On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

Forced Globalization, Boston Marathon, and Disaster Etiquette

It's been a rough 36 hours.  I woke up yesterday, stumbled towards my laptop, and started going through my e-mails.  Still bleary-eyed, I first saw my mother's.  "We're very upset about what happened in Boston."

What?  What happened in Boston?

I go to Boston.com and sit in shock.

Quickly returning to my inbox, I see a note from my husband.  "I'm fine."  I read it again in case my unfocused morning eyes are playing tricks on me.  He's safe.  I exhale.

The next e-mail is from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  "You probably already know this, but....."  This is his way of showing concern.  I'm touched.

I type e-mails to my friends as fast as I can.  I call.  I'm on the other side of the world and feel completely helpless.  The two emotions that I felt yesterday morning, shock and impotence, were only the beginning.

Then came profound disappointment and rage.

When by noon no one up north where I've spent the past two years said peep about Boston, my husband, my friends, and those who have offered assistance to these disaster-stricken communities,  well, I simply lost it.  I really lost it.

Growing up my mother told me I would show the worst side of myself to those I loved most.  This was probably code for "don't mouth back" and "stop being sassy" but it was excellent advice.  She's right.  Yesterday, to my adopted family here in Tohoku I grew horns.

The message was simple.  "That you all haven't asked about Boston is not okay."  I ended with, "This is low.  You all suck."  I was angry, hurt, and did not feel like being kind.  I chose to let all my pain out in these words.

In the past 24 hours I've been told the following:  "we were busy" and "we didn't know" and "we don't watch/read/listen to the news."  None of these are acceptable answers.  Here's why.

To the first one I yelled at (I really yelled) I said, "Because you are disaster victims, because you've received so much aid, because you of all people collectively know what it's like to go through something horrible, you need to reciprocate.  You don't get to not know.  You can't get away with 'not watching the news.'  You owe it to the people who have supported you all these years to care.  In order to care, you need to know.  In order to know, you have to pay attention to what's going on around you.  You're a part of the global community now whether you like it or not.  You can't get away with not caring about those who have supported you.  And, don't give me this 'I'm busy' crap."

I've said the same thing to others.  Some get it, others don't.  I have no answer to whether it's "don't" or "can't."  What's been explained to me when tempers have calmed and our voices can no longer be heard in the apartment below is this:  "You would have told us if we needed to know," and "We're used to giant disasters.  Sorry, but it didn't look that bad."

Is it my job to teach disaster etiquette?  I wasn't prepared for this.  I'm completely conflicted.

We show our truest selves to those we love the most--the good and the ugly.  I love these people here, and they've hurt me deeply.  I can't force upon them disaster etiquette and a more global mentality when they don't have, want, or see the need for it.  This is a hard lesson to learn and one I accept only because my attempts don't seem to show results.

So, the past 36 hours have left me spent.  I'm heading to Boston next week, and honestly, this can't come soon enough.

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.

Seismo-Psychology: The Need Thereof

Everyone should have a list.  Who do you call when a largish earthquake hits?  Whom do you check up on? 

Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior.  The earthquake struck around 11pm.  I was already asleep.  Everyone in the room woke up, myself included.  Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was.  The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports.  It was my go-to source.  Then the phone rang.

"You okay?"  It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio.  Get an update.  See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up.  This is serious."
"I know.  I'm trying."

And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me.  He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate.  I'm just not very good at waking up.  We hang up, and I head downstairs.  The electricity is already out.  People are huddled around the portable radio.  A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm.  Maybe a meter.  We're safe.  By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.

When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.

"Where are you?"  I tell him.  I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes.  Really.  I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why?  Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous.  That's your problem, see.  You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned.  I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you."  I feel bad.  No, he's not jealous.  He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry.  I'm fine.  I'm leaving now."
"Heels?"  We just had this conversation recently.  I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels.  I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag.  I didn't today.  Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine.  I'm leaving now.  I'll be fine.  Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay.  I will."

I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5.  That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting.  Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me.  I need to offer that same generosity.  I now do.

Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept.  The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today.  I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list.  Who's on yours?
 

Ofunato Stories: Part 2

Today I'm grateful.  While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and refurbished building is a reminder of birth and rebirth.  It's like Christmas meets Easter all in one season.

Today I'm grateful.  I'm grateful to be alive.  I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days.  I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity.  I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration.  I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.

I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.

I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back.  I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.

I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents. 

I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town.  I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.

Yes, I miss my family.  Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave.  Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief.  For that, too, I'm grateful.

A little bit of everything

Holiday season that it is, I've been thinking a lot about who would be sitting around my dining room table on any given major winter holiday.  My family is made up of, simply put, incredibly diverse perspectives.  If everyone on both sides of my family were to sit around the table (and let's not focus here on the fact this will never happen) the list would include the following:  Buddhists, agnostics, Muslims, evangelical Christians, atheists, pagans, seriously literal "What Would Jesus Do" Christians, die-hard "I-need-to-stock-pile-guns-to-protect-myself-from-the-government" militia-style Republicans, completely polar opposite "ohmygod, I can't believe I'm related to you" Democrats, gay and straight, with money and not so much, African-Americans, Chinese, Egyptian, Ivorian, Creole, Lakota, mixed race children, Ph.Ds and my grandmother who didn't finish high school, farmers and those with a load of frequent-flier miles, artists and stick-figure drawers, musicians and tone deaf.  The list of comparisons goes on.

We don't all get along.  Some of us rarely speak.  Others simply won't and don't.  We are related by blood and marriage.  We don't choose each other.  Therein lies a significant point.  Except for our spouses, we don't choose each other.

Filling my life with those whose opinions are similar to mine--this is fun.  We banter, push each other, laugh, and finish each other's sentences.  Those with divergent opinions I see less of, and the more adamant we are in our differences the less we see of each other.  I like having choices.  I like choosing people I like and who like me back and spending time with them.  I like having them in my life.  I tell myself this is normal.  It is, right?  Why wouldn't I want to have like-minded people whom I like all around me? (Keyword for this paragraph:  like.)

Because--and this is where Japan comes in--that's how I define my heaven.  More specifically, and let me go on record first and say I don't technically believe in heaven the way it's referenced in the Bible, my heaven is the Yamanote-line.

This is the Yamanote-line.

It's a major train line running around Tokyo, never-ending, and possibly never beginning.  Fine.  It must start somewhere every morning and end somewhere every night but that's really not the point I'm trying to make.

My heaven is me on the Yamanote-line.  Forever.  All my favorite people hop on and off, we eat food, we never get fat, we talk, laugh, dance, sing, tell really stupid jokes (I'm finally able to remember the punchlines of every single joke in my version of heaven), and this goes on forever.  Those whom I choose for friends, family, companions, ride with me on the train.  Some get off every now and then and let others on.  Simply put, I'm surrounded by people I love and chose forever.  I'm totally serious about this.

I could argue I can save making sure I'm surrounded by like-minded people until I ride the Yamanote-line forever.  I want different ways of thinking in my life, now, right?  So then, just as easily I could argue I should make sure I'm challenged by those I'm really not sure I like and do that now so I'll appreciate the presence of my favorite people later on.  Not being much of a fan of delayed gratification, this is hard for me.  Admitting I don't often sit around the dining room table with my relatives whom I'm just really not all that fond of evidently means I don't want different ways of thinking that much.  Hmmm.

Back to why this matters now.  As I hunt for apartments in Tokyo, I find myself deliberately avoiding the Yamanote-line.  This is ridiculous, I know.  I'm almost telling myself if I ride the Yamanote-line too often now I won't appreciate as much later.  This is total crap, obviously, but I still find myself looking at the lines that branch out and away from the green circle and avoiding the areas on the line itself.  It's like heaven is right there but I'm not supposed to touch it for awhile.

A little bit of everything tonight.  Life and death, likes and dislikes, friend and foe, and some how knowing it relates back to Japan.  Random musings for the day.

The green field of silence

I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May.  I chose not to go there when I returned in late June.  At that time, I didn't need to see it.  Ofunato was where I wanted to go.  There, I left my past behind.  Or, so I thought.

I'm with three very good people.  They're all safe, and I can be myself with them.  We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company.  They're all important to me.  We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there.  Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going.  I see their shock.  It's palpable.  Our laughter is gone.  We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses.  We park the car near the Port of Ofunato.  I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline.  We're all again speechless.

"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look."  I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house.  A commode.  It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door."  The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence.  The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque.  More silence.

We head to Rikuzentakata.  I warn them of what they will see.  Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists.  Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood.  We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner.  That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There.  See those two white things?  Those are a few of the remaining buildings left.  They're apartments, five stories high.  You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...."  We drive in silence for a very long time.

As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green.  Weeds grow everywhere.  Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds.  Everything is covered in tall, green grass.  If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited.  Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence.  I see a front end loader here and there.  Cars are few and far between.  Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.

Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way.  I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy.  "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car.  The tears come.  Here, over 1,000 people are still missing.  People died here.  The city is essentially gone.  How will this town survive?  Will it?

The green field of silence is filled with pain.