Post-Christmas Update: What Happens When Santa Comes to Rikuzentakata

I did not see this coming.  Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce.  Allow me to explain.

In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku.  American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry.  Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted.  A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day.  Here the real Santa was arriving.  No faux "Santa's brother" at this place.  Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal.  Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date.  About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.

No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather.  No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole.  He lived in Boston.  In America.  No full bearded Santa would arrive.  The kids were fine with this.  Santa was Santa.  So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?

So, Santa arrived.  The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located.  He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.

I was Santa's warm-up act.  Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?"  Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am.  I'm happy to make the introduction.  Truly.  I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids.  Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle?  Sure.  Why not?

The teacher gets up and quiets the children.  They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed.  She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave.  Etcetera, etcetera.

"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here?  If we can see him?"  The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.

And, there he is.  My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders.  Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back.  The cheering is deafening.  A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.

That's what happened in December.

Fast forward to March.  I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine.  Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all.  He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me.  I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.

"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say.  "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good.  Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.

And then...

And then.  One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.

Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same.  In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata.  Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen.  It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.

There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise.  I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left.  She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too.  But, after I get divorced."

Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard.  And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.

So, Boston friends.  Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome.  Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.

On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter

I was cheated.  All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo.  Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set.  All my girl friends had them.  All of my girl friends had them.  Not me.  I am forever scared.  My parents did me a great disservice.  Send me a box of Band-Aids.

Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls?  Did they not love me?  Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan?  Why not?  Why not?  Pretty please.

My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer.  "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."

Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars.  They're just dolls.  Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls.  It wasn't about deserving these beauties.  It was simple math.  I get that now.  Many, many years later, I get that now.

I do not have a daughter.  I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him.  For many reasons we didn't.  I will take this regret to my grave.  Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son.  "Give me a grandbaby girl."  Specifically, a red head.  More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes.  I've seen the one I want.  She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston. 

"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day.  "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing.  "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl.  She seems to belong to someone already.  Careful what you say.  You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say.  "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly.  Whatever.  My son laughs, again.  I do, too.  Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement.  A girl can dream.  I'm hoping for a miracle.

Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls?  No.  I'm firmly in my parents camp.  I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls.  Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me?  No good reason, I suppose.  I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer.  I wanted these dolls.  It was as simple as that.

Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own.  This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing.  My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess.  I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs.  Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops.  I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for.  Oh well.  I tried.  I truly did.

While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many.  We have no signed papers but just an understanding.  I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently.  She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.

This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago.  She was 17 at the time.  A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.

She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail.  We talked about its content.  She explained.  I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project.  I wasn't in a good place.  I should have turned it down."

She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots.  I try to keep mine steady.  I tell her to call me any time she needs to.  I tell her I will always be there for her.  I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill".  I tell her I'm proud of her.  I tell her she's brave.  I ask if I can help.

As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls.  As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression.  Girls can survive being denied dolls.  I'm proof.  Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow.  I'll be fine living without.  If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter.  Light a candle.  Sing.  Dance.  Send good vibes.

My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs.  "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."