作品を届けると約束する。
「おばあちゃん、写真をとっていいですか？皆にみせたいので。」と私は声をかける。
「だめだめ！」と一番おしゃべりだったおばあちゃんが立ち上がって、ドアのうしろに隠れる。皆で出てきてと頼むが、姿をあらわさない。
ドアのかげから「まだかいな？」という声を聞きながら、残りのみなで写真をとる。別のおばあちゃんには、顔がみえるようこっちを向いてもらうようにたのむ。あんなに恥ずかしい話でも平気でしていたばあちゃんたちが、どうしてここまではずかしがり屋なのか、私にはわからない。自分たちを呼ぶのに「おら」と男性言葉をつかうのも印象的。いいばあちゃんたちだ。みなの活気がたまらない。
アメリカからもどってくる5月に「また来ます。」と言い残して、
「いくらで売れるかわかりませんよ」と警告しておく。
「いくらでもいいよ。皆におらたちのことを話してくれれば。」
「おらのことは言わないで。」とカメラぎらいのばあちゃんが言う。
「あら、おばあちゃんのことを中心に話そうと思ってたのに。」と私はからかう。
「もう、あんたったら……。」と、ばあちゃんは私を軽くたたくふりをする。
「冗談、冗談！」と私が逃げるまねをすると、皆がまた大笑いする。
手作り仲間の輪にいれてもらうのは光栄である。ただ、いれてもらう努力はしないといけないし、みなに信用してもらえるためなら何でもしようと思う。
Bears, Bags, and Shiseido
I blame my low blood pressure. Having wished forever I could some day be one of these perky people that, upon hearing the (first) alarm of the morning, stretch, yawn, and jump out of bed ready to hit the day, I long ago resigned myself to the fact I will never be that person. It's easier to hate them.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
To compensate, I learned how to put make up on in the car, saving precious morning minutes for extra sleep. Even 10 years ago, I showed up at jobs with two minutes to spare (never be late!). I had my routine down pat. Comments like, "Wow, those are some amazing suitcases under your eyes" were met with curt retorts on where the man could shove those words. Sleep always trumped.
When Alpha Male (my favorite man in Japan) says to me several weeks ago, "You look better without make up" I am stunned.
"When have you ever seen me without make up?"
"The night I took you to the bus stop."
That was over a year ago, the night of my first trip up to Tohoku. To show him how agreeable I can be, I arrived at one of our recent lunches without make up. As I hop in his car, he looks over and says, "Did you just wake up?" I'm immediately pissed.
"No, I did not just wake up. This is me without make up. You said you liked it better this way." I flip down the sun visor, stare at myself in the mirror, and am amazed at the puffy bags of skin below my lids, surrounded by dark patches. I almost look like I've been punched. I curse. There will be no more leaving the apartment without make up. Period.
He's silent. I can just hear the pedals going backwards, his mind spinning with how he's going to get out of that comment. The next lunch? I show up with make up, and he knows better than to say anything.
More recent comments from others about how "You looked much younger a year ago" have made me, begrudgingly, accept the fact I don't handle stress very well, and I'm yet again showing it on my face. Having been blessed with good skin genes from a young age, and having equally been "blessed" with low blood pressure, my morning routine has never been much in the way of an extensive beauty routine. I have it down to a science. Lotion, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick. (If it can be done in a car, even better.)
All of which--age, stress, years of not putting more time into my skincare--is now evidently catching up with me. I have silently apologized to Nora Ephron for all the snide remarks I made about her (presumed) lack of skin maintenance, obviously causing her to write "I Feel Bad About My Neck" all because my neck now, too, needs extra care. I get it. Getting old isn't a lot of fun when the aging process shows up prominently in our faces.
Enter my decision to take action. I march to the Shiseido counter in a major department store in Tokyo, plop myself down in a chair, and promptly "command" the saleswoman to "Do something about these" pointing to the black circles and bags around my eyes.
"Oh, the kuma" she says. Kuma? That's bear in Japanese. I have bears around my eyes? Suitcases and bags are bad enough. Now bears?
"Whatever," I think I snapped back. "Just fix them." I'm in no mood to expand my vocabulary today.
I know what's coming. She will bring out every Shiseido product under the sun, promising me they will make my skin "glow" and "look fresh" and the like. I'm ready to be convinced. The bears must go.
Thirty minutes later, with a bunch of lotions, creams, powder, and concealer on my skin, I look back at myself in the mirror and ask myself whether I can actually commit to spending time on this routine. True, the bags are less visible, and the blackness around my eyes is gone. But, I can feel the crap on my skin. It feels foreign. Is it me, or is my skin itching?
The same saleswoman tries to tell me I should use Shiseido cotton to "maximize its effectiveness" and I stare at her with this, "please tell me you're kidding" look and she stops. I know buying all this will cost me. I also know the bags or bears (whatever) bother me. A lot. I decide to spend the money.
Blame aging, sun damage, and hormones. Or, blame the less obvious culprit? I'm obviously stressed. What good will it do to spend too much on the promise "if you use it properly, you should see results in two months" when I could just do something about my stress level? Ah, yes. My stress level. Right. Fix that and my skin will once again glow. Right?
Until I can find the cure for my stress, you're all welcome to invest in Shiseido stock. I'll be relying on them for awhile.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Working Mothers: Part 2
"My husband said, 'You've changed,'" and she looks at me for a response.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.
I just did the math last night. A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience. So, yes. I've changed, too.
The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother. She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house. You know. Wifely things." What comes to mind immediately is her energy level. Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day. Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite. Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.
My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions. I much preferred to complain. Energy? I have plenty of that. Right?
Wrong. Mothers are more often than not right. I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite. I often tap my reserves. Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.
Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us. My respect increases with every visit. The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength. To say they can handle anything is not fair. It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met. I want to learn from these Tohoku women. How do I harness their energy? Is there a secret? There must be. If so, what is it? Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?"
With each visit I have more questions than answers. Sometimes this is daunting. At times, it's invigorating. On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers. They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it. I'm determined to find out what it is.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.
I just did the math last night. A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience. So, yes. I've changed, too.
The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother. She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house. You know. Wifely things." What comes to mind immediately is her energy level. Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day. Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite. Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.
My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions. I much preferred to complain. Energy? I have plenty of that. Right?
Wrong. Mothers are more often than not right. I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite. I often tap my reserves. Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.
Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us. My respect increases with every visit. The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength. To say they can handle anything is not fair. It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met. I want to learn from these Tohoku women. How do I harness their energy? Is there a secret? There must be. If so, what is it? Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?"
With each visit I have more questions than answers. Sometimes this is daunting. At times, it's invigorating. On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers. They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it. I'm determined to find out what it is.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Random post-hinamatsuri musings
March 3rd in Japan is Girls' Day. All my girlfriends had these dolls. All of them. We didn't. "We aren't Japanese and we're not going to spend thousands of dollars on dolls that you see only several weeks a year. You can't even play with them." Something similar to this was my parent's reasoning for why my request was denied every year. In its place, just to be sure they knew I, too, should be properly celebrated as their one and only daughter, we made our own hina-ningyo. I remember this as one of the mostly truly horrific and unfair experiences of my childhood. Why? Tell any 8-year old girl to maker her own dolls out of eggs, and I guarantee she will cry foul. Everyone knows dolls made out of eggs, clothed in origami are just plain lame.
Opinionated and strong-willed as I was even as a child, there was nothing I could do to persuade my parents of the injustice they were making me go through. Dolls made out of eggs? Really. Truly pathetic. Not given a choice, I sat and poked small holes in two eggs (I only got to make the lord and lady--the two sitting on the top shelf--yet another injustice). I drained the eggs, let them dry, and drew faces on the shells, and then folded them clothes. Several eggs were "accidentally" crushed as I drained them, and I "pressed too hard" on the shells more than once in an attempt to make faces. This passive-aggressive act of "rebellion" did nothing, of course. I was most definitely being celebrated, regardless of how many eggs it took. I simply drained more eggs, and painted more faces.
Now that I'm an adult I realize with pain and regret just how right my parents were. I would never spend several thousand dollars on dolls for my (albeit non-existent) non-Japanese daughter--dolls she never actually played with, only because all of her girlfriends had them. I don't know that I'd make her paint eggs, but I know now I'd sure as hell not buy her these dolls.
Funny how I've never actually told my parents this before now.
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