Just so we're clear, I did not write "hellish ramen" or "ramen from hell." Hell ramen is a type of ramen available in Ofunato up in Tohoku. I'd heard the rumors, something about the tongues of those who eat this burning off, or some hell-like analogy of hotness and pain and fire. One night last week I ended up at the restaurant serving this boiling, steaming, red broth of noodles. The gang I am with was determined to eat this famed dish.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
Showing posts with label ofunato. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ofunato. Show all posts
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
More on Baseball in Japan
"My son's baseball game is tomorrow," I hear Kazu say on the phone. "It's the first game of the season without the sixth graders. He's starting. Can you be there?"
"Of course," I say. "Definitely. What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to it."
I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready. Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible. In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren. I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?" I say, trying not to mumble. I hear Mika's voice on the other end. Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30?? So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh? Did I hear her right? I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up. That means she'll be here shortly after 9am. What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.
An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not. I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before. I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot. She's early. (Of course.) I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.
I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills. I've not been to this part of Ofunato before. It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own. I'd be lost for hours.
We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice. I notice the mothers are all in blue. There must have been a memo. Team colors. I'm in black. Oh well. We exchange our good mornings. There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes. I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing. One of the teams has a large cheering section. The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand. I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when. Pop fly caught? There's a chant. Strike out? Something different. Base hit? A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out. These moms are serious about cheering.
I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question." They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too? Are we going to cheer?" Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of. But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise. We do what we can though, right?" She turns to ask the moms. More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style. We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error. "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. We're maybe the worst of the bunch. We take baseball seriously. Our cheering gets nasty. I don't know that you want me cheering. I might yell at the ref or something."
Instantly they begin to talk. I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling. In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms. I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles. "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know. I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.
I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play. Our team stinks. We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score. I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.
Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing. There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku. I see Kazu running out to the third base ref. I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers. Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose. Again.
The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision. There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy. I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms. I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me. The boy can throw.
He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins. The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect. Another out. We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket. The next batter hits the ball high to right field. The mothers and I collectively cringe. None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball. We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly. This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five. Our team rocks.
All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison. That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize. One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time. We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field. I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?" I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.
Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers. "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning? That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings. You saw how well that small boy pitched. I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."
Here we go. Age trumps merit. I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't. The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended). I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules. It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan; Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different. It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy. Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age. There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters. Good employees, even younger ones are promoted. In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out. In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.
The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes. I dare not assume anything in Japan. The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind. Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm. I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh. Most days I believe that. On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers. I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.
"Of course," I say. "Definitely. What time?"
Kazu tells me the game will begin at 10:30, and that his wife will pick me up at 10am the following morning.
"Great," I tell him. "I'm looking forward to it."
I set my alarm for 9am because one hour is plenty of time to get ready. Add to this, sleep and I do not get along of late so I want to sleep in as late as possible. In my dreams on Saturday morning there's a noise, a buzz, and then a siren. I wake up groggy and realize my phone is ringing.
"Hello?" I say, trying not to mumble. I hear Mika's voice on the other end. Kazu's wife is calling at ... 8:30?? So much for sleep.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, of course not," I lie.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes."
Huh? Did I hear her right? I rub my eyes as if this will wake me up. That means she'll be here shortly after 9am. What happened to 10am?
"Got it," I say and panic.
"See you soon," she chirps and hangs up.
An hour is plenty of time to get ready but 20 minutes is not. I rush through my shower, throw on something clean and look for the bottle of tea I thought I left sitting on the coffee table the night before. I see Mika's car outside, pulling into the back parking lot. She's early. (Of course.) I grab my bag, hoping everything I need will still be inside and rush out the door.
I follow her in my car through winding mountain roads climbing higher and higher into the hills. I've not been to this part of Ofunato before. It's a good thing I'm not trying to find this place on my own. I'd be lost for hours.
We arrive at the baseball field and join a group of mothers already watching the boys at batting practice. I notice the mothers are all in blue. There must have been a memo. Team colors. I'm in black. Oh well. We exchange our good mornings. There's a lot of buzzing, mothers chit-chatting in twos and threes. I stand over to the side watching the two teams playing. One of the teams has a large cheering section. The mothers all in purple t-shirts (they definitely had a memo) chanting something I don't quite understand. I marvel at their rhythm, that everyone knows the melody, that they seem to know what to sing when. Pop fly caught? There's a chant. Strike out? Something different. Base hit? A combination of cheering and waving and a lyrical sing-song I can't make out. These moms are serious about cheering.
I walk back over to the moms and say, "I have a question." They all look up. I point to the moms in purple and ask, "Do we have chants, too? Are we going to cheer?" Some giggle, others nod, while Mika says smiling, "Sort of. But there aren't enough of us to make a lot of noise. We do what we can though, right?" She turns to ask the moms. More heads nod.
"Amya-san, You can cheer with us," a young mother I've not met before tells me.
"Well," I start, "I would, but," and here I tell stories about cheering American-style. We boo, hiss, toss things onto the field to show our displeasure, make fun of the players on the other team, jeer our own when they make an error. "Remember, I'm a Boston Red Sox fan. We're maybe the worst of the bunch. We take baseball seriously. Our cheering gets nasty. I don't know that you want me cheering. I might yell at the ref or something."
Instantly they begin to talk. I hear "how different" and "yelling at the ref?" and "we can't boo" and I take it all in, smiling. In the end, I join the mothers in the cheering section, vowing not to make a fool out of myself or Kazu (who's coaching today) or the other moms. I'm handed two plastic bottles filled with little plastic marbles. "Use these," I'm told by another mother I don't know. I agree and sit down on the concrete bleacher seat.
I don't know why I agreed to watch Kazu and Mika's boy play. Our team stinks. We'll surely lose today (again) and this will put Kazu in a bad mood for the rest of the weekend. Indeed, by the bottom of the third inning we're down five to one, our pitcher having walked every other player, and then thrown enough wild pitches for them to score. I regret my decision to be at this game and start planning my exit.
Then the winds change direction, the sun shines down on us without burning our skin, and we can almost hear angels singing. There are moments when bad luck turns to good, and I'm about to witness one right here in a baseball field tucked away in the mountains of Tohoku. I see Kazu running out to the third base ref. I take away from Kazu's pointing and several boys running that he's switching pitchers. Not a bad idea, considering at this rate we'll surely lose. Again.
The pitcher on the mound is a boy so small and so short that I immediately question Kazu's decision. There's no way this little thing can throw a ball with speed and accuracy. I look down at the small boy and picture myself picking him up like I used to with my son, at first heavy but then remarkably light once he's in my arms. I watch the boy throw a few practice pitches and am pleased I didn't speak my thoughts about his ability to anyone around me. The boy can throw.
He strikes out the first at bat, and here the magic begins. The ground ball to the short stop is caught, and the pitch thrown to first base is perfect. Another out. We all cheer, standing up in unison, banging our bead-filled bottles together making quite the racket. The next batter hits the ball high to right field. The mothers and I collectively cringe. None of our outfielders can catch a fly ball. We follow the ball with our eyes as it lands into the glove, and jump up again cheering wildly. This change in pitchers kick-started a series of hits, homeruns (including a grand slam by Kazu and Mika's boy), errors by the other team, and at the end of the game we had won 16 to five. Our team rocks.
All throughout the game, the mothers cheered and called out, their timing perfect and their voices in complete unison. That whole "sort of" comment from before was total crap I now realize. One of the dads calls out something into his yellow megaphone and the moms repeat it perfectly each time. We, too, have special cheers for certain acts of bravery from the boys on the field. I don't know these of course, and so I just bang my bottles together and often one time too many, turning heads asking with their eyes "Who's the one that's off beat?" I decide I'll just try to end my bottle-banging a few beats early in the hopes I don't make a bigger fool out of myself.
Later that night I ask Kazu about his decision to switch pitchers. "Why didn't you just use the second pitcher from the beginning? That first pitcher cost us five runs in three innings. You saw how well that small boy pitched. I don't get it."
"Well," Kazu says, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "the first boy is older."
Here we go. Age trumps merit. I'm about to ask, "You'll put a lesser pitcher in because he's older, even if it means you might sacrifice the game?" but don't. The serious adherence to the concept of hierarchy here in Ofunato strikes again (no pun intended). I find myself amazed by the way social rules control behavior, especially as I compare Tohoku's to Tokyo rules. It's as if I have two different lives here in Japan; Ofunato and Tokyo could not be more different. It's not that Tokyo lacks a system of advancement based on hierarchy. Certainly the rise to the top is in some part based on age. There is, however, an understanding in Tokyo that merit matters. Good employees, even younger ones are promoted. In Tokyo the old system of age before ability is on its way out. In Ofunato, there's no attempt to embrace this system of merit over age.
The good news is these pockets of cultural shifts that occur between regions keeps me on my toes. I dare not assume anything in Japan. The bad news is, I always feel two steps behind. Just when I think I've got life in Tohoku figured out, I encounter a new rule or a previously unidentified norm. I tell myself all this uncertainty keeps me young and fresh. Most days I believe that. On Saturday, I focused on how proud I was of those boys, and of Kazu, and of the cheering mothers. I'll work on identifying more previously unheard of Tohoku rules later.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Thirty Minutes on a Train
No one to date has been able to understand how a spouse, mine in particular, would just say "Go."
"Go into an active tsunami zone."
"Go where the aftershocks are hourly and often large."
"Live apart for an indefinite period of time."
"It's okay."
"I miss you but what you're doing is worthwhile enough that we can handle it."
My spouse has said all this since immediately after the March 11th earthquake and tsunamis. He is a large part of my reasoning for coming to Japan. I couldn't and wouldn't do this without his complete support. For that, for the freedom he gives me, for his patience, for his kick-in-the-pants ("Go!") I am most definitely grateful.
Knowing I still can't say when I'm leaving Japan for good, it's important we're on the same page. I need to know he's fine with this ambiguity. I'm often asked, "How long are you staying?" I smile and say, "Until I'm not needed here anymore, and when my husband says 'That's enough. Time to come home.'" People nod in response.
On the Marunouchi Line last night, as we make our way towards downtown for a Friday-night-in-Tokyo-date-night, we continue chatting. Let's make one thing clear: Skype cannot and does not replace what live, in-person chatting accomplishes. I'm grateful for Skype. Don't get me wrong. While my husband and I e-mail daily, it's the multi-hour Skype chats that keep us connected. Sitting in the subway, however, I'm reminded how much of this personal connection is missed when we talk laptop-to-laptop.
I bring up (again) the fact I can't say how long I'm going to be here.
"I know," he replies. "I knew that when you left."
I know he knows. But, but, I need to hear it again. I need to make sure he's okay with this no-end-date-in-sight reality. I also need to know how and why he's okay with it. I need to hear it again.
"When we sat in that coffee shop in Ofunato the other day," he begins, "and that spider started dropping towards my head you immediately freaked out, right?"
"Right."
"You got this box of tissues and you were adamant I should get rid of it."
Of course. It's a spider. It probably has fangs.
"That's how I know you haven't changed."
Evidently, I looked confused.
"That's the spiders-are-evil part of you that came out right then and there. Things like that make me realize you're still you."
Okay.
"Then, an hour later, you take me to this apartment building in Rikuzentakata that looked like it had been bombed." He leaned in as he told me this. "You did that as if it was no big deal."
I don't get where he's going.
"So, see. You've changed. Part of you still hates spiders, but there's another part of you now that has a purpose. You were bored with the past several jobs you had back home. You did them and did them well, but you were bored. Here," and now he laughs, "you're anything but bored." He sat back then, as if he'd made his point clearly, taking another sip of his tea. "I like that. The ways you're changing--they're good changes. That's how I know you're okay here. So long as you're changing in ways that make you grow, make you do new things, give you a purpose, so long as you're doing that you should stay. It's when you tell me spiders no longer freak you out that I'll worry."
Evidently that's it. Evidently, for him, it's as simple as that. I decide to take him at his word.
This is the kind of support that keeps me going. I couldn't and wouldn't stay without it. I still don't know how long I'll stay in Japan, but my husband's words warm me up. I hit the jackpot with this man--that he's fine with not knowing (so long as I'm growing) feeds my soul.
Thirty minutes on a train and I realize all over again how lucky I am. Gratitude on a Friday night: a lovely way to start a date.
"Go into an active tsunami zone."
"Go where the aftershocks are hourly and often large."
"Live apart for an indefinite period of time."
"It's okay."
"I miss you but what you're doing is worthwhile enough that we can handle it."
My spouse has said all this since immediately after the March 11th earthquake and tsunamis. He is a large part of my reasoning for coming to Japan. I couldn't and wouldn't do this without his complete support. For that, for the freedom he gives me, for his patience, for his kick-in-the-pants ("Go!") I am most definitely grateful.
Knowing I still can't say when I'm leaving Japan for good, it's important we're on the same page. I need to know he's fine with this ambiguity. I'm often asked, "How long are you staying?" I smile and say, "Until I'm not needed here anymore, and when my husband says 'That's enough. Time to come home.'" People nod in response.
On the Marunouchi Line last night, as we make our way towards downtown for a Friday-night-in-Tokyo-date-night, we continue chatting. Let's make one thing clear: Skype cannot and does not replace what live, in-person chatting accomplishes. I'm grateful for Skype. Don't get me wrong. While my husband and I e-mail daily, it's the multi-hour Skype chats that keep us connected. Sitting in the subway, however, I'm reminded how much of this personal connection is missed when we talk laptop-to-laptop.
I bring up (again) the fact I can't say how long I'm going to be here.
"I know," he replies. "I knew that when you left."
I know he knows. But, but, I need to hear it again. I need to make sure he's okay with this no-end-date-in-sight reality. I also need to know how and why he's okay with it. I need to hear it again.
"When we sat in that coffee shop in Ofunato the other day," he begins, "and that spider started dropping towards my head you immediately freaked out, right?"
"Right."
"You got this box of tissues and you were adamant I should get rid of it."
Of course. It's a spider. It probably has fangs.
"That's how I know you haven't changed."
Evidently, I looked confused.
"That's the spiders-are-evil part of you that came out right then and there. Things like that make me realize you're still you."
Okay.
"Then, an hour later, you take me to this apartment building in Rikuzentakata that looked like it had been bombed." He leaned in as he told me this. "You did that as if it was no big deal."
I don't get where he's going.
"So, see. You've changed. Part of you still hates spiders, but there's another part of you now that has a purpose. You were bored with the past several jobs you had back home. You did them and did them well, but you were bored. Here," and now he laughs, "you're anything but bored." He sat back then, as if he'd made his point clearly, taking another sip of his tea. "I like that. The ways you're changing--they're good changes. That's how I know you're okay here. So long as you're changing in ways that make you grow, make you do new things, give you a purpose, so long as you're doing that you should stay. It's when you tell me spiders no longer freak you out that I'll worry."
Evidently that's it. Evidently, for him, it's as simple as that. I decide to take him at his word.
This is the kind of support that keeps me going. I couldn't and wouldn't stay without it. I still don't know how long I'll stay in Japan, but my husband's words warm me up. I hit the jackpot with this man--that he's fine with not knowing (so long as I'm growing) feeds my soul.
Thirty minutes on a train and I realize all over again how lucky I am. Gratitude on a Friday night: a lovely way to start a date.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Gone Native
I'm out with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan. He's good company as usual. I'm at ease. With him, I feel safe. I can be myself. One of the consequences of being this relaxed is that I speak freely. I don't edit. I don't think before I speak.
Which is why the word "consequences" is so appropriate. Somewhere in the conversation with Alpha Male I evidently said, "Why's that?" It came out naturally. It went downhill from there. Sort of.
"What did you say?" He's driving so he doesn't look at me.
"I said, 'Why's that?' Why?"
"Say that again?" He's smirking. Instantly, I'm annoyed. What? I'm not enunciating?
"I said..." and before I can finish, he says "'Why's that?' Right?' You think you said, 'Why's that?' Right?"
I'm not amused. What is this? I think I said? I know what I said. I said....
And then it hits me. Ohhhhh. I did it. It happened. I spoke using the Tohoku dialect. I did say "Why's that?" but I said it Tohoku-style. No one outside of Tohoku would ever say it that way. It actually doesn't even make grammatical sense. It's not technically Japanese, except that it is for those in Tohoku. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I look over at him about to concede, confessing this country-bumpkin dialect has now crept into my vocabulary when I see he's trying ever so hard not to laugh out loud. I decide right there not to concede. It is funny. Yes. But, far be it from me to let him have any fun at my expense, I get defensive. Except, I don't know what to say. No quick retorts today.
"What?" he says. I still say nothing.
"Oh, come on." I'm still silent. I've honestly got nothing.
"Are you mad?" and now he's not actually asking but more insinuating I'm being unreasonable, albeit possibly, could it be? Does he think I'm being cute?
"I'm not mad," and now I'm the one trying to keep a straight face.
"You're pouting." He laughs, guffaws actually, and I'm afraid we're going to crash.
"Watch out!" Instantly my hand shoots straight out hitting the glove box, propping myself as if I'll be safe if this way.
"Sorry." He swerves, avoiding a moped.
We're silent again, both still half-smirking, half-smirk-hiding.
"You gotta admit, it's pretty funny," I hear.
Instead of defending myself, possibly even complimenting myself for being able to sound like a true Tohokuite I say, "It just popped out! What am I going to do? Honestly? I can't even tell when I'm using the Tohoku dialect? It's that natural now? Oh no.....Who else have I said this around?" It's funny. I get it. Except, it's not. Alpha Male is laughing again.
"I think it's a good sign."
"Good sign?" Indignant, I fly off the handle.
"Good sign? It just popped out! Seriously! I didn't even know I said it until you pointed it out. I don't speak standard Japanese any more? This is not good! What am I going to do?" He's still laughing.
"Look," he says, "It is funny. Everyone knows you're working up there. It's natural you'd..." and he laughs all over again. "Sorry," he says. Is he crying? He's wiping the corner of his eye. Come on. It's not that funny. "Sorry," he says again, trying to sound normal. Then it hits me.
"You know," I start. "It's true." I tell him the following story.
"I was out to dinner with a bunch of guys from Ofunato, and they asked me what I wanted to eat. So I said, 'I'll start with sashimi,' at which point they all laughed." Alpha Male is laughing again. I know why.
"I said to them, 'What?' and they said, 'You've gone native,' and I was totally confused. I asked what they meant and they said, 'That's how we'd say it in Tohoku.'" I continued to explain to Alpha Male how they'd corrected my Japanese, giving me instructions on how people in Tokyo would say "I'll start with sashimi" and while I knew the difference, I had no idea the way I said it was Tohoku-style. "So, it's true. Evidently, I now have enough of a Tohoku dialect that I don't even know I'm using it." I ponder this for a moment. Is this a problem? Evidently guessing what I was thinking, Alpha Male says, "That's a good thing."
"Is it?"
"Sure. It means you really have gone native."
"But, when I'm in Tokyo..."
"No, we get it. I'll bet I'm not the only one who thinks it's..." and here he stops. Is he looking for the right word? Is he about to say, "...who thinks it's cute"?
"It's not cute," I finish his thought for him, guessing.
"Yeah. It is. It's good."
So, the consensus is, or so I assume, it's okay for me to speak this way. I'm not sure I believe this, and I'm certainly not sure I like it, but I decide to accept the inevitable; I now have gone native and it's taken as a good thing.
I sure hope it is.
Which is why the word "consequences" is so appropriate. Somewhere in the conversation with Alpha Male I evidently said, "Why's that?" It came out naturally. It went downhill from there. Sort of.
"What did you say?" He's driving so he doesn't look at me.
"I said, 'Why's that?' Why?"
"Say that again?" He's smirking. Instantly, I'm annoyed. What? I'm not enunciating?
"I said..." and before I can finish, he says "'Why's that?' Right?' You think you said, 'Why's that?' Right?"
I'm not amused. What is this? I think I said? I know what I said. I said....
And then it hits me. Ohhhhh. I did it. It happened. I spoke using the Tohoku dialect. I did say "Why's that?" but I said it Tohoku-style. No one outside of Tohoku would ever say it that way. It actually doesn't even make grammatical sense. It's not technically Japanese, except that it is for those in Tohoku. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I look over at him about to concede, confessing this country-bumpkin dialect has now crept into my vocabulary when I see he's trying ever so hard not to laugh out loud. I decide right there not to concede. It is funny. Yes. But, far be it from me to let him have any fun at my expense, I get defensive. Except, I don't know what to say. No quick retorts today.
"What?" he says. I still say nothing.
"Oh, come on." I'm still silent. I've honestly got nothing.
"Are you mad?" and now he's not actually asking but more insinuating I'm being unreasonable, albeit possibly, could it be? Does he think I'm being cute?
"I'm not mad," and now I'm the one trying to keep a straight face.
"You're pouting." He laughs, guffaws actually, and I'm afraid we're going to crash.
"Watch out!" Instantly my hand shoots straight out hitting the glove box, propping myself as if I'll be safe if this way.
"Sorry." He swerves, avoiding a moped.
We're silent again, both still half-smirking, half-smirk-hiding.
"You gotta admit, it's pretty funny," I hear.
Instead of defending myself, possibly even complimenting myself for being able to sound like a true Tohokuite I say, "It just popped out! What am I going to do? Honestly? I can't even tell when I'm using the Tohoku dialect? It's that natural now? Oh no.....Who else have I said this around?" It's funny. I get it. Except, it's not. Alpha Male is laughing again.
"I think it's a good sign."
"Good sign?" Indignant, I fly off the handle.
"Good sign? It just popped out! Seriously! I didn't even know I said it until you pointed it out. I don't speak standard Japanese any more? This is not good! What am I going to do?" He's still laughing.
"Look," he says, "It is funny. Everyone knows you're working up there. It's natural you'd..." and he laughs all over again. "Sorry," he says. Is he crying? He's wiping the corner of his eye. Come on. It's not that funny. "Sorry," he says again, trying to sound normal. Then it hits me.
"You know," I start. "It's true." I tell him the following story.
"I was out to dinner with a bunch of guys from Ofunato, and they asked me what I wanted to eat. So I said, 'I'll start with sashimi,' at which point they all laughed." Alpha Male is laughing again. I know why.
"I said to them, 'What?' and they said, 'You've gone native,' and I was totally confused. I asked what they meant and they said, 'That's how we'd say it in Tohoku.'" I continued to explain to Alpha Male how they'd corrected my Japanese, giving me instructions on how people in Tokyo would say "I'll start with sashimi" and while I knew the difference, I had no idea the way I said it was Tohoku-style. "So, it's true. Evidently, I now have enough of a Tohoku dialect that I don't even know I'm using it." I ponder this for a moment. Is this a problem? Evidently guessing what I was thinking, Alpha Male says, "That's a good thing."
"Is it?"
"Sure. It means you really have gone native."
"But, when I'm in Tokyo..."
"No, we get it. I'll bet I'm not the only one who thinks it's..." and here he stops. Is he looking for the right word? Is he about to say, "...who thinks it's cute"?
"It's not cute," I finish his thought for him, guessing.
"Yeah. It is. It's good."
So, the consensus is, or so I assume, it's okay for me to speak this way. I'm not sure I believe this, and I'm certainly not sure I like it, but I decide to accept the inevitable; I now have gone native and it's taken as a good thing.
I sure hope it is.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Life and Death at 17
I've often said here in Tohoku, the difference between who's a "local" and who's from "away" is pretty drastic. Introductions are peppered with "I'm so-and-so's child" and "my dad owns the such-and-such store." This places people. Pecking order, family feuds, whether or not business transactions will take place, if friendships will be established, these are all set by these pronouncements of placement. Exempt from this, I tell people I am from the outer most layer of the onion.
The onion is comprised first of family, then local block, neighborhood, city, locality, prefecture, region, country, and the rest of the world. I'm from the "outer, outer, outer, outer, outer" layer. The number of "outer"s I say out loud isn't the point. It's more about the fact I'm from "way, way, way out there."
I long ago learned how much of an advantage this is. Locals don't complain as it is, much less to their neighbors. "We're all in the same boat," I've been told, over and over. Everyone here is a victim of disaster in one way or another. I'm not. That I represent the furthest place out people can imagine means I'm safe to complain to. That I can't possibly relate makes it easy to identify me as someone who can listen. Most of all, that I'm anything but a "local" means it's okay to say to me what can't be said to family and friends.
There's another sort of "outsider." There are several locals who have been anointed with this sacred bond of trust. The unwritten credo of not complaining to anyone "from here" is broken, and blatantly at that with these few. Takayuki Niinuma is one of the chosen.
His job description on Facebook is "Mayor of the Night in Ofunato." If you knew him you'd see how perfect this was. He drives a flashy car with tinted windows. He swaggers just a bit. He projects "bad." For those who can't see through to his inner core, he's feared. Shunned. He has a past worthy of this reputation. A trouble-maker in town since he was a kid, his language is coarse. He doesn't mince words. People walk the other way when they see him coming. This makes him, for some, the perfect confidant.
Those who are truly at the bottom, who don't know how to keep going, who've lost the will to go on, who have such tragic stories they can't possibly be real--these people find Taka. The stories people tell him are nightmarish. This is one such story.
The sports center in Rikuzentakata with its large gymnasium was a designated evacuation spot. In the case a tsunami hit the city, residents were to come here. Hundreds of people gathered here a year ago on March 11th to wait out the tsunami warning. No one, no one ever expected the wave to be high enough to flood the gym.
"When the tsunami came, it blew in the front door, water poured in from the second story windows, and next thing they knew everyone who wasn't already dead fought their way up to these beams," Taka tells me.
"This 17-year old girl and her friends, they were all hanging on to these beams on the ceiling. Below them is this whirlpool of water with crap in it. They know if they let go they're dead." I think back to what I saw in the gym when I visited last time, and I start to shake.
"Then the wall blew out." The pressure from the water and the wave continuing to crash in did indeed blow out a wall. "This meant the water that was holding them up, they're hanging onto the beams, right? This water got sucked out through the hole in the wall with real force. People couldn't hang on. Some got swept out along with the pull of the water flowing out, and others clung on for dear life. This girl clung. This girl saw this. She saw all this. There's more. Those who are hanging on just with their hands, they're hanging onto these beams by their hands, right? They're wet. They're freezing. Some couldn't hang on anymore. They started to drop. One by one. They fell down onto the floor of the gym where all this debris was. Her best friend from childhood fell, too. She heard the thuds. She heard them scream. She watched her friend lay on the floor, twitching, bleeding out. Her friend finally died. This girl saw all that."
The reason the girl telling the story survived is another unbelievable tale. While others hung onto the beams with only their hands, she clung on with her hands and feet, her back to the floor. After seeing and hearing everyone else around her fall to their deaths, she made her way down a beam, slithering essentially, moving inch by inch until she reached the end. What the photo doesn't show is that the end of the beam hits a wall, and there's still a three-meter jump to the floor from there. I follow each beam with my eyes, wondering in silent awe how this was possible. Could I do this? To save my own life, could I, would I do this? Or, would I give up? Would I let myself die?
At seventeen, I had boyfriends, snuck out of the dorm at night evading the headmaster that lived next door, riding around on motorcycles avoiding the eyes of any teacher that might be out for a nightly stroll. I played, shopped, sometimes studied, and enjoyed being a teenager. I've wondered over and over what I would be like today if I went through what this girl experienced--at seventeen.
The gym still looks like this, today, 16 months after the tsunami. I'm not allowed into the gym but ignore the "Do Not Enter" signs. These images need recording. These stories need repeating. Unimaginable pain and horror experienced by this 17-year old girl brings me to my knees.
That she sought out Taka to tell her story is a testament to his stature. The trust she placed in him to unburden herself, to sob, to say she will never ever go back to Rikuzentakata is all a gift he has, "bad" as he may be. In telling me these stories he's unburdening himself as well. By writing this, I'm letting my grief out, too. Here in Tohoku we support each other as the rings of friendship expand overlapping from person to person. This is a key reason I'm here. For this, I'll stay.
The onion is comprised first of family, then local block, neighborhood, city, locality, prefecture, region, country, and the rest of the world. I'm from the "outer, outer, outer, outer, outer" layer. The number of "outer"s I say out loud isn't the point. It's more about the fact I'm from "way, way, way out there."
I long ago learned how much of an advantage this is. Locals don't complain as it is, much less to their neighbors. "We're all in the same boat," I've been told, over and over. Everyone here is a victim of disaster in one way or another. I'm not. That I represent the furthest place out people can imagine means I'm safe to complain to. That I can't possibly relate makes it easy to identify me as someone who can listen. Most of all, that I'm anything but a "local" means it's okay to say to me what can't be said to family and friends.
There's another sort of "outsider." There are several locals who have been anointed with this sacred bond of trust. The unwritten credo of not complaining to anyone "from here" is broken, and blatantly at that with these few. Takayuki Niinuma is one of the chosen.
His job description on Facebook is "Mayor of the Night in Ofunato." If you knew him you'd see how perfect this was. He drives a flashy car with tinted windows. He swaggers just a bit. He projects "bad." For those who can't see through to his inner core, he's feared. Shunned. He has a past worthy of this reputation. A trouble-maker in town since he was a kid, his language is coarse. He doesn't mince words. People walk the other way when they see him coming. This makes him, for some, the perfect confidant.
Those who are truly at the bottom, who don't know how to keep going, who've lost the will to go on, who have such tragic stories they can't possibly be real--these people find Taka. The stories people tell him are nightmarish. This is one such story.
The sports center in Rikuzentakata with its large gymnasium was a designated evacuation spot. In the case a tsunami hit the city, residents were to come here. Hundreds of people gathered here a year ago on March 11th to wait out the tsunami warning. No one, no one ever expected the wave to be high enough to flood the gym.
"When the tsunami came, it blew in the front door, water poured in from the second story windows, and next thing they knew everyone who wasn't already dead fought their way up to these beams," Taka tells me.
"Then the wall blew out." The pressure from the water and the wave continuing to crash in did indeed blow out a wall. "This meant the water that was holding them up, they're hanging onto the beams, right? This water got sucked out through the hole in the wall with real force. People couldn't hang on. Some got swept out along with the pull of the water flowing out, and others clung on for dear life. This girl clung. This girl saw this. She saw all this. There's more. Those who are hanging on just with their hands, they're hanging onto these beams by their hands, right? They're wet. They're freezing. Some couldn't hang on anymore. They started to drop. One by one. They fell down onto the floor of the gym where all this debris was. Her best friend from childhood fell, too. She heard the thuds. She heard them scream. She watched her friend lay on the floor, twitching, bleeding out. Her friend finally died. This girl saw all that."
The reason the girl telling the story survived is another unbelievable tale. While others hung onto the beams with only their hands, she clung on with her hands and feet, her back to the floor. After seeing and hearing everyone else around her fall to their deaths, she made her way down a beam, slithering essentially, moving inch by inch until she reached the end. What the photo doesn't show is that the end of the beam hits a wall, and there's still a three-meter jump to the floor from there. I follow each beam with my eyes, wondering in silent awe how this was possible. Could I do this? To save my own life, could I, would I do this? Or, would I give up? Would I let myself die?
At seventeen, I had boyfriends, snuck out of the dorm at night evading the headmaster that lived next door, riding around on motorcycles avoiding the eyes of any teacher that might be out for a nightly stroll. I played, shopped, sometimes studied, and enjoyed being a teenager. I've wondered over and over what I would be like today if I went through what this girl experienced--at seventeen.
That she sought out Taka to tell her story is a testament to his stature. The trust she placed in him to unburden herself, to sob, to say she will never ever go back to Rikuzentakata is all a gift he has, "bad" as he may be. In telling me these stories he's unburdening himself as well. By writing this, I'm letting my grief out, too. Here in Tohoku we support each other as the rings of friendship expand overlapping from person to person. This is a key reason I'm here. For this, I'll stay.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
"I'll protect you."
The innocence of babes, of children who do not know the impact their words have, is something we've all likely experienced. Facebook postings are riddled with the comments our children make, heartwarming, uplifting, genuinely kind, and unprompted. We're proud parents when we share our children's words. It's beautiful. It's love in its purest form. I firmly believe these acts of kindness bear repeating. Often is better.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
How Urban Legends Begin
Insomnia is my latest night-time companion, and one I'm not particularly fond of. In Ofunato, Insomnia (I feel I need to refer to him/her as a person) is more of a problem, as there's no noise at night. This is a problem for me. Tokyo nights are filled with traffic noises, sirens, and the occasional loud quarrel. In Ofunato, there's no noise. That means I hear everything.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
No Shame in Asking
Over the past 14 months, I've become pretty good at asking for favors. Not for me, mind you. With each trip to Tohoku, with each story I hear, I think of ways to give a little something to those I meet, those who've lost so much.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Seasons: Cycles and Circles
The more time I spend in Tohoku, the more aware I become of the differences between men and women. There's nothing wrong with these differences, per se. My observations are just that: I notice the subtle nuances, changes in behavior and expectations, scene after scene in how these traits are played out.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
Monday, May 21, 2012
"We needed to keep her alive."
Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources.
In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato. I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers. I have an appointment with him next week. More on this in a moment.
We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do. It's lovely. I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.
"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely. He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved. I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him. He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.
Her friend was a student of hers. "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata." Now I'm confused. Her friend was washed away? As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived? I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it. Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people. Hence my confusion. She was "washed away" and then treated later?
"It was a miracle," my friend says.
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake. The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami. The woman was at home with her three children. After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape.
"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says. "Bad luck, you know?" I nod. "She had to turn the car around. By that time, the water engulfed the car. The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it. My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet. That's the last thing she remembers."
The woman survived. All six of them were tossed out of the car. She was found later, the only one breathing. Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.
"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law. Six people. Everyone in her family. She's the only one who survived." I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?" I'm not sure I would.
"I know. I know. Right? We needed to keep her alive. We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend. Here again; women helping women.
"She's not doing well now. It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve. It's not good. She's not well. At all."
Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.
The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."
The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon. The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach. We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain.
Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories. And repeat them.
In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato. I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers. I have an appointment with him next week. More on this in a moment.
We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do. It's lovely. I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.
"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely. He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved. I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him. He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.
Her friend was a student of hers. "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata." Now I'm confused. Her friend was washed away? As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived? I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it. Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people. Hence my confusion. She was "washed away" and then treated later?
"It was a miracle," my friend says.
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake. The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami. The woman was at home with her three children. After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape.
"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says. "Bad luck, you know?" I nod. "She had to turn the car around. By that time, the water engulfed the car. The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it. My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet. That's the last thing she remembers."
The woman survived. All six of them were tossed out of the car. She was found later, the only one breathing. Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.
"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law. Six people. Everyone in her family. She's the only one who survived." I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?" I'm not sure I would.
"I know. I know. Right? We needed to keep her alive. We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend. Here again; women helping women.
"She's not doing well now. It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve. It's not good. She's not well. At all."
Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.
The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."
The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon. The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach. We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain.
Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories. And repeat them.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
The Scent of Love
Whether we have five or six senses is not the point today. The most important sense for me growing up has been scent. I'm fascinated by it. It matters. Not having the words to articulate what draws me to Tohoku again and again, I'm at a loss. Do I credit scent or something else I can't put my finger on? Let me explain.
I'm in love. With my husband, yes. I love my family, yes. I also have a new love. This new love does not compete with my love for those back home. It adds to it.
I don't know how else to say it. There's something here in Tohoku that keeps pulling me back. Yes, the scent here is different than anywhere else. The freshness of the air, the ocean, the crispness of the mountains immediately behind the sea with its musk and earthy smell, it culminates in a scent the nostrils cannot pick up. It hits my psyche. It goes straight to my soul.
The 12-year old me would get on a bus by myself and make my way downtown to buy my favorite shampoo and conditioner. It was the scent that made me want to travel 30 minutes into town by myself. That's how important it was to me. I still remember the scent of my mother's compact, tucked away in a drawer in her dresser. The bejeweled golden case made me think this is what Marie Antoinette or Mata Hari must have used. It was beautiful. The scent, however, is what drew me back to sneak a peak at it, powdering my nose and hoping my mother would not notice.
In Tohoku, there is a power that transcends my favorite sense. A vortex of goodness? Perhaps. Every trip I make to Rikuzentakata City Hall has me wondering what it is about the employees there who are so genuinely happy. What is about the people of Ofunato that make them exude happiness? What does this place have? What is it?
I choose to assume it's something in the air. That the people breathe it day in, day out, it must does do something to them. Their desire to move forward, their drive, motivation, resolve--it must come from somewhere. Does breathing fresh air, the scent of purity, make people happy? Why don't other cities far removed from large metropolitan areas also share this same trait then? Why don't people there ooze this same joie de vivre?
Whatever it is, I'm hooked. The scent of love is entrenched in my nostrils. For that, I'm grateful. It fuels me. Next step is to harness this scent and make a new perfume out of it. My to-do list just got longer. Again.
I'm in love. With my husband, yes. I love my family, yes. I also have a new love. This new love does not compete with my love for those back home. It adds to it.
I don't know how else to say it. There's something here in Tohoku that keeps pulling me back. Yes, the scent here is different than anywhere else. The freshness of the air, the ocean, the crispness of the mountains immediately behind the sea with its musk and earthy smell, it culminates in a scent the nostrils cannot pick up. It hits my psyche. It goes straight to my soul.
The 12-year old me would get on a bus by myself and make my way downtown to buy my favorite shampoo and conditioner. It was the scent that made me want to travel 30 minutes into town by myself. That's how important it was to me. I still remember the scent of my mother's compact, tucked away in a drawer in her dresser. The bejeweled golden case made me think this is what Marie Antoinette or Mata Hari must have used. It was beautiful. The scent, however, is what drew me back to sneak a peak at it, powdering my nose and hoping my mother would not notice.
In Tohoku, there is a power that transcends my favorite sense. A vortex of goodness? Perhaps. Every trip I make to Rikuzentakata City Hall has me wondering what it is about the employees there who are so genuinely happy. What is about the people of Ofunato that make them exude happiness? What does this place have? What is it?
I choose to assume it's something in the air. That the people breathe it day in, day out, it must does do something to them. Their desire to move forward, their drive, motivation, resolve--it must come from somewhere. Does breathing fresh air, the scent of purity, make people happy? Why don't other cities far removed from large metropolitan areas also share this same trait then? Why don't people there ooze this same joie de vivre?
Whatever it is, I'm hooked. The scent of love is entrenched in my nostrils. For that, I'm grateful. It fuels me. Next step is to harness this scent and make a new perfume out of it. My to-do list just got longer. Again.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Working Mothers: Part 2
"My husband said, 'You've changed,'" and she looks at me for a response.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.
I just did the math last night. A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience. So, yes. I've changed, too.
The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother. She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house. You know. Wifely things." What comes to mind immediately is her energy level. Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day. Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite. Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.
My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions. I much preferred to complain. Energy? I have plenty of that. Right?
Wrong. Mothers are more often than not right. I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite. I often tap my reserves. Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.
Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us. My respect increases with every visit. The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength. To say they can handle anything is not fair. It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met. I want to learn from these Tohoku women. How do I harness their energy? Is there a secret? There must be. If so, what is it? Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?"
With each visit I have more questions than answers. Sometimes this is daunting. At times, it's invigorating. On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers. They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it. I'm determined to find out what it is.
"Have you?" I put the question back to her.
"Yes, I have," and we both ponder this for a few moments.
I just did the math last night. A year ago today I arrived in Tokyo to come up north, an area completely devastated by the tsunami, to begin what has ended up being a life-changing experience. So, yes. I've changed, too.
The woman telling me she's changed is also a working mother. She volunteers from 9-5, then goes home to "Do laundry, make dinner, clean the house. You know. Wifely things." What comes to mind immediately is her energy level. Physical stamina is a must for all women who work outside the home, and then come home to continue Part 2 of their day. Mental and emotional energy is also a prerequisite. Add to this the fact the women I'm meeting live with daily reminders of how their lives were turned upside down over a year ago, I marvel at how they find the energy.
My mother used to tell me to "not spend energy on that" when I would complain about the latest injustice I faced, or the unfairness of someone's words or actions. I much preferred to complain. Energy? I have plenty of that. Right?
Wrong. Mothers are more often than not right. I am now keenly aware of the fact my energy level is definitely finite. I often tap my reserves. Knowing this is not a good thing, I have yet to figure out how to work with the energy I do have.
Working mothers in Tohoku face an entirely different set of issues than the rest of us. My respect increases with every visit. The more women I meet, the more I am aware of their collective strength. To say they can handle anything is not fair. It is, however, I believe a fair statement to make that women here cave less frequently than others I've met. I want to learn from these Tohoku women. How do I harness their energy? Is there a secret? There must be. If so, what is it? Do I dare just come right out and ask, "How do you keep going?"
With each visit I have more questions than answers. Sometimes this is daunting. At times, it's invigorating. On this visit, I resolve to learn more about working mothers. They have a secret, the answers to my questions; I know it. I'm determined to find out what it is.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Working Mothers: Part 1
Surely there will come a day when I learn not to chip my nail polish two days after getting a new coat of color. To date, that day has not yet arrived. Monday morning, rushing to the train station to make my way up to Ofunato, I stuck my hand in my purse looking for the train ticket that always seems to disappear. My pointer finger hit something. I pull my hand out looking at the nail, and sure enough. Big chunk of color missing. I curse.
On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato. I haven't recorded it. Of course. I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail. Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?" The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry! I'm all booked tomorrow!" While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased. She's busy. This is great news. I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty. We've had bad news for such a long time, you know? I've sat here and listened to women from all over. We've cried together. We've laughed, too." Here she looks up at me and we both smile.
That she's booked s a good thing. Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty. She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown. The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.
The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger. I must keep snagging it on something. My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working. I smudge everything I touch. I decide to beg.
"I promise I'll do it myself even. I just need the color. Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow. We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon. What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again.
Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me. The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"
Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain. It's the word for the English language.
"I am," I reply. "I'm English." She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her. Crap. This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles. As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me. Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time? Your day's done, isn't it? I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no. It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight. As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams. I start singing with her. Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody. Then she starts counting to ten. I count with her.
My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection. I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick. You need to go, don't you?"
The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies.
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter. He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor. The black and white checker design is bold.
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend. "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really? It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is. Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know. You're good. It works. It suits you."
Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs." The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.
"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say.
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal. I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one. You want to try?" Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder. I'll bet you can say it though. You ready?" They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait. The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh. She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says. "That's easy." Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers. They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know. Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."
I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again. I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.
On the train, I look through the numbers in my phone looking for the woman who runs a nail salon in Ofunato. I haven't recorded it. Of course. I send her a message on Facebook.
"I just need you to fix one nail. Can you please squeeze me in tomorrow?" The message I get several hours later contains bad news.
"I'm so sorry! I'm all booked tomorrow!" While I'm surprised, I'm also pleased. She's busy. This is great news. I think back to the first time we met.
"Women here want to be pretty. We've had bad news for such a long time, you know? I've sat here and listened to women from all over. We've cried together. We've laughed, too." Here she looks up at me and we both smile.
That she's booked s a good thing. Women here evidently are serious about wanting to be pretty. She now has a new nail salon in one of the temporary, pre-fab business units downtown. The last time we met, she was running the salon out of her living room.
The portion of my nail showing through from under the chipped color is now larger. I must keep snagging it on something. My attempts to fill in the missing color with lipstick are not working. I smudge everything I touch. I decide to beg.
"I promise I'll do it myself even. I just need the color. Can I please come over some time?"
Her reply is full of emoticons with various smiles and giggles.
"Come over after 5 tomorrow. We'll make it work."
I thank her profusely and later in the afternoon make my way to her new salon. What awaited me there made me respect this woman all over again.
Walking into the salon with lavender walls, white molding, and black metal mesh separating the room in half, three small children run towards me. The three-year old girl stops suddenly, looks up at me and says, "You're English?"
Her word for English is not the Japanese word describing those from Great Britain. It's the word for the English language.
"I am," I reply. "I'm English." She looks up at her mother, the woman I came to see, and says, "Mama, she's English."
I say hello to my friend, realizing her working day is done, and that she stayed late just for me, her kids along with her. Crap. This is not good.
"Come in, come in," and she's all smiles. As usual.
The three-year old tags along behind me, and takes a seat at the nail booth next to mine, eyes still on me. Her mother and I look at my chipped nail, agreeing I get a new color on all fingers.
"Do you really have the time? Your day's done, isn't it? I'm so sorry I made you stay late."
"No, no. It's fine."
I settle into the chair, and look towards the two girls, the three-year old and her older sister, maybe eight. As mama takes my nail polish off one finger at a time, the evidently not at all shy three-year starts singing the Alphabet Song.
"You speak English!" I say, and she beams. I start singing with her. Around "G" her letters start sounding the same, and she's inserting plain old foreign-sounding noises as she sings along with the melody. Then she starts counting to ten. I count with her.
My friend asks me what color I want, and we look through the selection. I choose one, pay her, and tell her, "Let's make this quick. You need to go, don't you?"
The little boy, maybe 20-months or so, comes over to his mother with a bag of cookies.
"Open this for him," she tells the oldest daughter. He fills his mouth with cookies, spilling crumbs over the floor. The black and white checker design is bold.
"I love your carpet," I tell my friend. "The floor in my kitchen back home is like this, too."
"Really? It's pretty wild, isn't it?"
"It is. Not just anyone could pull this off."
"Especially not anyone here," she grins, and I laugh along with her.
"I know. You're good. It works. It suits you."
Mama says to the girl eating animal crackers, "Get the vacuum cleaner out and sweep up these crumbs." The boy takes over the vacuuming, pushing and pulling the little machine all over the room.
"What's this?" The three-year old holds up a cracker shaped like a bear.
"Bear," I say.
"Beaaaaa," she repeats.
"Yes!"
"Jes," is what I hear from her mouth full of crackers.
"This?" The older one holds up an animal. I can't tell what it is.
"What is that?"
"Porcupine," she tells me.
"Oh, that's a hard one. You want to try?" Both girls nod.
"Por-cu-pine" I say slowly.
"Popupi," or something like this, comes from the three-year old.
"How about this?" and I next see a hippo.
"That's even harder. I'll bet you can say it though. You ready?" They nod again.
"Hippo-pa-ta-mus" and I wait. The three-year old, undaunted, comes back with "hipo-papapa," and we all laugh. She smiles, too.
"You can just say 'hippo.'"
"Hippo," she says. "That's easy." Proud.
We go through the rest of the animals in the bag of crackers. They marvel at how many animals have English names they already know. Lion, pelican, panda.
"You know," I say, my nails done, "You both know a lot of English."
I'm serenaded by the two girls singing the Alphabet Song again as I take my leave.
This working mother in Ofunato has my respect all over again. I vow to work on developing skills to not chip my nail polish, lest I need another emergency color fix.
追悼式
喪中の意を象徴する黒の服に身をつつんで、男性女性、少年少女、あらゆる年齢や背景の人々が、追悼式会場となっている大きなコンクリート建物に入ってくる。大勢の人たちがいるにもかかわらず、コンサート会場は静寂につつまれている。中に入ると、菊で出来た大きな花輪が私を出迎える。私たちが懇親にしている市議会議員が会場内にいて、私の腕をとると受付に案内してくれる。
受付では「お住まいの市町村名と、あなたのお名前をお願いします。」と、黒い服を着た若い男性に聞かれる。東京と言う代わりに「ボストン」と伝える。両方とも私の故郷であるから、実質的に嘘をいったことにはならない。
ここ数日間、町で見かけた人たちが立ち止まって深々とおじぎをする。私が出席したことに感謝してくれている。おじぎを返し、「もちろん、お伺いさせていただきました。今日、他の場所にいることなど考えられません。」と答えると、相手は笑顔を返してくれる。私も微笑を返す。
特別招待者やスピーチ予定者以外の一般参加者は二階席に座る。二階へ行き、座ってからステージを見おろす。ステージ中央には木製の大きな長方形の柱が建っていて、どことなく墓石を思い出させる。「東日本大震災で亡くなった方々のご冥福を祈って。」柱を囲んでさらにたくさんの菊。黄色に白、上品だがシンプルな飾りつけ。これがステージほぼ全体を埋めつくしている。
来賓たちが会場を埋めていく。私が知っている顔もいる。式は１０時きっかりに始まる。まずは黙祷。全員が起立しておじぎ、一階最前列右のコーナーに席をとっているマスコミ陣のカメラシャッター音を覗いては物音ひとつしない。このシャッター音については複雑な感情がある。彼らも黙祷すべきではないんだろうか。犠牲者に敬意を払うことよりも、よい写真を撮ることのほうが大切なんだろうか。
役員たちのスピーチは大体似たようなものだ。市長、知事、市議会議長、復興庁代表者、皆がとても政治的で形式的。それも悪くはない。ただ、感情に訴えるスピーチではない。
そして、遺族代表の言葉。彼と以前会ったような気がするが思い出せない。彼は起立して、参列者全員に向かっておじぎ、ステージに向かっておじぎ、ステージに向かって歩いていきさらにおじぎをする。そして、スピーチを読み始める。
彼は震災で妻と母親を失った。地震が襲った後、自宅に戻り母親に高台へ逃げるようにうながした。そして、二階へ駆け上がり、妻にも早く逃げるように伝えた。ここで、彼の声がつまる。すこし間をおいてから、消防団の仲間の元へもどろうとする彼を、妻が涙のたまった目で見上げながら「気をつけて」といったことを話す。
母親は高台への避難が間に合わなかった。妻もそうだ。よく家をあけていたことを二人に対して申し訳ないと思う、と言って誤っている。彼ひとりを残していなくなってしまうことを二人が気にかけていることもよく分かっている、とも言う。「二人に会いたい。」彼はスピーチの途中に何度も呼吸を整え、声がつまらないようにする。でも、やっぱり声がつまってしまう。聞いている皆が、彼が泣いていることを知っている。
参列者も皆泣いている。鼻をすすり上げるのが聞こえる。私の前にいる男性三人の背中を見つめると、涙を拭いているのが分かる。自分も声出して泣き出さないように気持ちを抑えようとするが、呼吸が出来ない。呼吸困難になったのかと思い、ゆっくり息をする。ゆっくり吐いて。吸って。また吐いて。
そして献花。参列者ひとりずつに花一本がくばられる。参列者は千人以上。全員に花が配られるのにどのくらい時間がかかるのだろう、と思いながら、バルコニーから見下ろしていると、驚くほどの速さで人々が動いていくのが見える。私も階下におりて前方にすすみ、白手袋をはめた女性から花を受け取り、ステージへ持っていき、おじぎをしてから、綺麗につみあげられてある花の山に自分の花を置く。
こうして追悼式が終わり、大きな花輪のほうへ向かって歩いていくと、そこに首相から贈られたものがあるのに気付く。会場を出るときに市長に挨拶すると、市長も微笑みながら挨拶をする。
確かに疲れた。でも、重荷のような疲れではない。そして、何より、自分が東北支援に貢献したいことを改めて強く感じている。
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
What's on TV in Tohoku
Having relied on my computer-guru husband for all things electronic for the past twenty years, I've evidently become quite the techno-dud. Case in point: I can't get my television to work. Now that I'm back in Ofunato and have a television at my disposal, I'm watching. I call it research. Getting caught up on local news is an important part of my information gathering. I'm more surprised than not by what I'm seeing.
Two things strike me immediately. First, the commercials are anything like what I've seen on television in Tokyo (when I actually have access to TV). In the past thirty minutes, the commercials have shown the following: a cemetery plot in a nature park (twice), a new apartment complex inland, a vegetable-delivery service (twice), a pharmaceutical company ad, and a car dealership. There are the requisite coffee commercials, sports drinks, cosmetics, and ramen ads interspersed among the more locally relevant services being provided. The former list is unique to Tohoku, or so I'm guessing. Cemeteries for those who are no longer here, an apartment inland far away from the coast, fresh vegetables unlike those under suspicion, new or used cars for those whose were washed away. These commercials are airing a year after the tsunami?
I have yet to see a commercial in Tokyo advertising a cemetery. Or a we'll-make-sure-your-vegetables-are-safe promotion, targeting the fear of--dare I assume--radiation in locally grown produce?
Then there are the news programs highlighting areas hit by last year's tsunami. The news is, for the most part, not uplifting. The focus is on how much any given town was destroyed, how slow-going the recovery is, mayoral meetings discussing who can assist whom, damaged buildings and hospitals, the continued need for medical expertise (actually mentioning PTSD).
It's been over a year since the tsunami hit destroying city after city, town after town. Surely there's a feel-good story out there. I'm baffled by why there isn't more focus on these. If depression is an ongoing concern here, then why continue to focus on the negative?
Then I heard it. "It will be almost a year since the great disaster." What? They're airing a tear-jerker story from several months ago? Are the reporters on strike? Did the editors play the wrong clip? What's going on?
This is followed by Richard Gere hugging a kid as he drinks a bottle of Orangina. That's followed by an ad for the new show "Let's Make Tohoku Happy" starting April 7th. So there is good news. I'm baffled all over again as to why the focus on the negative, all while images of Richard Gere run through my brain.
Television content in Tohoku is not what I expected. I decide to continue my "research" and vow to keep monitoring the news and commercials to see what those around me are watching. Perhaps someone here can help me make sense of the negativity and commercials unlike those in Tokyo.
Two things strike me immediately. First, the commercials are anything like what I've seen on television in Tokyo (when I actually have access to TV). In the past thirty minutes, the commercials have shown the following: a cemetery plot in a nature park (twice), a new apartment complex inland, a vegetable-delivery service (twice), a pharmaceutical company ad, and a car dealership. There are the requisite coffee commercials, sports drinks, cosmetics, and ramen ads interspersed among the more locally relevant services being provided. The former list is unique to Tohoku, or so I'm guessing. Cemeteries for those who are no longer here, an apartment inland far away from the coast, fresh vegetables unlike those under suspicion, new or used cars for those whose were washed away. These commercials are airing a year after the tsunami?
I have yet to see a commercial in Tokyo advertising a cemetery. Or a we'll-make-sure-your-vegetables-are-safe promotion, targeting the fear of--dare I assume--radiation in locally grown produce?
Then there are the news programs highlighting areas hit by last year's tsunami. The news is, for the most part, not uplifting. The focus is on how much any given town was destroyed, how slow-going the recovery is, mayoral meetings discussing who can assist whom, damaged buildings and hospitals, the continued need for medical expertise (actually mentioning PTSD).
It's been over a year since the tsunami hit destroying city after city, town after town. Surely there's a feel-good story out there. I'm baffled by why there isn't more focus on these. If depression is an ongoing concern here, then why continue to focus on the negative?
Then I heard it. "It will be almost a year since the great disaster." What? They're airing a tear-jerker story from several months ago? Are the reporters on strike? Did the editors play the wrong clip? What's going on?
This is followed by Richard Gere hugging a kid as he drinks a bottle of Orangina. That's followed by an ad for the new show "Let's Make Tohoku Happy" starting April 7th. So there is good news. I'm baffled all over again as to why the focus on the negative, all while images of Richard Gere run through my brain.
Television content in Tohoku is not what I expected. I decide to continue my "research" and vow to keep monitoring the news and commercials to see what those around me are watching. Perhaps someone here can help me make sense of the negativity and commercials unlike those in Tokyo.
Monday, March 12, 2012
The Long Black Coat
"We knew it was you when you were at the other end of the block." One of the socialite women I'm taking up north says to me as I hand her husband my bag that has created permanent creases in my hand.
"Oh?" I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me. None. Right? Of course they knew it was me.
"How did you know it was me?" I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat. It's too long." And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in. "It's not too long. It's just very long. None of us in Tokyo dress like that." Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag. "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds. "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me. "You look nice. Very east coast America. Very New York. Very Boston. Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent. My confusion is still with me. They evidently now pick up on it.
"But, it's good," I'm reassured. I decide to believe them.
Or so I thought. One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center. The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato. They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals. I was their tour guide.
Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books. It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side. The kids have long since stopped listening. I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me. I just brought them here. They're the ones bringing books. I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san. You speak, too."
I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice. They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back. I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food." And then it happens. One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing. I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher. The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap. Everyone laughs. I'm mortified.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.
This is a first. I'm stunned. I made a girl cry? Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium? And spoke English? Wow. This has really, truly never happened before.
We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry." More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?" Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat. It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.
Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this. At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip.
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first. I high five, pat heads, smile. And then I hear it. Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."
Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan. Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos." Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?" I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.
For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire. (I did actually put thought into this.) None of my other coats would have been appropriate. My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again. All this over a coat! Living in learning in Japan. Still. One day at a time.
"Oh?" I say, but wonder to myself how many foreign women there were on the sidewalk along side me. None. Right? Of course they knew it was me.
"How did you know it was me?" I'm supposed to ask this so I do.
"Your coat. It's too long." And, just like that, I'm totally confused.
"No, no, no," her friend cuts in. "It's not too long. It's just very long. None of us in Tokyo dress like that." Okay.
"Look at me," the president says, holding my bag. "I'm dressed in Uniqlo, top to bottom."
"You don't count," his wife scolds. "We're talking about women's clothes," and laughs.
"Don't get me wrong," she says, turning to me. "You look nice. Very east coast America. Very New York. Very Boston. Right?" She asks some of the other women around us.
"Right."
"Yes."
"Most definitely."
I'm still confused.
"You don't wear long black coats?"
"Oh no."
"No, no, no."
"No."
The answers are consistent. My confusion is still with me. They evidently now pick up on it.
Or so I thought. One of my classic "I-spoke-too-soon" moments came later that afternoon when we were all visiting a day care center. The women gathered over 700 books to donate throughout Ofunato. They drove up to deliver these in person, and to get to know some of the locals. I was their tour guide.
Seven women (all older than me) are standing in front of the auditorium filled with children, telling the kids why they brought books. It's been awhile since they had kids this age, and their speeches are a bit on the dry side. The kids have long since stopped listening. I'm standing over to the side because this isn't about me. I just brought them here. They're the ones bringing books. I'm looking at the kids and wondering about the little boy with very little hair, wondering if he's sick when one of the women says, "Amya-san. You speak, too."
I walk up to the middle of the stage, take the mic, step forward a few steps and say, "Hello," in my calmest, most reassuring voice. They kids grin, squirm, squeal, and some say "hello" back. I switch to Japanese, then back to English, then back to Japanese, telling them my name, and that the ladies behind me also brought them "yummy food." And then it happens. One lone voice of heart-breaking sobbing. I look down and in front of me is a girl, absolutely terrified, running over to her teacher. The teacher takes her, and puts her on her lap. Everyone laughs. I'm mortified.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" And then, "I'm not really scary," and the kids (except the crying one) all laugh.
This is a first. I'm stunned. I made a girl cry? Because I'm standing in front of the auditorium? And spoke English? Wow. This has really, truly never happened before.
We're getting ready to leave and Kazu-san, one of my favorite men in town who has done all the leg work to get the women here, grins up at me.
"Oh stop," I say.
"You made her cry." More grinning.
"Ha ha."
"It's your coat," and there again, just like that, I'm confused.
"What's wrong with my coat?" Now I'm defensive.
"Nothing's wrong with your coat. It's just really long and really black."
"So?"
"People here don't wear things like that."
I'm just about to mumble "Evidently no one in Tokyo does either" but decide not to.
Had this been the end of it, I wouldn't have bothered writing this. At the next day care center where we're dropping off more books, I'm suddenly swarmed by kids coming back from a field trip.
"Hello!" I say this time with more cheerfulness, determined not to make anyone cry.
"What's your name?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Have you been to Disneyland?"
I don't know whom to answer first. I high five, pat heads, smile. And then I hear it. Some kid off to the side calls out, "You look like a witch."
Truly, this will be the last time I wear this coat in Japan. Lest we assume it ends there, another kid chimes in, "You look like the ghosts I've seen in photos." Any kid who can be that specific about what I resemble gets a reply.
"I do?"
"Uh-huh."
"Am I scary?" I look down and give, truly truly, my best and biggest smile.
"No," he grins back.
For the record (now I feel after all that I must explain myself), I wore this coat up north on this trip because I was attending memorial services marking the anniversary of the tsunami, and I wanted to be in something resembling mourning attire. (I did actually put thought into this.) None of my other coats would have been appropriate. My long black coat was inappropriate in other ways, but to have it be such a topic of discussion, amusement, fear, and intrigue means I most definitely won't be wearing it in front of kids again. All this over a coat! Living in learning in Japan. Still. One day at a time.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Memorial Service: March 11, 2012
Dressed in black mourning attire, men and women, boys and girls, people of all ages and backgrounds enter the large, concrete building where the memorial service is being held. I'm in Ofunato again. It's quiet in the concert hall even with people milling around. A large display of chrysanthemums greets me as I enter. Our favorite city council member is inside the door, grabs my arm and moves me towards the registration desk.
"Your city and name, please," a young man in black tells me. I decide to put Boston as my city as opposed to Tokyo. I'm from both. Technically, I'm not lying.
People I've seen in town over the past several days stop and bow deep. I'm thanked for attending. I bow back and say, "Of course I'm here. I wouldn't be anywhere else to day." They smile. I smile.
Regular people, not the invited guests and speakers are to sit upstairs. I head up, sit, and look down at the stage. There's a tall, wooden, rectangular pillar in the center of the stage reminding me of a grave stone. "Honoring the souls of those who died in the Great East Earthquake." All around the pillar are more chrysanthemums. Yellow and white, it's an elegant yet simple display. This covers almost the entire stage.
The honored guests file in. I recognize some. The service begins at 10am sharp. First on the agenda is a moment of silence. We all rise, bow, and everything is silent except for the clicking of camera shutters from the press corp cornered into the front right section down below. I'm not sure how I feel about this noise. Don't they need to be silent, too? Does getting a good photo trump paying their respects?
The speeches from the officials all sound the same. The mayor, the governor, the chairman of the city council, an official from the Ministry of Reconstruction sound political and formal. This isn't bad. It's just not touching.
Then comes the representative from the victims' families. I've seen him somewhere before but I can't place him. He stands, bows to the crowd, bows to the stage, walks towards it, bows again. He then starts to read.
He lost his wife and mother. After the earthquake hit, he rushed home and told his mother to get to higher ground. He then went upstairs and told his wife to leave as quickly as possible. Here his voice cracks. Pausing, he says she looked at him with tears in her eyes and told him to be careful as he went to join the fire brigade.
His mother didn't make it to high ground soon enough. Nor did his wife. He apologizes to them for being gone so often. He tells them he knows they feel bad for dying and leaving him behind. He says he misses them. He pauses often, trying to keep his voice calm. It doesn't work. We all know he's crying.
As are those in attendance. I hear sniffles. I look down at the backs of the three men sitting in the row in front of me, and see them quickly wiping tears away. I'm trying not to openly bawl, and find myself not breathing. Worried I'll hyperventilate, I start breathing slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
Then come the flowers. Each person in attendance is allowed to give an offering of a single flower. There are probably 1000 people there. Wondering how long this is going to take, I watch from the balcony and marvel at how quickly people funnel through. I go down to the front and take a flower given to me by a white-gloved woman, take it to the stage, bow and add it to one of the many neatly stacked piles.
Just like that the service is over and we head out past the large displays of flower bouquets, and I see one from the Prime Minister. I bow to the mayor as I exit, and he bows back, smiling.
I'm exhausted, but it's not a burdensome exhaustion. And, after all that, I know I've just committed myself to Tohoku all over again.
"Your city and name, please," a young man in black tells me. I decide to put Boston as my city as opposed to Tokyo. I'm from both. Technically, I'm not lying.
People I've seen in town over the past several days stop and bow deep. I'm thanked for attending. I bow back and say, "Of course I'm here. I wouldn't be anywhere else to day." They smile. I smile.
Regular people, not the invited guests and speakers are to sit upstairs. I head up, sit, and look down at the stage. There's a tall, wooden, rectangular pillar in the center of the stage reminding me of a grave stone. "Honoring the souls of those who died in the Great East Earthquake." All around the pillar are more chrysanthemums. Yellow and white, it's an elegant yet simple display. This covers almost the entire stage.
The honored guests file in. I recognize some. The service begins at 10am sharp. First on the agenda is a moment of silence. We all rise, bow, and everything is silent except for the clicking of camera shutters from the press corp cornered into the front right section down below. I'm not sure how I feel about this noise. Don't they need to be silent, too? Does getting a good photo trump paying their respects?
The speeches from the officials all sound the same. The mayor, the governor, the chairman of the city council, an official from the Ministry of Reconstruction sound political and formal. This isn't bad. It's just not touching.
Then comes the representative from the victims' families. I've seen him somewhere before but I can't place him. He stands, bows to the crowd, bows to the stage, walks towards it, bows again. He then starts to read.
He lost his wife and mother. After the earthquake hit, he rushed home and told his mother to get to higher ground. He then went upstairs and told his wife to leave as quickly as possible. Here his voice cracks. Pausing, he says she looked at him with tears in her eyes and told him to be careful as he went to join the fire brigade.
His mother didn't make it to high ground soon enough. Nor did his wife. He apologizes to them for being gone so often. He tells them he knows they feel bad for dying and leaving him behind. He says he misses them. He pauses often, trying to keep his voice calm. It doesn't work. We all know he's crying.
As are those in attendance. I hear sniffles. I look down at the backs of the three men sitting in the row in front of me, and see them quickly wiping tears away. I'm trying not to openly bawl, and find myself not breathing. Worried I'll hyperventilate, I start breathing slowly. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale again.
Then come the flowers. Each person in attendance is allowed to give an offering of a single flower. There are probably 1000 people there. Wondering how long this is going to take, I watch from the balcony and marvel at how quickly people funnel through. I go down to the front and take a flower given to me by a white-gloved woman, take it to the stage, bow and add it to one of the many neatly stacked piles.
Just like that the service is over and we head out past the large displays of flower bouquets, and I see one from the Prime Minister. I bow to the mayor as I exit, and he bows back, smiling.
I'm exhausted, but it's not a burdensome exhaustion. And, after all that, I know I've just committed myself to Tohoku all over again.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Home (?) again.
It all started the second time I went to Japan last year. The locals whom I had gotten to know well, the gang of men who have taken me in as one of their own, said this to me at different times: "Welcome home." This greeting, reserved and used when someone close comes "home" has been repeated over and over. In fact, every time I go back to Ofunato, indeed every time I go back to Japan, someone says this to me: "Welcome home."
Part two of this happened last night. At a meeting of women here in Boston, I hear it again: "Welcome home."
In Japanese, the word is "okaeri." Mothers say it to their children and husbands as people come home from school and work. I grew up with it. The translation I use is "welcome home" but it could just as easily be "you're back" (with the insinuation that follows "I'm glad you're back"). The concept personifies a lovely combination of politeness and endearment. I like it.
I'm flattered I'm "welcomed back" whenever I return to Japan, and to Ofunato. That people say this to me indicates to me I'm allowed to consider Japan home. What happens then when the same okaeri phrase is used at me in Boston? I'm welcomed home again. So then, where's home?
I've long ago decided home is wherever I am at that time. I can be living out of a suitcase, but for the time I'm there, that's home. I also go home after living out of said suitcase. That's also home. This way of thinking works for me. Convenient? Perhaps. I've learned to adopt and adapt.
So, I'm welcomed home in Boston, and will surely be welcome back once I get back to Japan. It's lovely to have homes all over the place. The ability to consider home as wherever I am at any given moment, and then having that validated by the "welcome back"s I receive whenever I do return--I'm lucky.
Part two of this happened last night. At a meeting of women here in Boston, I hear it again: "Welcome home."
In Japanese, the word is "okaeri." Mothers say it to their children and husbands as people come home from school and work. I grew up with it. The translation I use is "welcome home" but it could just as easily be "you're back" (with the insinuation that follows "I'm glad you're back"). The concept personifies a lovely combination of politeness and endearment. I like it.
I'm flattered I'm "welcomed back" whenever I return to Japan, and to Ofunato. That people say this to me indicates to me I'm allowed to consider Japan home. What happens then when the same okaeri phrase is used at me in Boston? I'm welcomed home again. So then, where's home?
I've long ago decided home is wherever I am at that time. I can be living out of a suitcase, but for the time I'm there, that's home. I also go home after living out of said suitcase. That's also home. This way of thinking works for me. Convenient? Perhaps. I've learned to adopt and adapt.
So, I'm welcomed home in Boston, and will surely be welcome back once I get back to Japan. It's lovely to have homes all over the place. The ability to consider home as wherever I am at any given moment, and then having that validated by the "welcome back"s I receive whenever I do return--I'm lucky.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
"Why do you do this?"
This questions, phrased differently from many people has been asked over and over in the past year.
"Why are you helping us?"
Why did I go to a region of Japan I was completely unfamiliar with last March? What made me do something I was so profoundly uncomfortable doing? I've tried several answers.
"Japan was home to me for many years."
"I thought I could help."
"I was in a position where I could. My family was supportive, and I had the freedom in my professional life to take time off."
None of these responses have really convinced anyone. The explanations I've offered are incomplete to those in Tohoku who simply don't understand why a gaijin would drop everything and do something, to them, so odd and yet meaningful.
I now have two answers, both of which (to me, at least) speak volumes.
Here's one answer.
This was given to me by a boy at a day care center back in December when I made the trip up as Mrs. Claus, handing out candy to kids. After the kids had opened their stockings filled with bits of chocolate and candy canes, one boy came up to me from behind, tugging at my Mrs. Claus skirt.
"Give this to Santa," and he hands me these two sheets.
"What is it?"
"Money. I want Santa to have it." I look at the two "bills" and fight tears.
"Okay," I manage, and then "Thank you."
One of the men with me, seeing I'm about to lose it, asks, "How much are you giving Santa?" pointing to the amounts written on the origami paper.
"One hundred thousand million billion." Or, it could just have easily been "a bajillion."
I laugh. The boy laughs. I thank him again. He smiles and runs away.
Then there are the women. Those who did not lose their homes in the tsunami have reached out to the women now living in temporary housing quarters.
"Let's knit together," is the invitation extended as they try to rebuild the sense of community and neighborhood lost to the women who don't know their new neighbors in the temporary housing complexes.
They need yarn. They don't care what kind, color, amount, or quality. I set up a site on Amazon.com (the Japanese site: amazon.co.jp) where people can send yarn to them.
Here's the link.
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/registry/wishlist/ref=wish_list
In sharing this story about women coming together, news spread to women in Fukushima who also now want to start their own knitting group. I reached out to the "knitting teacher" in Ofunato, asking if her group would host the women from Fukushima. Now women in Iwate are helping women in Fukushima.
This is why I do what I do.
"Why are you helping us?"
Why did I go to a region of Japan I was completely unfamiliar with last March? What made me do something I was so profoundly uncomfortable doing? I've tried several answers.
"Japan was home to me for many years."
"I thought I could help."
"I was in a position where I could. My family was supportive, and I had the freedom in my professional life to take time off."
None of these responses have really convinced anyone. The explanations I've offered are incomplete to those in Tohoku who simply don't understand why a gaijin would drop everything and do something, to them, so odd and yet meaningful.
I now have two answers, both of which (to me, at least) speak volumes.
Here's one answer.
This was given to me by a boy at a day care center back in December when I made the trip up as Mrs. Claus, handing out candy to kids. After the kids had opened their stockings filled with bits of chocolate and candy canes, one boy came up to me from behind, tugging at my Mrs. Claus skirt.
"Give this to Santa," and he hands me these two sheets.
"What is it?"
"Money. I want Santa to have it." I look at the two "bills" and fight tears.
"Okay," I manage, and then "Thank you."
One of the men with me, seeing I'm about to lose it, asks, "How much are you giving Santa?" pointing to the amounts written on the origami paper.
"One hundred thousand million billion." Or, it could just have easily been "a bajillion."
I laugh. The boy laughs. I thank him again. He smiles and runs away.
Then there are the women. Those who did not lose their homes in the tsunami have reached out to the women now living in temporary housing quarters.
"Let's knit together," is the invitation extended as they try to rebuild the sense of community and neighborhood lost to the women who don't know their new neighbors in the temporary housing complexes.
They need yarn. They don't care what kind, color, amount, or quality. I set up a site on Amazon.com (the Japanese site: amazon.co.jp) where people can send yarn to them.
Here's the link.
http://www.amazon.co.jp/gp/registry/wishlist/ref=wish_list
In sharing this story about women coming together, news spread to women in Fukushima who also now want to start their own knitting group. I reached out to the "knitting teacher" in Ofunato, asking if her group would host the women from Fukushima. Now women in Iwate are helping women in Fukushima.
This is why I do what I do.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
The color brown and the joy it brings
Tonight it’s Italian.
“The food’s already been ordered. It’ll keep coming out. You just eat.” I’m given clear and specific instructions from Kazu-san.
“Okay. That’s good, ‘cause I’m hungry.”
“Did you eat today?”
“Sort of.”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“You didn’t, did you?”
“Not really.” And then he gives me a very proper brotherly speaking to. I'm told in no uncertain terms "how-the-hell-do-you-expect-not-get-sick" and am chastised for my sloppiness.
The gang arrives in ones and twos. The city council member is very late and makes his way in with a slew of “sorry”s.
“We knew that was you coming up the stairs,” Taro-san says, half drunk.
“Huh?”
“You shuffle,” and as if they’ve been keeping this secret to themselves all night and have just let it out, they all start to laugh. I do, too.
“Hmmm, shuffling?” The city council member is half-concerned and half-nonchalant. Does he dare believe the not-quite-fully-drunk Taro-san's comment about him shuffling?
The food does keep coming out, and conversations fly across tables mixed with mock insults, gossip, and updates. Someone whips out their phone.
“Facebook?”
“Yup.”
“What’s the latest?”
This is now how they keep tabs on each other.
“You still haven’t friended me,” Tomo-san says to Taro-san.
“Huh? Really?”
“Not buying that act of yours,” and Tomo-san who is definitely drunk says, “you’re doing this on purpose.”
“Huh?” and Taro-san looks at me and smiles, knowing I know he’s absolutely doing this on purpose.
Shige-san who’s sitting next to me leans over and shows me a photo on his phone.
“What’s this mean?” It’s the photo of crayons in various skin tone colors first (evidently) posted by George Takei and shared throughout Facebook. Including me.
“Oh, right. That symbolizes the fact the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday celebrates the various races in the US.”
“Interesting,” he says and then, “what’s this you wrote?” and points to the three lines I added under the photo.
“My family is very diverse which is why I posted the photo of the crayons. I’m celebrating them,” I tell him, “and I was just telling them I love them and miss them.”
“Like who?” Kazu-san says from across the table.
“Like who what?” I’m confused. Who am I saying I love in my family?
“Like who do you have in your family?”
“Oh. Well, I have a Chinese sister-in-law and two half-Chinese nieces, a cousin who married a Lakota woman, another cousin who married a Jewish woman, a cousin who married an Egyptian, a cousin who’s half-Creole, several Korean cousins, an African-American uncle, several half-African-American cousins, two brothers-in-law from the Ivory Coast,” and pause, “I think that’s about it.”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I guess that’s diverse.”
***
Fast forward one day and I’m sitting around a table with ten kids, ages two to five. “The flu is going around and it’s pretty bad, so there aren’t that many kids today,” the principal of the day care center tells me.
“That’s okay. We can still play. If that’s alright with you, of course.”
“Yes, of course,” and with that I follow her into an uncharacteristically very quiet classroom.
I ask if I can sit down on one of the miniature chairs, and am told “okaaay” in English by one of the boys. I say “Hey, that’s good!” in reply, and offer up a high-five. He takes it. Soon other hands are asking for high-fives as well. I hit all ten hands. We’re all smiles.
I pull out the picture book of fruit and vegetables and I point and talk about the ones they know. I get to the potato and ask, “Do you know what this is in English? I bet you do.” The kids can't decide if it's actually a potato, and after making sure the group actually agrees it’s a potato and not a gourd, I slowly say “po-ta-to” to which I get a table full of kids saying “Oh, I knew that!” and “like potato chips.” I’m impressed all over again at how much of their vocabulary contains English words and tell them this. Two year olds who have just been given a compliment they don’t quite understand are indeed a sight to see. Simply put, they’re adorable. They know something good just happened, but they have no idea what it is or why.
Once we’re done with the fruit and vegetables I pull out the box of crayons I borrowed from the principal and go through the colors. Again, they all know red, blue, white, black, yellow, pink, orange in English. I get to brown, and ask if they know what it is.
“Chairo,” one boy says.
“Right. Now do you know how to say that in English?”
Here he pauses a minute, and says in his best foreigner accent, “cha-ee-roh” which is so delightful, sincere, and hilarious that the adults immediately crack up.
“Let’s draw” one of the children says, and the teachers quickly stand and get paper. I point to the apple and cherries in the book and ask the kids around me if they can draw me these. I get shy looks in response but both kids pull out their red crayons and start drawing something resembling red circles.
I hear the boy who knew how to say brown in Japanese having a very animated conversation with one of the teachers at his end of the table. Soon, I hear the teacher say, “Go show Amya-san.” He gets up and brings his sheet over to me. I see small blotches of beige, orange, and lots of brown.
“Would you like some custard?” he says, holding out the sheet. It is definitely a very good thing my son was an imaginative child as I caught on immediately I was being invited to play, right there and right then.
“Yes, please,” I say in English. And then in Japanese, “What do you recommend?”
“This one,” he points to the beige one.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll have that.” He pinches the air above the beige splotch “picking up” the custard and puts his fingers in my mouth. (I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu, I will not get the flu.)
“That was good!” I say and he grins.
“What’s this?” I ask, and point to the brown spots.
“That’s chocolate.”
“Ooooh. I like chocolate. May I have this one?” and I point to the biggest piece (of course) and quickly add, “And, what color is this?”
He looks at me and I swear he’s enjoying this as much as I am, “brown.”
“Yup.”
“Yup,” he says back in English but it sounds more like “up” and I make sure my smile is really a smile and not another “you crack me up” grin. I quickly look back down at the “chocolate” on the page. When I look up, I see him grinning with that “gotcha” look of pure pride.
“Unfortunately, we’re sold out,” he then says. Ooh, I did not see that coming, little stinker you.
“What?!”
“Sorry.”
“No way!” I’m just the slightest bit upset by the fact I have just been one-upped by a four-year old, and can’t help shake the feeling I’ve really been denied real chocolate. I’m determined to get this chocolate, though, and so keep playing.
“When is your next chocolate delivery?
“When are you coming back?”
“In a few weeks.”
“I’ll have it by then.” And, here I really want to say, “you better” but instead say, “thank you.” I look down at the paper again.
“What else do you have?” But, while triumphant, clearly he’s bored now and walks back to his chair leaving me to now think about the faux chocolate I some how missed out on but now can’t get off my mind.
How the color brown single-handedly managed to become the most important topic at hand in Ofunato for both adults and children in one single weekend is beyond me. I’m delighted, though.
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