I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another. Elements of a culture may be beautiful. More beautiful than others. Elements of a culture may be cruel. How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine. Yours may differ. Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way. Some days this is just fine. Other days it's anything but.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Showing posts with label kids in Tohoku. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids in Tohoku. Show all posts
Monday, August 11, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Mary's Skunk and PTSD
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A New Approach to Letting it Go (Let it Go)
It's been some time since I watched a Disney movie. With my son now a grown man I've not had the pleasure. Or need. Or, frankly, the desire. But, because I am not one who follows convention but rather my own mind I pick and choose. While Disney has long ago left the category I search to decide what to watch today, the latest blockbuster has caught my eye. "Frozen" or "Anna and the Queen of Snow" as it's called in Japan and its theme song has brought me a whole new kind of joy.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories
Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once. Even today, I feel cheated. Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew. Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist. No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween. With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes. The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy. Don't ask.
We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us. Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces. Oh, the joy.
Which is of course not what happened. Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake. Cake? For Halloween? Fine. We'd play along. Surely it would be chocolate.
It wasn't. It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey. The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated. There was hope. Here was American Halloween candy. Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be. That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to. Our hopes hung on the candy corn.
Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes. My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected. To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there. Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible. My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again. I feel totally and completely cheated.
Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior. Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile. It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far. Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.
Queen Amya was a hit. Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday? This year I am going as a witch. I've always wanted to dress up as a witch. That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child. Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake. Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.
There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out. The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic. Ghosts? The veil between life and death? For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate. Which is why I must bend the truth. Omission is not always a bad thing. The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about. I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad. Selective representation of facts? I can do that. If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world. That doesn't need sharing. Especially not in Tohoku.
This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy. (On the faces of kids. Not mine.) Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger. This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers. Cue joy.
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