Picture This

April brings a new school year.  The most immediate effect this change has on me is the new faces in the preschools I visit with every trip to Tohoku.  Having spent the entire school calendar year with the five-year olds the year before, I knew names and faces, who liked what, who acted up, and family histories.  With this crop of kids, I’m nowhere close.  With three visits under my belt, we’re still working through details.  It feels like we’re perpetually on a first date.

My main goal with the kids hasn’t changed:  I want them to not fear foreigners, know they already have a large vocabulary of foreign words, and grow up with a sense of wonder at the world beyond.  My job is to bring consistent joy to their lives, give them something to look forward to, play, offer acceptable touching in the form of hugs and pats and high-fives.  I want them to be happy.

I learned quickly almost every child ages three and above can count from one to ten in English, know most colors in English (thank you Power Rangers), and all I need to do is add to this list.  When I tell them the common words they use everyday—the romanized ones—are also English, Italian, Portuguese, French, and Chinese their eyes pop. 

Which is why I take my laptop full of photos, pointing to each one and as they identify ice cream, chocolate, cake, potato chips, taxi, ball, dress, belt, donuts, and lions.  “These are all English words.  See!  You already speak English!”  It’s a hit every time.  With every visit, I show more pictures.  With every visit, the kids are in total shock at how easy English is.

I saved teaching shapes until January for the last class but this year I’ve started with the book of shapes.  I make a heart with my hands and ask them what it is.  Then I ask what it means.  Through giggles, it’s the girls who answer, “It means you like something.  Or someone.”  Snicker, snicker.  I extend my heart-shaped hands out to them and tell them I like them.  Very much.

On days where the weather-gods shine down on us, we play outside.  I take the book of shapes out with me on this particular day, and as I scan the playground for suitable shapes to call out I feel a tug on my sleeve.

“Amya-san, Amya-san.”  I see a boy looking up at me.
“Yes?”
“My daddy died in the tsunami.”  He gave me no indication this was coming.  I’m completely caught off guard.  No “hello” and no “what are we doing today?”  Just straight up, “My daddy died.”  

To which I say what exactly?  I don’t know his name.  This is the third time we’ve played together.  I don’t know his family.  I know nothing about him.  I crouch down in front of him and am about to speak when I see his teacher walking towards me.  “Come on,” she says.  “Let’s get ready to play.”

Do I let her walk away?  Is she pulling him away from me for my sake?  Do I let him go?  She takes him by the shoulders and starts to take him back to the larger group when he turns around.  A screenplay writer couldn’t have cued that better.

“Wait,” I say.  “It’s okay.”  The boy turns around and gently releases himself from his teacher and walks towards me.  This is unreal.  He stops in front of me and I quickly sneak a glance at his nametag.  Now I have a name.
“Do you miss your daddy?”  I ask.  There’s no point pretending this isn’t happening.  He nods.

“I have a brother who died so I kind of know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”  He nods again.

“But, I know your daddy is right here,” I say pointing to his heart.  He looks down at my finger.  “In your heart,” I rephrase.  I swear I’m about to lose it.

“We visit his grave sometimes,” he says.

“That’s good.  Do you take flowers?”

“Uh huh.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know what they’re called.  Before it got cold I picked some flowers from the field and took those to him.”

“I’m sure he really, really likes that.”  The boy nods.

The other kids have gathered around us now, coming over in twos and threes wondering what this boy has done or said to warrant all this attention.  Most kids have heard the grave part of his story and now the floodgates are open.  Blown open.  The kids start talking at once: who lost their home, who lost their dog, who lost their grandmother, bicycle, toys, a favorite doll.  I’m overwhelmed.  I look up at the teacher, signaling with my eyes I need help.  Two plus years up north and this is the first time I’ve had kids come up and tell me their stories.  Unprompted and unscripted, everything is pouring out.  I honestly don’t know what to say.  With all these children talking to me at once I can’t possibly answer everyone or address every comment.  Then again, I can’t ignore their words either.

I stand up.  This quiets them.  “You’re all really brave,” I say.  “I know it’s hard, but you’re all really strong and you’ll grow up to be amazing adults.  When you’re all grown ups let’s get together and have ice cream.  Okay?”  The kids squeal and run away.  Just like that, we’ve moved on.

This unexpected outpouring of unfiltered honesty caught me off guard in ways I’ve not experienced in the time I’ve spent up north.  Yup.  I’m exhausted.  And, it’s not even noon.

“Amya-san,” I hear, from a voice behind me.  It’s the same boy.  I was walking toward the center of the playground but I stop.  He runs up to me.  I kneel down, meeting his eyes.  “Yes?”  He looks down at his moving and twisting fingers.  At last he holds up his hands.  For an instant I’m confused, but then I get it.  I make a heart with my hands folding his into mine and smile.  I stand up quickly because I don’t want him to see me cry and I kiss the top of his head.  “Let’s go play.  I’ll race you,” and with that we dash off to play color tag.

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.

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?”

“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.

The honesty of children

The volunteer organization I first came to Iwate has come and gone.  They insert themselves into disaster zones, clean things up, and then leave.  I'm told over 1,000 volunteers, many of them foreigners, came to this area and did their thing.

"We've only seen foreigners in movies," one grandmother told me back in the spring.  "It's kind of strange to see you in person.  You're actually real."
"We are," I said, and tried very hard not to grin at the fact there are still those who think foreigners are some strange group of people that only show up on television.

The sense of "you're not quite real" is still present.  I stayed last night at a facility that hosts volunteers, foreign and domestic.  As I walked down the long hallway and passed an elderly man, I said hello.
"Hello," he says, and then looks at me long and hard.
"You're not from here."
"No, I'm not."
"Huh."  Evidently, we're still a bit of an oddity here.

My primary goal for this trip is to hang out with kids.  The sentiment held by some that while it's quite alright and appreciated for all these foreigners to have come in and dug out ditches, that they've now gone has left people feeling empty.

"It's a wrap," one volunteer wrote on Facebook.  No, it's not.  It's a wrap for you, but it's most definitely not a wrap for those left behind whose lives have changed in ways they still have difficulty articulating.

I was asked if I would be willing to continue the foreign exposure, focusing my time on being around children.
"Of course!"
"Really?" a principal of a local day care center asks.
"Really.  Use me.  That's what I'm here for."  Today was the first day I was "used."

We counted to ten.  We sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', we practiced "hello" and "good-bye" and "how are you?" and "see you soon."  I was then shuttled off to the class of five-year olds and was asked to go into more detail.  I held up a large colorful card of a cartoon renkon (a root) and told them "kids your age don't eat renkon in America."  I look down at the kids and see looks of shock and awe.
"Why?  Renkon is so good!" One boy says.

I hold up colored origami paper.  We're going to practice our colors.
"What color is this?" I say as I show them a sheet of red.
"Red!"  Several kids say in English, while others call out the word for red in Japanese.  We practice saying "red" in English and more boys pipe up and start talking about their favorite anime characters who are dressed in red.  I hold up pink, orange, yellow, green, black, white, and blue.  All the kids know the English words for these colors.  I'm impressed.
"What about siruba?" another boy raises his hand and immediately starts talking about his favorite anime character who is evidently silver.  I look for something silver in the room.  Finding it, I point and ask "What color is this?" to which the group of 20+ kids all scream out, "Siruba!"
"Yes!  Silver!"  I then point to something gold.  "What about this?"
"Gorudo!"
"Good!  Gold."  I'm impressed.  Thank god for anime!
In my twisted and perverse need to stump five-year olds I look for a color they won't know.  Finding one and feeling slightly triumphant in advance, I point to a boy's sweatshirt and ask, "What color is this?"  The room falls silent.  That was mean.  Really, woman.  That was not necessary.
"Oh, I know this," one girl says.
"Really?  Think.  Try.  Do you remember?"
"It starts with pa," she says and starts silently mouthing something I can't hear.  I start to say "purple" and mouth it to her, at which point she jumps in her seat, her hand shooting up and not-quite screams, "papuru!"  So much pride in that little body of hers.  It's oozing.
"Right!  Purple!  Good girl."  I smile down at her and she beams back at me.  Success.

I'm invited to share their lunch.  I'm given an adult-sized tray full of food after being asked several times if there are things I can't eat.
"I'm okay," I say and secretly hope they don't serve fried eggs or natto.  I chance it.
It takes the class of 20+ kids and three teachers another 15 minutes to serve everyone.  I'm famished.  I skipped breakfast to get her on time, and the food in front of me has me wondering when we're eating.  I pick up my chop sticks and stick one slice of carrot in my mouth.  I try to sneak it but am caught.  Totally and completely caught red-handed.
"She ate!" the girl next to me says, pointing, and I'm busted.
"Sorry....." I say and try to change the topic.  Not a chance.
"She did!  She ate!" the boy across from me now announces to the rest of the class.  Evidently this faux pas was a lot more of an issue than I thought.
"I promise I won't eat again." I bow to the five-year olds I just tried to teach colors to.  They seem satisfied and we're silent for awhile.

Four kids in chef's hats and white smocks line up at the front of the class and lead the class in what seems a very elaborate ritual of before-we-partake-of-our-food sing-song chant.  I say the right things when I'm supposed to (making it up as I go along, sort of) and am finally allowed to eat.
"You had to wait for that," the girl next to me whispers.
"Okay," I whisper back.

So begins the first of many trips to Ofunato to hang with kids.  I will learn to mind my manners.  I'm sure I will continue to be impressed at how much energy they have, the English they already know, and their ability to call me out when I step out of line.  It's most definitely not a wrap.  There's much to do.