February Joy, February Angst: On Why I'm Glad I'm Not Four

February brings the coldest month of the year in Tohoku.  Tired of snow, ice, and wind that cuts through the many layers of winter gear, spring feels far away.  It's no consolation the month only has 28 days.  It drags on, bringing down any semblance of positive energy trying to poke out from the frozen ground.

Except February is also the month for two holidays.  One Japanese, another clearly not, there’s a buzz.  Those otherwise dejected have two events to discuss.

One is the Japanese festival of setsubun.  Traditionally, this is when oni (ogres) come down from the mountains into the homes where little children live, terrifying them with their grotesque masks of pure evil and horridness.  The children throw beans at them calling out, “Oni wa soto!  Fuku wa uchi!”  

“Ogres, go away!  Good luck come inside!”  Indeed. This story is about the bravery of children determined to protect their friends from these monsters, whatever it takes.  But, first some background.

It is most definitely a local tradition, more fun for the grown men who some how get pleasure (?) of tormenting their children.  (Payback, anyone?)  There’s no going easy on the kids.  It’s tradition.  That the children cry is a given.  It’s almost the point.  All this in the name of continuing on what’s been done for generations—it’s cute and funny—except when you’re the kid facing the evil giant.

This year, the oni from Goyozan, a local mountain up north in Tohoku wrote a letter to the kids, giving fair warning of what he’s coming down from the mountain to do.  It’s Japan’s version of Santa Claus, except in this case, Santa not only doesn’t give presents if you’ve been bad, Santa comes in a evil-Santa costume, horns sticking out from under his hat throwing coal at kids who disobeyed parents.  Or something of the sort.

Here’s a translation of the letter, in its most terrible oni handwriting, complete with a larger-than-life hand print for a signature.

To the brats at XXXX Preschool,

I am the red oni from Goyozan.
How dare you all throw beans at me last year!

It hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep that night.  This year, I’ll take back you up to the mountain with me if you don't finish their lunch properly, don’t take naps, and don’t listen to your teachers.  You better be prepared!
I’m coming to your preschool on February 1^st.  Be there.  And, don’t throw beans at me.  Got it?

From the Oni of Goyozan

What must it be like to go to school with this handwritten letter from the oni most feared hanging in the hallway?  I’m so glad I’m not four years old.

Now, the story.  I’m at one of the preschools I routinely visit.  Today we’re practicing English discussing shapes.  I start with happy shapes.  In the spirit of celebrating Valentine’s Day, I take out the Valentine’s cards I brought from the States and explain to the kids, “In America, boys and girls give chocolate and cards to people they like.”   The girls pick up on this right away, giggling.  Even five year olds know in Japan girls give chocolate to the boys they like.  Boys don’t reciprocate.  Oooh.  Gross.

I’m careful to suggest the kids can write the cards to anyone.  Knowing some of these children lost relatives, I don’t say, “to your mommy” or “to your grannie” but I make the list as long as possible making sure the kids can come up with someone.  Soon, crayons in hand, we’re all addressing cards.

Done with our Valentine’s activities, I go back to my book of shapes.  I pick what I think is the simplest and point to the circle.  “Can you find any circles in the classroom?”  Hands shoot up again.  I call one a boy who points to a large bag of crumpled newspaper, the size of golf balls.  I ask what these are for.  Kids talk at once.  It’s explained to me these are the “beans” they will throw at the oni who will surely come to traumatize the kids in early February.  Another boy raises his hand, and he tells me the following story rattling off line after line, not pausing to take a breath, while the children around him nod in agreement.

“Last year, a bunch of really scary oni came to school here and we were scared, but I didn’t cry because I’m brave and strong and my daddy told me boys aren’t supposed to cry, but I felt like crying because I was so scared.  And then, when the oni came last year’s five year olds made a line, they held hands, and we all stood behind them throwing beans and newspaper balls like these at the oni yelling at them to go away because they’re bad.  The five year olds were scared, too--even the boys--and a lot of them were crying but they still protected us from the bad oni.  The babies and the kids in the younger classes were screaming because they were so scared.  But, we all had these five year olds protecting us from the bad oni.  So, our class decided this year the boys will make a line where everyone in the school can stand behind us and the girls will be right behind us because they’re five, too, and they’ll throw as many of these newspaper balls as they can.  We’re going to protect the younger kids just like the five year olds protected us last year.  We’re the five year olds now, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

It took all the resolve I had not to choke up. Forcing myself to smile as I listened to the absolute determination of these five year olds to continue the tradition of protecting the young I said, “You’re right.  You’re all very brave.  Good for you.  I’m proud of you.”  Turning red, the boy nods and I’m not sure what to say next.  Deciding I will lose it if I don’t keep talking, I decide to change the subject.  I flip through the book of shapes and find the perfect one.

“What’s this?” I say, pointing to a star.  All the kids know “star” in English and called out in unison.  We look for stars in the classroom.  Again, a success.  I end the day of shapes-in-English by making a heart with my hands, telling them I love them all, and then whisper, “And, you’re all stars.”

Kids.  I swear.  They should rule the world.

What the Nose Knows

It all started with a visit to Aroma Sanctum to see my friend Akuura who creates a special blend of perfume just for me that gloriously envelopes me everywhere I go.  We talk about the power of scent, how powerful our noses are, and our favorite memories of our grandmothers' kitchens.  All this talk about how things smell, including me, reminded me of several stories.

I'm at a preschool on one of my visits.  It's "Play With Auntie Amya Day" and today I'm teaching them duck-duck-goose.  Japan is not known for geese--I've seen none in my 20 plus years here--so before the instructions can be explained, we spend time establishing what a goose is.  We all settle on a "big duck."  I'm the first goose, and "duck, duck, duck" several kids before pegging one "goose!" and proceed to run in a wild circle.  I'm caught, so I start over.  This time I slide in, just barely, to the spot vacated by the goose and am cheered by the kids.  A great miracle, indeed.  The goose just stands there, and I pick up on the fact he's too shy to go out on his own.  I get up, lean towards him and ask if we should "duck duck" together.  He nods shyly.  I asked quietly so it's our secret.  We touch heads together but I let him whisper "duck, duck"and we make our way from kid to kid.  I soon become the adopted goose, a defacto Mother Goose of sorts, and I make the way around the same circle with each gosling, "duck-duck"ing everyone.

I lean down towards one girl as the gosling and I "duck" her head, and she leans up, craning her neck towards mine and says, "You smell like my mother."  I melt.  Pure words of acceptance, those are.  I'm touched.  Since that day, whenever I'm in her class she comes up to me leaning in for a hug and smells my neck.  "You smell good."  I love this.

At another preschool, the focus is on my nose and not my scent.  Since childhood, the size of my nose has been a commonly discussed topic.  The most used phrase is, "Your nose is high."  High, as in a tall building, or as in someone who's tall.  This is not the same as "You have a big nose."  High does not mean big.  I've not grown up being told I have a big nose.  This is important.

We're playing tag in a (different) preschool playground one day, and a boy runs past me and says the words I've never heard to date, "You have a big nose." I practically fall over.  I almost call back "HIGH!  Not BIG!" but don't.  He doesn't mean it the way it sounded.  He means well.  He's five.  Let it go.

To noses like mine, whether they're considered big or high, scent matters.  Sean Connery's words about the American Express card, spoken in a television commercial twenty (?) years ago, "Don't leave home without it" applies to perfume for me.  I do not leave home without it.  Ever.  Which is why, evidently, this one taxi driver needed to point this out to me.

Whether or not I end up talking with any given taxi driver is like rolling the dice.  There's no pattern.  Some days I'm hit right away with a "You're foreign, right?" comment, while others won't say a word.  On this day, the driver saved his questions until the last thirty seconds.  About to pull up to the corner where I asked to be dropped off, he looks at me in his rear view mirror and says, "You're not from here, are you?"
"No," I smile.  "I'm not."
"You know how I knew?"
Do I want to know the answer?  How bad can it be, right?"
"No.  How?"
"You said 'hello' when you got in the car."
What??  This is news to me.
"People don't say 'hello' when they get into your taxi?"
"No way."
I ponder this.  While I'm mulling this over, I hear, "And, you smell."
"Really!?"  I must have sounded really shocked.
"Not bad.  You smell good.  But, you smell.  Like perfume."

This conversation took me back to another taxi driver's comments about how he almost didn't pick me up (following that statement with a quick bow and an apology).  "I picked up a foreign woman once before, and..." bowing again, "...she smelled so bad.  I had to air out the taxi for hours to get the smell out."  I'm flattered he picked me up, after hearing that.

Whoever it belongs to, the nose knows.   For better or for worse, the nose knows. 

Baby Names Japanese Style

Hanging out with kids in Japan over the past nineteen months, I've learned a thing or two about trends in kids' names.  Parents of every generation tend to gravitate towards the same names thinking they've some how picked the most unique name out there.  Japan is no exception.  Perhaps all parents in all countries go through a "let's-name-our-kid-this-incredibly-different-sounding-name" thing, only to find out other parents had that exact same idea.  This was certainly the case for us.  We thought the name for our son was so special, unusual, new, and bold.  It didn't take long for us to find out there were boys in every class with the same name, K-12.  How does this happen??

Japanese parents seem to have found a new crop of names for the kids of this generation.  I'd not heard of most these until I started spending time here.  Here's a partial list of the most unusual names I've come across to date.

Girls

Kokoro (heart)
Lin
Minto (mint??)
Hina
Juli (Julie?)
Miyu
Luna
Noai
Lea
Anon
Nagi
Karen
Sherin (Sharon?)
Kokoa (Cocoa?)
Kokona
Yubi

Boys

Shion
Linku (link?)
Alen (Allen?)
Taiyo (sun)
Kaze (wind)
Noa (Noah?)
Ren
Ginga (galaxy)

...and so on.

Step aside, Emily, Alexander, Brittney, Jake, and Ava.  These new Japanese names, some made up, some borrowing (presumably?) from other languages make western names sound bland.  Not a criticism of parents who borrow heavily from the Bible or any other What To Name Your Baby book mind you.  Just my random Sunday musings.

Hell and the Evil Called "Spider"

Why a book read to me by my first grade teacher has stayed with me all these years is a true mystery.  Books by Ayn Rand, the  Brontë sisters, and Charles Dickens are all lodged somewhere in my subconscious, but seem to have left significantly less of an impression than this one book.  How is that?  What triggers such a strong reaction to a book read to a group of six year olds?

The Japanese folk tale "Kumo no Ito" or in English, "The Spider's Strand" as in the single strand of silk it ejects when getting from place to place, is a story about a spider (God) lowering one lone strand down to earth to bring up the good people into heaven.  The good people of earth do indeed climb up, sharing the space single-file.  Pleased, God the Spider decides to do this again, at which point a bad man climbs up the strand of spider silk kicking down those who try to make their way to heaven behind him.  Displeased, God the Spider sends this bad man down into hell where the Japanese version of the devil, red, big, mean, surrounded by fire awaits this man.

That was all it took.  Spiders and Hell were forever connected in my mind.  Six year olds can be convinced of pretty much anything, and in my case this meant I began to believe spiders (God) some how have the power to send people to hell. 

Fast-forward to the no longer six year old me, I don't actually believe spiders are that powerful, or that there's some yet to be proven connection between spiders and god.  My point is broader than that.  I walked into a single strand of spider silk last night, connecting the staircase bannister to the wall.  I always find myself fascinated by the fact spiders actually get from point a to point b.  Do they fly?  Do they just float through air waiting to land on something?  Spiders lowering themselves downward, that I can understand.  It's this sideways movement, the strand that can measure many meters at times, how they do this is what confuses and fascinates me.

My fear of spiders and the horrible Japanese version of the devil all came back to me in that one instant as I frantically batted this strand off me.  Knowing I would feel this strand on me the rest of the night in the same way I feel non-existent spiders on my skin all day when I find one crawling on me in the morning, the miracle of horizontal spider-flight, amazing as it is, would be overshadowed by the fact I would toss and turn trying to rid myself of the strand I just walked through.  I really don't like spiders.  I am not proud to say I scream and flail when I feel one me.

This latest spider-thread incident has brought back how much of what I grew up with, all that is buried in my psyche untapped and ignored, is still very much a part of me regardless of whether I give it any time or energy.  Indeed, all it takes is walking into spider silk, and I'm taken back decades to the classroom where I trembled at the power of what is surely the evil called "Spider."

"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.

Working Mothers: Part 1

Surely there will come a day when I learn not to chip my nail polish two days after getting a new coat of color.  To date, that day has not yet arrived.  Monday morning, rushing to the train station to make my way up to Ofunato, I stuck my hand in my purse looking for the train ticket that always seems to disappear.  My pointer finger hit something.  I pull my hand out looking at the nail, and sure enough.  Big chunk of color missing.  I curse.

On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato.  I haven't recorded it.  Of course.  I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail.  Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?"  The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry!  I'm all booked tomorrow!"  While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased.  She's busy.  This is great news.  I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty.  We've had bad news for such a long time, you know?  I've sat here and listened to women from all over.  We've cried together.  We've laughed, too."  Here she looks up at me and we both smile.

That she's booked s a good thing.  Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty.  She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown.  The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.

The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger.  I must keep snagging it on something.  My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working.  I smudge everything I touch.  I decide to beg.

"I promise I'll do it myself even.  I just need the color.  Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow.  We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon.  What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again. 

Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me.  The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"

Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain.  It's the word for the English language.

"I am," I reply.  "I'm English."  She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her.  Crap.  This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles.  As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me.  Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time?  Your day's done, isn't it?  I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no.  It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight.  As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams.  I start singing with her.  Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody.  Then she starts counting to ten.  I count with her.

My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection.  I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick.  You need to go, don't you?"

The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies. 
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter.  He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor.  The black and white checker design is bold. 
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend.  "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really?  It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is.  Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know.  You're good.  It works.  It suits you."

Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs."  The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.

"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say. 
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal.  I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one.  You want to try?"  Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder.  I'll bet you can say it though.  You ready?"  They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait.  The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh.  She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says.  "That's easy."  Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers.  They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know.  Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."

I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again.  I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.

The Long Black Coat

"We knew it was you when you were at the other end of the block."  One of the socialite women I'm taking up north says to me as I hand her husband my bag that has created permanent creases in my hand.
"Oh?"  I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me.  None.  Right?  Of course they knew it was me. 
"How did you know it was me?"  I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat.  It's too long."  And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in.  "It's not too long.  It's just very long.  None of us in Tokyo dress like that."  Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag.  "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds.  "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me.  "You look nice.  Very east coast America.  Very New York.  Very Boston.  Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent.  My confusion is still with me.  They evidently now pick up on it.

"But, it's good," I'm reassured.  I decide to believe them. 

Or so I thought.  One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center.  The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato.  They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals.  I was their tour guide.

Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books.  It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side.  The kids have long since stopped listening.  I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me.  I just brought them here.  They're the ones bringing books.  I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san.  You speak, too."

I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice.  They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back.  I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food."  And then it happens.  One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing.  I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher.  The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap.  Everyone laughs.  I'm mortified.
"Oh, no!  I'm so sorry!"  And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.

This is a first.  I'm stunned.  I made a girl cry?  Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium?  And spoke English?  Wow.  This has really, truly never happened before.

We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry."  More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?"  Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat.  It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.

Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this.  At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip. 
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first.  I high five, pat heads, smile.  And then I hear it.  Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."

Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan.  Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos."  Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?"  I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.

For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire.  (I did actually put thought into this.)  None of my other coats would have been appropriate.  My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again.  All this over a coat!  Living in learning in Japan.  Still.  One day at a time.

The color brown and the joy it brings

Tonight it’s Italian.

“The food’s already been ordered.  It’ll keep coming out.  You just eat.”  I’m given clear and specific instructions from Kazu-san.

“Okay.  That’s good, ‘cause I’m hungry.”

“Did you eat today?” 

“Sort of.”
“You didn’t, did you?”

“Not really.”  And then he gives me a very proper brotherly speaking to.  I'm told in no uncertain terms "how-the-hell-do-you-expect-not-get-sick" and am chastised for my sloppiness.

The gang arrives in ones and twos.  The city council member is very late and makes his way in with a slew of “sorry”s.

“We knew that was you coming up the stairs,” Taro-san says, half drunk.

“Huh?”

“You shuffle,” and as if they’ve been keeping this secret to themselves all night and have just let it out, they all start to laugh.  I do, too.

“Hmmm, shuffling?”  The city council member is half-concerned and half-nonchalant.  Does he dare believe the not-quite-fully-drunk Taro-san's comment about him shuffling?

The food does keep coming out, and conversations fly across tables mixed with mock insults, gossip, and updates.  Someone whips out their phone.

“Facebook?”

“Yup.”

“What’s the latest?”

This is now how they keep tabs on each other.

“You still haven’t friended me,” Tomo-san says to Taro-san.

“Huh?  Really?”

“Not buying that act of yours,” and Tomo-san who is definitely drunk says, “you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Huh?” and Taro-san looks at me and smiles, knowing I know he’s absolutely doing this on purpose.

Shige-san who’s sitting next to me leans over and shows me a photo on his phone.

“What’s this mean?”  It’s the photo of crayons in various skin tone colors first (evidently) posted by George Takei and shared throughout Facebook.  Including me.

“Oh, right.  That symbolizes the fact the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday celebrates the various races in the US.”

“Interesting,” he says and then, “what’s this you wrote?” and points to the three lines I added under the photo.

“My family is very diverse which is why I posted the photo of the crayons.  I’m celebrating them,” I tell him, “and I was just telling them I love them and miss them.”

“Like who?” Kazu-san says from across the table.

“Like who what?” I’m confused.  Who am I saying I love in my family?

“Like who do you have in your family?”

“Oh.  Well, I have a Chinese sister-in-law and two half-Chinese nieces, a cousin who married a Lakota woman, another cousin who married a Jewish woman, a cousin who married an Egyptian, a cousin who’s half-Creole, several Korean cousins, an African-American uncle, several half-African-American cousins, two brothers-in-law from the Ivory Coast,” and pause, “I think that’s about it.”

“Yeah,” he laughs.  “I guess that’s diverse.”

***

Fast forward one day and I’m sitting around a table with ten kids, ages two to five.  “The flu is going around and it’s pretty bad, so there aren’t that many kids today,” the principal of the day care center tells me.

“That’s okay.  We can still play.  If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” and with that I follow her into an uncharacteristically very quiet classroom.

I ask if I can sit down on one of the miniature chairs, and am told “okaaay” in English by one of the boys.  I say “Hey, that’s good!” in reply, and offer up a high-five.  He takes it.  Soon other hands are asking for high-fives as well.  I hit all ten hands.  We’re all smiles.

I pull out the picture book of fruit and vegetables and I point and talk about the ones they know.  I get to the potato and ask, “Do you know what this is in English?  I bet you do.”  The kids can't decide if it's actually a potato, and after making sure the group actually agrees it’s a potato and not a gourd, I slowly say “po-ta-to” to which I get a table full of kids saying “Oh, I knew that!” and “like potato chips.”  I’m impressed all over again at how much of their vocabulary contains English words and tell them this.  Two year olds who have just been given a compliment they don’t quite understand are indeed a sight to see.  Simply put, they’re adorable.  They know something good just happened, but they have no idea what it is or why. 

Once we’re done with the fruit and vegetables I pull out the box of crayons I borrowed from the principal and go through the colors.  Again, they all know red, blue, white, black, yellow, pink, orange in English.  I get to brown, and ask if they know what it is.

“Chairo,” one boy says. 

“Right.  Now do you know how to say that in English?” 

Here he pauses a minute, and says in his best foreigner accent, “cha-ee-roh” which is so delightful, sincere, and hilarious that the adults immediately crack up.

“Let’s draw” one of the children says, and the teachers quickly stand and get paper.  I point to the apple and cherries in the book and ask the kids around me if they can draw me these.  I get shy looks in response but both kids pull out their red crayons and start drawing something resembling red circles.

I hear the boy who knew how to say brown in Japanese having a very animated conversation with one of the teachers at his end of the table.  Soon, I hear the teacher say, “Go show Amya-san.”  He gets up and brings his sheet over to me.  I see small blotches of beige, orange, and lots of brown. 

“Would you like some custard?” he says, holding out the sheet.  It is definitely a very good thing my son was an imaginative child as I caught on immediately I was being invited to play, right there and right then.

“Yes, please,” I say in English.  And then in Japanese, “What do you recommend?”

“This one,” he points to the beige one.

“All right,” I say.  “I’ll have that.”  He pinches the air above the beige splotch “picking up” the custard and puts his fingers in my mouth.  (I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu.)

“That was good!” I say and he grins.

“What’s this?” I ask, and point to the brown spots. 

“That’s chocolate.”

“Ooooh.  I like chocolate.  May I have this one?” and I point to the biggest piece (of course) and quickly add, “And, what color is this?”

He looks at me and I swear he’s enjoying this as much as I am, “brown.”

“Yup.”

“Yup,” he says back in English but it sounds more like “up” and I make sure my smile is really a smile and not another “you crack me up” grin.  I quickly look back down at the “chocolate” on the page.  When I look up, I see him grinning with that “gotcha” look of pure pride.

“Unfortunately, we’re sold out,” he then says.  Ooh, I did not see that coming, little stinker you.

“What?!”

“Sorry.” 

“No way!”  I’m just the slightest bit upset by the fact I have just been one-upped by a four-year old, and can’t help shake the feeling I’ve really been denied real chocolate.  I’m determined to get this chocolate, though, and so keep playing.

“When is your next chocolate delivery?

“When are you coming back?”

“In a few weeks.”

“I’ll have it by then.”  And, here I really want to say, “you better” but instead say, “thank you.”  I look down at the paper again.

“What else do you have?” But, while triumphant, clearly he’s bored now and walks back to his chair leaving me to now think about the faux chocolate I some how missed out on but now can’t get off my mind.

How the color brown single-handedly managed to become the most important topic at hand in Ofunato for both adults and children in one single weekend is beyond me.  I’m delighted, though.

The honesty of children

The volunteer organization I first came to Iwate has come and gone.  They insert themselves into disaster zones, clean things up, and then leave.  I'm told over 1,000 volunteers, many of them foreigners, came to this area and did their thing.

"We've only seen foreigners in movies," one grandmother told me back in the spring.  "It's kind of strange to see you in person.  You're actually real."
"We are," I said, and tried very hard not to grin at the fact there are still those who think foreigners are some strange group of people that only show up on television.

The sense of "you're not quite real" is still present.  I stayed last night at a facility that hosts volunteers, foreign and domestic.  As I walked down the long hallway and passed an elderly man, I said hello.
"Hello," he says, and then looks at me long and hard.
"You're not from here."
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."  Evidently, we're still a bit of an oddity here.

My primary goal for this trip is to hang out with kids.  The sentiment held by some that while it's quite alright and appreciated for all these foreigners to have come in and dug out ditches, that they've now gone has left people feeling empty.

"It's a wrap," one volunteer wrote on Facebook.  No, it's not.  It's a wrap for you, but it's most definitely not a wrap for those left behind whose lives have changed in ways they still have difficulty articulating.

I was asked if I would be willing to continue the foreign exposure, focusing my time on being around children.
"Of course!"
"Really?" a principal of a local day care center asks.
"Really.  Use me.  That's what I'm here for."  Today was the first day I was "used."

We counted to ten.  We sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', we practiced "hello" and "good-bye" and "how are you?" and "see you soon."  I was then shuttled off to the class of five-year olds and was asked to go into more detail.  I held up a large colorful card of a cartoon renkon (a root) and told them "kids your age don't eat renkon in America."  I look down at the kids and see looks of shock and awe.
"Why?  Renkon is so good!" One boy says.

I hold up colored origami paper.  We're going to practice our colors.
"What color is this?" I say as I show them a sheet of red.
"Red!"  Several kids say in English, while others call out the word for red in Japanese.  We practice saying "red" in English and more boys pipe up and start talking about their favorite anime characters who are dressed in red.  I hold up pink, orange, yellow, green, black, white, and blue.  All the kids know the English words for these colors.  I'm impressed.
"What about siruba?" another boy raises his hand and immediately starts talking about his favorite anime character who is evidently silver.  I look for something silver in the room.  Finding it, I point and ask "What color is this?" to which the group of 20+ kids all scream out, "Siruba!"
"Yes!  Silver!"  I then point to something gold.  "What about this?"
"Gorudo!"
"Good!  Gold."  I'm impressed.  Thank god for anime!
In my twisted and perverse need to stump five-year olds I look for a color they won't know.  Finding one and feeling slightly triumphant in advance, I point to a boy's sweatshirt and ask, "What color is this?"  The room falls silent.  That was mean.  Really, woman.  That was not necessary.
"Oh, I know this," one girl says.
"Really?  Think.  Try.  Do you remember?"
"It starts with pa," she says and starts silently mouthing something I can't hear.  I start to say "purple" and mouth it to her, at which point she jumps in her seat, her hand shooting up and not-quite screams, "papuru!"  So much pride in that little body of hers.  It's oozing.
"Right!  Purple!  Good girl."  I smile down at her and she beams back at me.  Success.

I'm invited to share their lunch.  I'm given an adult-sized tray full of food after being asked several times if there are things I can't eat.
"I'm okay," I say and secretly hope they don't serve fried eggs or natto.  I chance it.
It takes the class of 20+ kids and three teachers another 15 minutes to serve everyone.  I'm famished.  I skipped breakfast to get her on time, and the food in front of me has me wondering when we're eating.  I pick up my chop sticks and stick one slice of carrot in my mouth.  I try to sneak it but am caught.  Totally and completely caught red-handed.
"She ate!" the girl next to me says, pointing, and I'm busted.
"Sorry....." I say and try to change the topic.  Not a chance.
"She did!  She ate!" the boy across from me now announces to the rest of the class.  Evidently this faux pas was a lot more of an issue than I thought.
"I promise I won't eat again." I bow to the five-year olds I just tried to teach colors to.  They seem satisfied and we're silent for awhile.

Four kids in chef's hats and white smocks line up at the front of the class and lead the class in what seems a very elaborate ritual of before-we-partake-of-our-food sing-song chant.  I say the right things when I'm supposed to (making it up as I go along, sort of) and am finally allowed to eat.
"You had to wait for that," the girl next to me whispers.
"Okay," I whisper back.

So begins the first of many trips to Ofunato to hang with kids.  I will learn to mind my manners.  I'm sure I will continue to be impressed at how much energy they have, the English they already know, and their ability to call me out when I step out of line.  It's most definitely not a wrap.  There's much to do.

Ofunato Stories: Part 1

My fifth trip to Ofunato this year showed me a very different town.  Not having a "before" image to compare it to, I can only see the progress made as the city worked to clean up the massive amount of debris left by the tsunami.  The part of the town near the port is now completely cleaned up.  The foundations of houses and buildings remain but the everything else is gone.  The few remaining buildings, those made of concrete and strong enough to withstand the waves are back in business or still being repaired. 

Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday.  There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.

I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers.  The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is.  I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship.  I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles.  They matter.

We shared stories.  Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.

"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says.  I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week.  I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no.  Not the skimpy-looking thing.  This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know."  I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object.  Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids.  You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me.  I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod. 
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply.  "I'd do anything to make them laugh.  Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother.  Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese.  Kazu-san's going to interpret for me.  I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right?  There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you?  That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!"  Kazu-san objects.  "We've got it all worked out.  She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine.  Where's the trust?"
"Trust?  Trust you?  We know better."  More laughter.
"I've got it!"  The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux?  No, not a tux.  An elf, maybe."  My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one.  A green or red shirt, and shorts or something."  I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this.  Everyone laughs.  Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay.  If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really?  What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs.  The butt!"
"Good!  I'll be the front and you be the butt."  With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.

Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?"  Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing.  You go, too.  I'm Elf One.  You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right.  That and a hat.  The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."

The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.

I did not see this coming.  My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile.  That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled. 

Be careful what you ask for.  Indeed.