March is always a crazy month. The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies. We tie up loose ends. Students graduate. New hires arrive in April needing to be trained. Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April. Before April there is March. Wrap everything up and move on.
Which is why we're all busy. Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call. Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode. The loud ones, demanding an answer get it. Everyone else? Pick a number, sit, and wait.
I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse. People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy. I see "busy" as an issue of priorities. Let's face it: You DON'T rank. When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another.
Which is why I'm struggling this month. I'm truly busy. I get up early and stay up late. I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys. Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day. I'm sorry. But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later. It's about priorities. I triage. I'll reply tomorrow. I use the same line others use on me. I hate March.
I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment. As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year. I vowed not to. I swore I needed to focus on me. I changed my mind. I can and will do this for one more year. It's the right thing to do.
But, I reserve the right to say "NO". I've not done this until now. You needed something? I obliged. You wanted something done? I did it. Those days are gone. Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own. Long-term dependency is not the answer.
City hall will not be accustomed to this new me. So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan? Do people just say it? Refuse? Shake their heads?
No.
The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult." That's a cue. That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want. I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases. Bring it on. Sorry people. To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want." I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."
Side note: I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.
"Are you coming to our high school reunion? If not, why?"
It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion. It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.
We are busy. That's the truth. The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else. As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco. On this, I renege my point from earlier. We're not blowing each other off. We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group. That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.
With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day. None of the men in my gang are subtle. We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk. All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys. They're jerks and I absolutely love them.
Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point. I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face. With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics. We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs. (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)
Perhaps a rambling post without any real point. Then again. Then again.
Showing posts with label life in Japan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life in Japan. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Boarding School Buddies: Bonds, Baggage, and Bad Behavior
There is a boarding school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo. The doctrine preached here is so religiously rigid the Tea Party (the ultra-conservatives in the USA) salivates over the mere mention. Here is the Mecca of conservative Christians in Japan. I went there for high school not because my parents were particularly thrilled or in sync with the school's teachings but because this was the only international school in Japan with boarding facilities. Here I learned the art of sneaking out of the dorm (I never got caught) and breaking rules without seeming to do so. Here I learned the art of of creatively interpreting said rules, following them by my own code and thus changing the intent altogether, but doing so in a convincing way insuring I would not be punished--skills that have served me well in adulthood.
I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters. Some didn't like me. None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now. Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed. We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go. We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.
Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously. For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone. For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors. Except for one key fact: friends I made back then are still friends today.
There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience. That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond. Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.
Their behavior on these nights out is bad. Really bad. The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean. Last night was one such night. After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following: "You're pretty liberated. Why do you put up with us?"
I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated. Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism." I don't say this because: a). Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b). it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity. Instead I offer an alternative truth.
"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love. It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military. This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship. It connects. It ties together for life.
"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place. We would never be friends."
The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid. Or, TCK. We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs. We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either. Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both. We're comfortable in both. We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment. We are of both (many) but we are of neither. This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it. Who "get" us. This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs. It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else. But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules. Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.
So, today I am grateful for bonds. I am grateful for people who "get" me. Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.
I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters. Some didn't like me. None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now. Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed. We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go. We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.
Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously. For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone. For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors. Except for one key fact: friends I made back then are still friends today.
There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience. That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond. Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.
Their behavior on these nights out is bad. Really bad. The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean. Last night was one such night. After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following: "You're pretty liberated. Why do you put up with us?"
I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated. Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism." I don't say this because: a). Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b). it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity. Instead I offer an alternative truth.
"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love. It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military. This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship. It connects. It ties together for life.
"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place. We would never be friends."
The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid. Or, TCK. We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs. We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either. Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both. We're comfortable in both. We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment. We are of both (many) but we are of neither. This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it. Who "get" us. This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs. It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else. But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules. Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.
So, today I am grateful for bonds. I am grateful for people who "get" me. Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
On Dental Hygienists and National Healthcarre
No, I don't floss. Certainly not every day twice. Pathologically honest that I am, when dental hygienists ask me whether or not I floss I answer with the truth. I am promptly given a lecture which I ignore. I'm an adult. If I don't floss it's on me. Back off, sweetheart. I know what I'm doing.
Several months ago my husband announced he was through with our dentist. "I've never been so insulted in my life," he said. "We're switching dentists."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll leave it up to you."
Soon after, he tells me we now have a new dentist, one who came highly recommended. "You should go see her while you're here," he suggests on one of my trips home, and I agree. I make my appointment and head to the office. Fast forward to the dentist's chair, I lean back, open my mouth and let the hygienist start her inspection. She pokes, she counts, and she pokes some more.
"Do you floss?" she asks me.
"Not always."
"You should. Twice a day."
"I know."
We're not off to a good start. If this were a first date there wouldn't be a second. Add to this she's very young and I'm not one who's fond of being told what to do by someone barely older than my son, so I tune her out.
"You have angry gums," she says. I sit up in the chair.
"I have what?"
"Angry gums," she replies a bit hesitant. I don't think she's accustomed to having people sit up to ask in the middle of an exam challenging her diagnosis. I decide she's new, that she takes her job a bit too seriously, and that she has difficulty picking adjectives. None are reasons for me to take her seriously. Before I leave the office she brings out a skull with a mouth full of crooked teeth and shows me how to brush properly. She also tells me if I don't use a specific toothbrush and a certain mouthwash "you might as well not be brushing." I come home and tell my husband I don't like the new dentist.
Back in Japan I decide it's time to visit a dentist here. Since moving to Japan two years ago I have yet to set foot into a doctor or dentist's office. There are two truths: I haven't been sick enough, and I don't like going to health care specialists unless it's really necessary. Both were reasons to avoid the scent of rubbing alcohol that so often fills the halls of hospitals and the offices of all things medical. Deciding if for no other reason I should find out how good my health insurance is, I ask a friend to recommend a dentist. Her husband happens to be at the dentist's office "right now" and she calls him. A few minutes later she receives a call back.
"Here," she says, giving me her cell phone. "It's the dentist."
I'm a bit surprised by this sudden call and especially that it's the dentist himself on the other end but I say my proper hellos and thank yous and make an appointment for a few months out there on the spot. While I found out the hard way at my subsequent cleaning Japanese dental hygienists are just as annoying as those in the US, I came away without insults hurled at my gums. I'll go back. Oh. And, the whole thing cost less than 900 yen.
In the US there's been a debate regarding nationalized health care. This is nothing new, and indeed there have been proponents preaching the benefits of national health care for decades. The latest mud-hurling seems to based on "If it came from Obama it must be bad" (a sentiment I find very tiresome and completely unoriginal), but alas politics are not always based on reason, and politicians on both sides are not always the brightest of the bunch.
For those who have not had the pleasure of taking part in nationalized health care, here is how it works for me in Japan. The amount I pay for my health insurance depends upon my income from the year before. This means in 2012 I didn't pay anything for my insurance as I made nothing in Japan in 2011. What I pay this year is based on last year's salary, and since my son makes more than me (I'm still essentially a volunteer) I pay very, very little. For that, I get to pick my doctors and hospitals, I'm not required to get permission to see a specialist, and it cost 900 yen to clean my teeth.
It's not a perfect system. I do believe, however, that I get extremely good care for the money I pay into health insurance. (That said, dental hygienists seem to receive the same training, at least in the US and Japan.) There's something very refreshing about having freedom and control over my own medical care. If I don't like a doctor I'll find another and not have to pay the fee with a kidney. I know I only have one experience in Japan to stack up against the years of doctor's visits back home, but I am pleased by my trip to the dentist, and I don't think I've ever said that in my life. So it is.
In closing, just because someone decided to call it Obamacare doesn't make it bad. I'm not saying everything this American president does is good, but neither am I saying everything he does bad. Living in a country where I'm finding out what joy there may be in having more control over my own health care (all without having to worry whether I can indeed afford it), let's just say I might just be a believer yet.
Several months ago my husband announced he was through with our dentist. "I've never been so insulted in my life," he said. "We're switching dentists."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll leave it up to you."
Soon after, he tells me we now have a new dentist, one who came highly recommended. "You should go see her while you're here," he suggests on one of my trips home, and I agree. I make my appointment and head to the office. Fast forward to the dentist's chair, I lean back, open my mouth and let the hygienist start her inspection. She pokes, she counts, and she pokes some more.
"Do you floss?" she asks me.
"Not always."
"You should. Twice a day."
"I know."
We're not off to a good start. If this were a first date there wouldn't be a second. Add to this she's very young and I'm not one who's fond of being told what to do by someone barely older than my son, so I tune her out.
"You have angry gums," she says. I sit up in the chair.
"I have what?"
"Angry gums," she replies a bit hesitant. I don't think she's accustomed to having people sit up to ask in the middle of an exam challenging her diagnosis. I decide she's new, that she takes her job a bit too seriously, and that she has difficulty picking adjectives. None are reasons for me to take her seriously. Before I leave the office she brings out a skull with a mouth full of crooked teeth and shows me how to brush properly. She also tells me if I don't use a specific toothbrush and a certain mouthwash "you might as well not be brushing." I come home and tell my husband I don't like the new dentist.
Back in Japan I decide it's time to visit a dentist here. Since moving to Japan two years ago I have yet to set foot into a doctor or dentist's office. There are two truths: I haven't been sick enough, and I don't like going to health care specialists unless it's really necessary. Both were reasons to avoid the scent of rubbing alcohol that so often fills the halls of hospitals and the offices of all things medical. Deciding if for no other reason I should find out how good my health insurance is, I ask a friend to recommend a dentist. Her husband happens to be at the dentist's office "right now" and she calls him. A few minutes later she receives a call back.
"Here," she says, giving me her cell phone. "It's the dentist."
I'm a bit surprised by this sudden call and especially that it's the dentist himself on the other end but I say my proper hellos and thank yous and make an appointment for a few months out there on the spot. While I found out the hard way at my subsequent cleaning Japanese dental hygienists are just as annoying as those in the US, I came away without insults hurled at my gums. I'll go back. Oh. And, the whole thing cost less than 900 yen.
In the US there's been a debate regarding nationalized health care. This is nothing new, and indeed there have been proponents preaching the benefits of national health care for decades. The latest mud-hurling seems to based on "If it came from Obama it must be bad" (a sentiment I find very tiresome and completely unoriginal), but alas politics are not always based on reason, and politicians on both sides are not always the brightest of the bunch.
For those who have not had the pleasure of taking part in nationalized health care, here is how it works for me in Japan. The amount I pay for my health insurance depends upon my income from the year before. This means in 2012 I didn't pay anything for my insurance as I made nothing in Japan in 2011. What I pay this year is based on last year's salary, and since my son makes more than me (I'm still essentially a volunteer) I pay very, very little. For that, I get to pick my doctors and hospitals, I'm not required to get permission to see a specialist, and it cost 900 yen to clean my teeth.
It's not a perfect system. I do believe, however, that I get extremely good care for the money I pay into health insurance. (That said, dental hygienists seem to receive the same training, at least in the US and Japan.) There's something very refreshing about having freedom and control over my own medical care. If I don't like a doctor I'll find another and not have to pay the fee with a kidney. I know I only have one experience in Japan to stack up against the years of doctor's visits back home, but I am pleased by my trip to the dentist, and I don't think I've ever said that in my life. So it is.
In closing, just because someone decided to call it Obamacare doesn't make it bad. I'm not saying everything this American president does is good, but neither am I saying everything he does bad. Living in a country where I'm finding out what joy there may be in having more control over my own health care (all without having to worry whether I can indeed afford it), let's just say I might just be a believer yet.
Monday, July 15, 2013
On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)
A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R. Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat. As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r. Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice. Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced.
When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm. My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm. Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating. Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing. In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player." Very, very different things. Perhaps you had to be there. I didn't find much om that day. Too much giggling.
On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused. Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands. "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased. Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you." Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!" I stop. Are they saying, "Love you"? I can't tell. If they are, this is huge. Like is a safe word. Like a lot is also okay. But, love is reserved for the super special. I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured. The tots don't let up though and I must respond. I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.
I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh! A new word!" or a "Pffft. We knew that one." We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.
When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm. My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm. Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating. Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing. In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player." Very, very different things. Perhaps you had to be there. I didn't find much om that day. Too much giggling.
On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused. Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands. "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased. Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you." Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!" I stop. Are they saying, "Love you"? I can't tell. If they are, this is huge. Like is a safe word. Like a lot is also okay. But, love is reserved for the super special. I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured. The tots don't let up though and I must respond. I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.
I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh! A new word!" or a "Pffft. We knew that one." We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
The Other Election
It's hard to write about this topic without sounding like I'm mocking the group, its founder, and the girls and women. Observing this phenomenon as an anthropologist might, my goal is to report without casting judgment. On this particular subject objectivity is hard to muster up. Feel free to look for a tone in what I write. Cloaked as it is (might be?) here is a side of Japanese culture I struggle to understand.
Let's first define the topic. AKB48 is a group of young women and girls who were handpicked by Yasushi Akimoto. In his own right, Akimoto, a lyricist, a television writer and producer is a genius. Seemingly out of nowhere, he created AKB48 (AKB is short for Akihabara--Tokyo's tech district also known for its maid cafes and socially awkward men--otaku). Now the highest grossing group in Japan with a ridiculous following by men and women, they're everywhere: on television, documentaries, concerts, commercials, and the annual election. To be sure, there's drama. There's the sassy one, the cute and demure, the ones who break rules and are punished, rivals, competition, cat fights, those who pull off the not-so-bright act (?) with ease, the scary one, the sex pot, and everything inbetween. Put them together and they make for good television. Or so Akimoto says.
The following they have proves him right. An idol group like no other, these women and girls have a major cult following. One which, to date, I simply do not understand.
The highlight of the year is the election. Let's call it what it is: a glorified popularity contest. For weeks building up to the big event, commentators spend time outlining their predictions--who will win and why. From what I understand, the winner is picked by votes. Possibly (?) the votes are cast by CDs bought? That part is unclear. (I haven't bothered to check.) The election, called just that, was last week. The winner? The mouthy one. She gets the middle spot as they sing and dance, the coveted position.
Except that the mouthy one was demoted last year to a regional, tier two group as punishment for something I forgot to follow. Her victory means she gets to come back to Group A? Akimoto will decide, I'm sure.
The election is one major event for AKB48, the janken (rock-scissors-paper) championship is another. Both of these shows get ratings that would make the Miss America pageant cringe with envy. The janken championship is just that--they compete one-on-one with a quick game of rock-scissors-paper. What skill is involved in a game of rock-scissors-paper continues to elude me (mathematical probability?) but the girls vow to win showing up in dresses and costumes befitting a group aimed at attracting the socially-challenged.
I applaud Akimoto's genius and talent, that he figured out this is exactly what Japan needs, delivering in ways that has shocked us all. The spin-off groups throughout Japan are not as popular, only because they're AKB48 wannabes, not quite there yet, not quite ready for the big stage. There's talk of additional spin-off groups in Taiwan and Indonesia, but I honestly have not been able to find the time to confirm, much less follow this.
I wish the sassy one well. She'll have another year of guaranteed coverage unless (until?) she does something to piss off the big man again.
Without casting judgment, let me conclude by saying this: I don't get it. Akimoto's brilliance, yes. It's hard to miss. Hard to ignore. The rest of it--the hype, massive following, and popularity--it's a mystery.
Let's first define the topic. AKB48 is a group of young women and girls who were handpicked by Yasushi Akimoto. In his own right, Akimoto, a lyricist, a television writer and producer is a genius. Seemingly out of nowhere, he created AKB48 (AKB is short for Akihabara--Tokyo's tech district also known for its maid cafes and socially awkward men--otaku). Now the highest grossing group in Japan with a ridiculous following by men and women, they're everywhere: on television, documentaries, concerts, commercials, and the annual election. To be sure, there's drama. There's the sassy one, the cute and demure, the ones who break rules and are punished, rivals, competition, cat fights, those who pull off the not-so-bright act (?) with ease, the scary one, the sex pot, and everything inbetween. Put them together and they make for good television. Or so Akimoto says.
The following they have proves him right. An idol group like no other, these women and girls have a major cult following. One which, to date, I simply do not understand.
The highlight of the year is the election. Let's call it what it is: a glorified popularity contest. For weeks building up to the big event, commentators spend time outlining their predictions--who will win and why. From what I understand, the winner is picked by votes. Possibly (?) the votes are cast by CDs bought? That part is unclear. (I haven't bothered to check.) The election, called just that, was last week. The winner? The mouthy one. She gets the middle spot as they sing and dance, the coveted position.
Except that the mouthy one was demoted last year to a regional, tier two group as punishment for something I forgot to follow. Her victory means she gets to come back to Group A? Akimoto will decide, I'm sure.
The election is one major event for AKB48, the janken (rock-scissors-paper) championship is another. Both of these shows get ratings that would make the Miss America pageant cringe with envy. The janken championship is just that--they compete one-on-one with a quick game of rock-scissors-paper. What skill is involved in a game of rock-scissors-paper continues to elude me (mathematical probability?) but the girls vow to win showing up in dresses and costumes befitting a group aimed at attracting the socially-challenged.
I applaud Akimoto's genius and talent, that he figured out this is exactly what Japan needs, delivering in ways that has shocked us all. The spin-off groups throughout Japan are not as popular, only because they're AKB48 wannabes, not quite there yet, not quite ready for the big stage. There's talk of additional spin-off groups in Taiwan and Indonesia, but I honestly have not been able to find the time to confirm, much less follow this.
I wish the sassy one well. She'll have another year of guaranteed coverage unless (until?) she does something to piss off the big man again.
Without casting judgment, let me conclude by saying this: I don't get it. Akimoto's brilliance, yes. It's hard to miss. Hard to ignore. The rest of it--the hype, massive following, and popularity--it's a mystery.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Perception, Fukushima, and Modern-day Seppuku
My first encounter with what I call "modern-day seppuku" was at age 12. Our sixth grade had three homerooms. Our teachers must have been in cahoots, testing us, telling us all specifically not to do something and wondering if we would obey. All three classes did exactly what we were told not to do. All three classes were caught. Busted.
An emergency meeting was held. The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather. From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended. Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility. I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that, "you're not going to resign." I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on. We will fix this. We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."
I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do. Why was he running away? You don't resign. You fix your mistakes. You stay and fight. Right?
I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style. He was supposed to resign. As was I. Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement. I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition. This is how Japan apologizes. This is how Japanese take responsibility.
Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years. Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously. They apologize. They resign. It's done. This is modern-day seppuku.
I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did. But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves. Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional. Perception matters. It really matters. I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do. Nice beats mean. It just does.
The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up. People lied. TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied. Politicians lied. To what extent? About what? That will come out. Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll. Can anyone prove these lies? Can anyone prove there was no lying? Finding those answers is important, yes. The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful. How did this happen? How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this? Again?
Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer. This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission: "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.' Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity. Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)
These are incredible words. I've never seen anything like this. The Commission in its report calls out all of Japan, its culture, people, ways of thinking and essentially says "this must stop." No modern-day seppuku. No resignations. No new prime minister. These powerful words bear repeating. Mr. Kurokawa goes on to say that the emphasis should not be "blame" but "to fix." I could not agree more. This is the new "perception" of Japan I've been waiting for all my life.
The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year. It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree. When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year. Eight weeks later this tree is huge. Why does this matter? Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown. It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring. I asked around. "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"
The answer, mathematically at least, is eight. The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago. However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me. Eight is the wrong number. People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker. But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong. It's perception again. While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right. That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.
Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan. It's hardly working in Japan. The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world. The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this." It's bad enough the problem is enormous. How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance. If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.
An emergency meeting was held. The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather. From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended. Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility. I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that, "you're not going to resign." I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on. We will fix this. We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."
I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do. Why was he running away? You don't resign. You fix your mistakes. You stay and fight. Right?
I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style. He was supposed to resign. As was I. Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement. I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition. This is how Japan apologizes. This is how Japanese take responsibility.
Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years. Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously. They apologize. They resign. It's done. This is modern-day seppuku.
I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did. But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves. Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional. Perception matters. It really matters. I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do. Nice beats mean. It just does.
The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up. People lied. TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied. Politicians lied. To what extent? About what? That will come out. Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll. Can anyone prove these lies? Can anyone prove there was no lying? Finding those answers is important, yes. The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful. How did this happen? How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this? Again?
Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer. This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission: "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.' Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity. Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)
The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year. It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree. When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year. Eight weeks later this tree is huge. Why does this matter? Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown. It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring. I asked around. "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"
The answer, mathematically at least, is eight. The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago. However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me. Eight is the wrong number. People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker. But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong. It's perception again. While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right. That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.
Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan. It's hardly working in Japan. The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world. The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this." It's bad enough the problem is enormous. How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance. If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
On Defining "Who's Boss"
My intent is not to mock, criticize, or complain. I look at what goes on around me purely as a sociological phenomenon, combining anthropological and ethnographic elements into what I observe. Having said this, the expectation I too am expected to play, and honor these cultural norms is, at times, tedious. On a good day, I function just fine. On a bad day, let's just say, I bend the rules to suit me. Here's my story.
Social hierarchy is the only way to describe it. It's "pecking order" Japanese-style. In Tohoku, these rules are rigid. Obedience, and adherence to these rules are a must.
Everyone has their "place." Primarily it has to do with age. Respect is given to those who are older. Even a few years in age difference clarifies who's the sempai, and who is kohai.
The term sempai implies a lot. It's "boss" and "elder" and "superior" and "you-don't-get-to-mouth-back" and "instant respect" all rolled into one. Formally, it starts in middle school. Those who are younger do what their sempai ask and expect. This means the 7th grade girls in the basketball club carry the towels, water battles, and basketballs for the 8th, and 9th grade girls. The same goes for the baseball, soccer, judo, and brass band clubs. The kohai are "underlings." They are at the bottom of the totem pole. They do as they are told. They don't talk back. They don't have a voice.
These rules, who's on top, and who's lower down, continue into high school, university, into the corporate culture, and on into general society. Simply put, the rigidity of these rules essentially "run" Japan.
It's been "interesting" (channeling my father here) to see how I fit into this hierarchical structure. Most people in Japan do not know my age. This is a problem for them, as they don't know where to "put" me. As the sempai/kohai system is largely defined by age, not knowing if I'm older or younger means their speech, mannerisms, and what they can or cannot say to me remains unclear for those around me.
I don't easily cave. With almost every new social introduction, I am asked how old I am. Not really wanting to play this "game" I usually push back, saying "You should never ask a woman her age or weight." I laugh, making sure I'm not seen as being too obnoxious, too gaijin. It works. I get away with this because I am foreign. I get away with this because I am a foreign woman. This is one of the few times I play up my role, all so I can excuse myself from having to be pinned down.
Technically, I am not exempt. Those around me who are unsure of my age do not always know how to speak to me. Do they get to "pull rank"? Must they speak to me using the honorific form of speech? My insistence upon not revealing my age confuses them. This is not considered "nice." I am not playing by the proper rules.
In Tohoku, these rules are far more important, and indeed harsher. This makes the issue of my age all the more relevant. I'm not particularly fond of the way age is used to define roles, and my feelings about how this plays out in Tohoku is no exception. I won't go as far as to say the sempai/kohai rules are "abused" here. That's going too far. There is, however, a lot that is excused by way of "I'm the sempai" and watching this unfold around me at every gathering, every party, every meeting is, to be blunt, uncomfortable.
There will come a time where I will figure this out. In the interim, I will continue to remain "ageless" if for no other reason than to let those around me exclude me from their definitions.
Social hierarchy is the only way to describe it. It's "pecking order" Japanese-style. In Tohoku, these rules are rigid. Obedience, and adherence to these rules are a must.
Everyone has their "place." Primarily it has to do with age. Respect is given to those who are older. Even a few years in age difference clarifies who's the sempai, and who is kohai.
The term sempai implies a lot. It's "boss" and "elder" and "superior" and "you-don't-get-to-mouth-back" and "instant respect" all rolled into one. Formally, it starts in middle school. Those who are younger do what their sempai ask and expect. This means the 7th grade girls in the basketball club carry the towels, water battles, and basketballs for the 8th, and 9th grade girls. The same goes for the baseball, soccer, judo, and brass band clubs. The kohai are "underlings." They are at the bottom of the totem pole. They do as they are told. They don't talk back. They don't have a voice.
These rules, who's on top, and who's lower down, continue into high school, university, into the corporate culture, and on into general society. Simply put, the rigidity of these rules essentially "run" Japan.
It's been "interesting" (channeling my father here) to see how I fit into this hierarchical structure. Most people in Japan do not know my age. This is a problem for them, as they don't know where to "put" me. As the sempai/kohai system is largely defined by age, not knowing if I'm older or younger means their speech, mannerisms, and what they can or cannot say to me remains unclear for those around me.
I don't easily cave. With almost every new social introduction, I am asked how old I am. Not really wanting to play this "game" I usually push back, saying "You should never ask a woman her age or weight." I laugh, making sure I'm not seen as being too obnoxious, too gaijin. It works. I get away with this because I am foreign. I get away with this because I am a foreign woman. This is one of the few times I play up my role, all so I can excuse myself from having to be pinned down.
Technically, I am not exempt. Those around me who are unsure of my age do not always know how to speak to me. Do they get to "pull rank"? Must they speak to me using the honorific form of speech? My insistence upon not revealing my age confuses them. This is not considered "nice." I am not playing by the proper rules.
In Tohoku, these rules are far more important, and indeed harsher. This makes the issue of my age all the more relevant. I'm not particularly fond of the way age is used to define roles, and my feelings about how this plays out in Tohoku is no exception. I won't go as far as to say the sempai/kohai rules are "abused" here. That's going too far. There is, however, a lot that is excused by way of "I'm the sempai" and watching this unfold around me at every gathering, every party, every meeting is, to be blunt, uncomfortable.
There will come a time where I will figure this out. In the interim, I will continue to remain "ageless" if for no other reason than to let those around me exclude me from their definitions.
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