On Grandmothers

It all started with an NHK documentary I watched as a child.  The Japanese maestro of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa was highlighted on this show.  My parents and I crowded around the television taking in his words, the music, the awe he inspired.  The camera zoomed in on a statue in downtown Boston (one I have yet to find) and I knew right then and there, someday I would live in Boston.

Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston.  "People are rude in Boston," he says.  "Really.  My cousin lives there.  He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say.  Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose.  People there take rudeness to a new level.  Even the grandmothers are bitchy."

I scoff.  He is wrong.  Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude.  My objection is about grandmothers.  Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude.  He is simply wrong.  His cousin exaggerates.

These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine.  No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude.  Ever.  I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured.  My grandmother was.  Others must be the same.

I was idealistic, young, and naive.  I lacked real-world experience.  I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people.  And I was idealistic.  (That part warrants another mention.)  I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world.  Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother.  As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.

Oh youth.  When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people.  I was shocked.  Was my friend right?  No.  Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude.  Right?  The rest of these people, maybe.  Not grandmothers.  Please, not grandmothers.

And so the bubble was burst.  One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them.  In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then."  She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.

Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan.  The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace.  In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother.  Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope.  So far so good.

All good things must come to an end.  The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread.  Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.

The line was long on this day.  My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap.  I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me.  In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused.  Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."

What?  Qu'est que le hell does that mean?  Oh grandmother.  You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind.  I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life.  Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing."  But, I don't.  Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.

Yes, even grandmothers can be rude.  Alas.  So it is. 

ばあちゃんパワー

友達の友達に、この素晴らしい女性を紹介され、気付いてみれば福島に連れてこられていた。南相馬市の仮設住宅に身をよせている。原発避難地域に指定されているこの場所は、いつもくもり空だ。ここへ来るのは3度目になる。今回の目的は、米国と日本で売るための手作りの品物を見つけること。被災者の方々が収入をえるための支援。ここで私を待っていたのは、予想もしないものだった。

外国人女性（私）、私を招待してくれた人、そして、地元の窓口でもある仮設住宅地の自治会長の奥様とが部屋に入る。テーブルを囲んで6人のばあちゃんたちが座っている小さな部屋。四方の壁にかけられた洗濯ロープには、私がこれまでに見たことのないような繊細で美しく複雑なデザインの折り紙でできた作品がぎっしりとかけられている。言葉が出ない。

自己紹介と訪問の目的を説明する。ばあちゃんたちは全く人おじしない。

「ほんとうにこれをアメリカに持っていきたいの？」

「ああ。いいよ。」

アメリカ人が折り紙のよさを本当にわかるかどうか、気にいってくれるかどうか、どうやって持って行くつもりなのか、といった内容の複数の会話が同時にすすむ。「持っていってもらおう」という全員一致での結論に満足して、ばあちゃんの一人が会長の奥様に質問する。「ほんとうにこれを売ってもいいの？おらたち怒られない？」

「怒られないわよ。お正月にくつしたを売ったのだって収入になりましたよね。」

また会話がはじまっている。めんどりたちがコッコとなく姿が頭にうかび、思わずほほえむ。

「ほんとうにいいんだな？」別のおばあちゃんが聞く。

「いいんだ。自治会長の奥さんだねん。奥さんが大丈夫といえば大丈夫だ。」皆がいっせいに笑う。めんどりが甲高くないているような感じ。

「じゃ、持って行っていいんですね？」ロープにかかっている芸術品を見ながら、私が聞く。

「もちろん。好きなだけ持って行ってよ。」

数々のくすだまを眺めながら、もう一度聞いてみる。

「このくすだまたち、ほんとうに持って行ってもいいですか？」

「どうぞ、どうぞ。」また別のおばあちゃんが言う。

「玉、全部持っていって。」と他のおばあちゃんも加わる。

「おら、べつに玉は必要ないものね。」と違うおばあちゃんが言うと、爆笑。

説明させてもらうと、最後の文章は表向きには「おらには玉はもう必要ない」と言っているのだが、「玉」の意味するところにはちょっとした含みがある。もちろんくすだまの「玉」とかけているのだが、おばあちゃんの冗談の意味がみなには分かった。

きちんと育てられた外国人の女の子が、どうして日本語の「たま」の持つ意味を知っているのか説明しないといけないなんてとんでもないので、私は下を向いて床をみつめながら、こっそりと笑うことにした。まったく。このおばあちゃんたちったら……。

部屋をあるきまわって、折り紙をひとつずつ外して、テーブルの上に積みあげる。すぐに大きな折り紙の山ができる。4月にボストンで開かれる春祭りで売ってもらえるように、アメリカへ送る手配をする。

「もっとたくさん作れますか？」と私は聞く。

「もちろんよ！」と怒られる。当たり前だ。このおばあちゃんたちには、ほかにすることがない。農家の奥さんたち、土にふくまれる放射能のせいで農業ができないでいる。みなで一緒にすわって折り紙をひとつずつ折る。できるだけはやくたくさんの人に作品を届けると約束する。

「おばあちゃん、写真をとっていいですか？皆にみせたいので。」と私は声をかける。

「だめだめ！」と一番おしゃべりだったおばあちゃんが立ち上がって、ドアのうしろに隠れる。皆で出てきてと頼むが、姿をあらわさない。

ドアのかげから「まだかいな？」という声を聞きながら、残りのみなで写真をとる。別のおばあちゃんには、顔がみえるようこっちを向いてもらうようにたのむ。あんなに恥ずかしい話でも平気でしていたばあちゃんたちが、どうしてここまではずかしがり屋なのか、私にはわからない。自分たちを呼ぶのに「おら」と男性言葉をつかうのも印象的。いいばあちゃんたちだ。みなの活気がたまらない。

アメリカからもどってくる5月に「また来ます。」と言い残して、

「いくらで売れるかわかりませんよ」と警告しておく。

「いくらでもいいよ。皆におらたちのことを話してくれれば。」

「おらのことは言わないで。」とカメラぎらいのばあちゃんが言う。

「あら、おばあちゃんのことを中心に話そうと思ってたのに。」と私はからかう。

「もう、あんたったら……。」と、ばあちゃんは私を軽くたたくふりをする。

「冗談、冗談！」と私が逃げるまねをすると、皆がまた大笑いする。

手作り仲間の輪にいれてもらうのは光栄である。ただ、いれてもらう努力はしないといけないし、みなに信用してもらえるためなら何でもしようと思う。

Granny Power

Friends of friends put me in touch with this woman, an amazing woman, and next thing I know, she takes me to Fukushima.  I'm at a temporary housing complex in Minami Soma.  Right on the outskirts of the nuclear zone, it's always cloudy when I'm there.  It's my third trip here.  My goal this time is to find hand-made items to sell in the US and Japan--the first steps towards helping people earn an income.  What awaited blew me away.

Enter gaijin girl (me), my host, and the housing complex chairman's wife, our local point of contact.  In a small room is a table with six grannies sitting on all sides.  Hanging on clothes lines on all four walls is the most delicate, beautiful, intricate origami creations I've ever seen.  I'm speechless.

I introduce myself, explaining my visit.  The grannies are not shy.

"You really want to take this back with you to America?"
"Yes, I do."
Several conversations take place at once, the gist of it being whether Americans "get" origami, will like what's made, how to get it there, etc.  Satisfied with the consensus they've reached (it's a go), one of the grannies asks my local host,  "Is it really okay for us to sell this stuff?  Won't we get in trouble?"
"No, you won't get in trouble.  Remember the socks that we sold over the new year?  We made money off that, too."
More side conversations.  The "hens clucking" image comes to mind and I smile.
"You're sure?" Another granny asks.
"Of course she's sure.  She's the chairman's wife.  If she says it's okay, it's okay."  They all laugh.  Cackle might be more accurate.
"So, I can take these?" I say, looking around at the various pieces of art hanging. 
"Sure.  Take whatever you want," I'm told.
I wander over to the various kusudama (intricately folded origami made into a ball) and decide to ask one more time.
"I can really takes these kudusama?  As many as I want?"
"Take them," the same granny says.
"You can have all the tama you want," another adds.  (Tama is singular; dama is plural.  Literal translation:  Ball.)
"I've got no need for tama," yet another granny says, and the room explodes with laughter.

Let me explain:  That sentence, literally translated, would read "I've got no need for balls."  As in those balls.  Kusudama balls, too, supposedly, but we all know what granny meant.

God forbid I would have to explain how a properly raised gaijin girl would know the Japanese word for "balls"  I decide to put my head down, face the floor, and keep my grinning and laughter to myself.  I swear.  These women are something else.

I walk around the room taking down one display after another, hauling them over to another table.  Soon I have a big pile.  I make arrangements to have them sent to the US to be sold in Boston at a Japan Festival sale in late April.

"Can you make more?"  I ask.
"Of course we can make more," I'm scolded.  Touche.  These women have nothing else to do.  Farmers' wives, they can't farm because of the radiation in the soil.  They sit together and fold one beautiful piece of work after another.  I vow to find a way to get these items to as many people as possible.

"Granny," I pause, "Can we take some photos?  I want to show people who you are."
"Oh no, you don't!" The most outspoken of them all gets up and marches over to the sliding door.  We all beg her to come out.  She doesn't.
"Just take the picture," the chairman's wife says.  We do, while hearing from behind the door, "Are you done yet?"  I have to ask another granny to turn around, so we can see her face.  How they can be shy after all the spicy talk from before is a question I can't answer.  That they use the masculine term for "me" when they speak is also noteworthy.  I like them.  I like their spunk.

I make plans to come back in May, after I return from the US. 
"I can't promise you how much they'll sell for," I caution.
"We don't care.  Just tell them about us."
"Not me, though," camera shy granny says.
"You, most of all," I tease.
"Oh you," and she comes towards me about to give me a motherly scolding slap.
"I'm kidding!  I'm kidding!" I half run away.  They all laugh again.

Being adopted into their circle of craftswomen would be an honor.  I need to earn that, and will do what it takes to earn their trust.