What the handsome man had to say

Oh, if I could just make these stories up.  Fantastic imagination that I have, what happened today is not a scene I could concoct.  Here's the story.

I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours.  We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us.  I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.

"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine.  Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch.  "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.

He's right.  Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot.  I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.

The man is tall with short cropped white hair.  He's young, maybe in his thirties.  Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome.  (Not that this matters.)  If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.

But he is an ass.  He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.

Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would.  He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper.  He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying.  "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card.  "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."

I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car.  If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness.  They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."

Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then.  Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter.  "You said so yourself.  Japan is strict about these things.  We'll need your contact information."  I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling.  This is a command.  Not a request.

And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing.  I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.

What I want to say is this:  a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"

I don't say any of this.  Of course.  Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall.  I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window.  "Who is that guy?  He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with."  I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot.  There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might.  The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.

Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity.  I hope we meet again.  I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.

School Violence in Japan: More Questions Than Answers

Japanese news over he past month has been peppered with stories about the effects of school violence.  A high school student committed suicide after repeated beatings from his team manager, and the womens' judo coach for the national team resigned after the athletes filed a mass complaint accusing him of violence.  Unfortunately such stories are not new.  I've often reflected upon multiple and similar incidents from my elementary and middle school days at times like this.  In the end I'm left with more questions than answers.

It seems for those of my generation growing up, what is now being referred to as violence and beatings were more the norm in school.  Coaches would routinely slap disobedient baseball players, kick legs, or throw buckets of water on them.  I use baseball players only as an example.  Back in our day, it was more unusual for coaches to not "train" by means of a shove here, a smack there.

"It instilled in us a sense of competition," one friend tells me.  "It was embarrassing and it hurt.  I wasn't going to let my coach get the best of me so I tried harder."

I call Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan who has an answer for everything and ask to meet.
"Sure I was slapped.  Not punched, but slapped across the face.  I didn't think of it as a beating.  For me though, it wasn't the coach that did this but rather the older students.  It was just part of life for us in high school.  This is how sports clubs functioned.  We got stronger.  It pissed us off so we got back by practicing more than before.  We got better."

I ask, "Why do some students commit suicide then?  Don't the coaches know when to stop?  Why was it not 'violence' for you but it is for these kids?"
"Students these days are taught they have options.  'If you try one thing and it doesn't work, you can try something else.'  On the one hand, this is good.  On the other hand, and don't take this the wrong way," Alpha Male looks at me sideways, "It's more of a western way of thinking.  We weren't taught that growing up but kids these days are.  When we were in middle and high school we just took it because that's how things were.  Now, kids are taught more independence, freedom and that they can choose.  It's good, but the educational system has changed into something not quite Japanese."

I ponder this.  Multiple incidents from my childhood come to the surface, each competing for the "which is the worst" category.  One teacher, someone I liked, routinely called up one boy to the front of the class, pulled him up by his sideburns and continued to judo-trip him while he cried and screamed for help.  Half the class laughed, the rest of us sat stunned.  He didn't do anything wrong.  He wasn't a trouble-maker.  One day it just started.  How long did he go through this?  All I remember is the announcement the teacher made out of the blue one day that this boy was diagnosed with diabetes.  The "beatings" stopped that day, never to continue.  I'm still baffled by what this teacher did, and why.

Another teacher mercilessly picked on a girl who moved into the community and into our classroom.  She didn't bathe often.  The teacher, with every opportunity would let her and the rest of us know she smelled, making her cry.  Why do this?  Is this a hint?  It didn't work because it didn't change anything.  Except that one day she didn't come back to school.  We were told she moved away.

What was normal at one time in recent Japanese history is no longer.  Feedback is consistent:  Japanese education is to blame.  People my age and older are disgusted by Japan's youth.  "Spineless," and "Too opinionated" are two ways today's young are often described.  Should we be adding to this "Can't take a beating"?  I find myself confused.

Playground Rules 30 Years Later

Let me be clear.  I'm not complaining as much as I am noting a recent experience.  In short, it's a repeat of what many of us experienced in school during recess, in playgrounds, at play dates.  The you-can't-play-with-us-because-we-didn't-invite you, or you're-not-one-of-us phenomenon--how many of us have been the recipient of such behavior?  The protagonist?  It's a form of bullying.  Less obvious perhaps, less overt, possibly even less painful than the blatant "I hate you" or "you're weird/too different"but let's call it what it is.  It's exclusion. 

I can't think of any instance when bullying is acceptable.  When adults take part it's just dumb.  Be honest.  This resonates.  We've either seen it happen, heard of it, or taken part ourselves.

The latest such experience is taking place not near me, but around me.  Hypothetically, let's imagine there's an event taking place somewhere far away that involves a community of Japanese locals.  Let's also hypothetically assume there's been an attempt to sell Tohoku-related goods at this event specifically meant to help those who made these items.  Now let's "pretend" (and I'm being generous with this word) some of the sponsors of this event decided they needed to intentionally block the sale of goods made by those in Tohoku (to whom the money would go) because -- wait for it -- it wasn't their idea.

Let's call it as we see it.  This is a I-didn't-think-of-this-first-and-you-didn't-ask-my-permission-so-I'm-going-to-block-you response to an act that would otherwise be considered common sense, right, proper, courteous, and kind.

I don't get it.  It's silly.  This is what people do when given a bit of power and they feel the need to exert it.  I'm also really sorry this kind of behavior is necessary.  Clearly, some people aren't able to see the big picture.  It's sad, really. 

Thirty years after we've played in parks, living rooms and playgrounds, evidently some of us still don't know how to play nicely in the sandbox. 

Maybe I am complaining.

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.