Once upon a time, Mary may indeed have had a little lamb. I'm sure it was a cute, fluffy thing. Several months back, the animal belonging to Mary was a skunk. Which she gave to me, she said, because it matched my outfit and because I reminded her of Liza Minnelli. Okay.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Showing posts with label children in Japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children in Japan. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Sunday, February 3, 2013
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.
“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.
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!
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 1st. Be there. And, don’t throw beans at me. Got it?
From the Oni of Goyozan
I’m coming to your preschool on February 1st. 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.”
“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.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
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."
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."
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.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Reliance, Whining, and Being True
To say the choice my parents made to raise me in Japan had a profound impact on my life is an incredible understatement. To say it has made me who I am today is putting it mildly. Total immersion into another culture combined with genealogical traits resulted in me having the unique ability to pick up on subtle nuances, the meaning behind what people meant to say. It should be no surprise then to reflect upon the fact even as a bilingual and bi-cultural child, I saw and heard things others may have missed. The easiest place to find these misses were in the mistranslations I saw around me--something said or written that wasn't quite right. That I turned into an interpreter/translator as an adult is really no big leap to make, under the circumstances.
My first real memory of seeing a translation that didn't quite cut it came at a young age. My parents had books. Some interested me, and those I would read or browse. One such book, the catalyst that perhaps turned me into a critic of language was 甘えの構造 (Amae no Kozo) by Takeo Doi. Translated by John Bester and titled Anatomy of Dependence, I remember thinking how the title did little to capture the spirit of amae.
Even back then, I had strong opinions. Not shy about voicing them, I probably spouted off to my parents about how "wrong" this translation was. My objection wasn't with amae. I took part in amae along with the many others I knew. Where I felt the translation did this concept little justice was to focus on the academic definition of the word. Surely amae was much more than "dependence"?
To be fair, it isn't inaccurate to translate amae as "dependence." Amae, however, much more than that. It's the child who whines to the parent asking for a new bicycle. It's the reliance upon others to cater to our desires. Selfish ones at that. It's trying to get others to do what we want. It's batting eyelashes. It's being able to be true. Using the word "dependence" to encapsulate all of these meanings, while linguistically and academically correct, misses a huge part of what lies beneath. This perceived mistranslation, the omission, was what I objected to as a child.
I remember thinking if I were translating the title of the book, it would read something like "What Whining is Really About" or "How Whining Works" with the caveat "in Japan" added with an asterisk at the end. This was the 12-year old me looking at the title, offering a critique my vocabulary allowed. The adult me would now put more time into what the title should be, but I would still focus on capturing the spirit of amae in a way I see missing.
These days there's very little amae around me. Those with whom I work in Tohoku don't have the emotional luxury to whine. There are too many still suffering, and there's a real sense of "keep it to yourself." To find myself lonely in Tokyo, missing my family and friends back home pales in comparison to what my friends up north are going through. This means I don't get to project amae I would otherwise. That I have very few people around me here who would tolerate any sort of amae coming from me means, yet again, I don't whine.
If there's any truth to amae allowing one's true self to come through, not being able to show that side to anyone implies a problem. That an entire region, en masse, is holding things in can't be good. That I can't and thus don't complain about anything to those around me can't be good either. There's a whole lot of "push it down" going on. With this, comes the hiding of one's true feelings, thoughts, grief, and wants. The stiff upper lip, the sense of perseverance, the spirit of "just keep going" has its merits. As does amae. This, many in Japan need more of these days. It's okay to depend on others. Someone else will always have it worse. But, it's still okay to whine. That not everyone has the emotional capacity to listen is a problem, yes. Certainly there are those who will push you away if you whine. Go find those who can and will listen. It's worth the search, and they're worth keeping.
My first real memory of seeing a translation that didn't quite cut it came at a young age. My parents had books. Some interested me, and those I would read or browse. One such book, the catalyst that perhaps turned me into a critic of language was 甘えの構造 (Amae no Kozo) by Takeo Doi. Translated by John Bester and titled Anatomy of Dependence, I remember thinking how the title did little to capture the spirit of amae.
Even back then, I had strong opinions. Not shy about voicing them, I probably spouted off to my parents about how "wrong" this translation was. My objection wasn't with amae. I took part in amae along with the many others I knew. Where I felt the translation did this concept little justice was to focus on the academic definition of the word. Surely amae was much more than "dependence"?
To be fair, it isn't inaccurate to translate amae as "dependence." Amae, however, much more than that. It's the child who whines to the parent asking for a new bicycle. It's the reliance upon others to cater to our desires. Selfish ones at that. It's trying to get others to do what we want. It's batting eyelashes. It's being able to be true. Using the word "dependence" to encapsulate all of these meanings, while linguistically and academically correct, misses a huge part of what lies beneath. This perceived mistranslation, the omission, was what I objected to as a child.
I remember thinking if I were translating the title of the book, it would read something like "What Whining is Really About" or "How Whining Works" with the caveat "in Japan" added with an asterisk at the end. This was the 12-year old me looking at the title, offering a critique my vocabulary allowed. The adult me would now put more time into what the title should be, but I would still focus on capturing the spirit of amae in a way I see missing.
These days there's very little amae around me. Those with whom I work in Tohoku don't have the emotional luxury to whine. There are too many still suffering, and there's a real sense of "keep it to yourself." To find myself lonely in Tokyo, missing my family and friends back home pales in comparison to what my friends up north are going through. This means I don't get to project amae I would otherwise. That I have very few people around me here who would tolerate any sort of amae coming from me means, yet again, I don't whine.
If there's any truth to amae allowing one's true self to come through, not being able to show that side to anyone implies a problem. That an entire region, en masse, is holding things in can't be good. That I can't and thus don't complain about anything to those around me can't be good either. There's a whole lot of "push it down" going on. With this, comes the hiding of one's true feelings, thoughts, grief, and wants. The stiff upper lip, the sense of perseverance, the spirit of "just keep going" has its merits. As does amae. This, many in Japan need more of these days. It's okay to depend on others. Someone else will always have it worse. But, it's still okay to whine. That not everyone has the emotional capacity to listen is a problem, yes. Certainly there are those who will push you away if you whine. Go find those who can and will listen. It's worth the search, and they're worth keeping.
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