Never have I woken up and wished to be seated next to a man reading porn on a train. Evidently, and I'm learning this the hard way, not wishing for something specific has nothing to do with the universe and it's ... sense of humor? ...
As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.
My seat mate is reading porn. A girlie magazine. There are photos. There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness.
Porn in your bedroom? Fine.
Porn in public? On the train? Next to me? Not fine.
Do I say something?
What would I say?
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?" Scratch that. I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.
Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a
crowded train does not mean it is in Japan. Whose morals rule in such a
case? Japan is not my country. He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner.
Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency. Right?
Really?
What if I read it with him? Is that being passive-aggressive? If that were the case, would that be so bad?
What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman? Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better? It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.
What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now? I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls. Sorry. Dumb foreigner. I don't know the rules. Do I dare? Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind? Would he care?
So far I have no answers. Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think. I'm open for suggestions.
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trains. Show all posts
Monday, April 7, 2014
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Ad in the Train
Tokyo subways are covered with ads. Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip. Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform. I don't mind these much. I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news. Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo. Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Train Etiquette
I am not one to blame the French. In the case of the empty seat next to me on trains and buses in Japan, it's not the French who are to blame as much as it is my French heritage. I accept this fault because acknowledging the other truth is more hurtful. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling. In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved. No one shushed them. No one paid them any attention. He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan. Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.
Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet. Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course). Two people having a conversation is almost rare. There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part. (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.) Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem. Or so my friend says.
Here's the thing. Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken. I am not exaggerating. People will stand rather than sit next to me. I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me. "Watch," I'll say. "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled." I am proven right. Always.
This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning. I console myself by saying I smell. My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume. I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself. As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart. I can't smell myself, of course. Once the perfume is on, it's on. I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes. Others can, evidently. Smell me, that is. I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me. The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.
My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts." Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior. They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them. That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt. I told my friend as much.
One more thing. I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh. No, this isn't the most mature of responses. It is, however, honest. We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains. If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020. Beware.
A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling. In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved. No one shushed them. No one paid them any attention. He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan. Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.
Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet. Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course). Two people having a conversation is almost rare. There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part. (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.) Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem. Or so my friend says.
Here's the thing. Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken. I am not exaggerating. People will stand rather than sit next to me. I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me. "Watch," I'll say. "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled." I am proven right. Always.
This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning. I console myself by saying I smell. My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume. I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself. As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart. I can't smell myself, of course. Once the perfume is on, it's on. I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes. Others can, evidently. Smell me, that is. I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me. The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.
My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts." Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior. They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them. That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt. I told my friend as much.
One more thing. I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh. No, this isn't the most mature of responses. It is, however, honest. We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains. If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020. Beware.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Suicide: What to do when the person sitting next to you on the train is (possibly) suicidal
I don't usually look at, much less read the screens of the smart phones of those sitting next to me. Not on trains, buses, or while we're waiting for the light to change. I don't know why I did today.
At first, they didn't register. The woman sitting next to me on the train today was flipping through the pages on her cell phone. Her finger moving down the screen from top to bottom, she would stop every now and then reading the title of a link to an article. Or so I assumed.
It was probably at one of these lingering moments as she decided whether to click the link that I noticed the words. It's amazing what our eyes take in. There they were: suicide, and "I want to die." Not only did my eyes register these words, I was also able to read the full titles of the links. Each one started with "I want to die."
Was she contemplating suicide? Was she a student researching suicide? How would I know? What do I do?
She clicked on a link. The article which I read along with her listed the causes of suicide (i.e. family problems, finances, job-related stress, relationship difficulties). I see the word "depression." Her finger keeps dragging the page down, faster and faster it seems and I wonder for a minute whether she's actually reading.
She clicks the back arrow next and we're taken to the previous screen. I now notice each of the articles above the one she just read are in a lighter purple, the ones below in dark blue. I know what this means. All the articles in purple are ones she's read. Noticing again each article beings with the words "I want to die" I now start to panic.
Maybe panic isn't the right word. I no longer feel comfortable reading over her shoulder (surely she must have noticed by now) and sit up straight. I look ahead and decide to dive.
I take the ear bud out of my left ear and face her. She looks right at me as if she knew this was coming.
"Are you alright?" I ask. She nods quickly, smiling.
"Yes."
I'm not content with this answer. What did I think she was going to say? Did I expect her to confess she's contemplating suicide? I could sit back and accept her denial (?) but this feels too simplistic. Even though she couldn't possibly tell me in a crowded train why she's reading articles about suicide, I decide to ask again.
"The links" and I point to her phone, "you were searching here. Are you really alright?"
She nods fast.
"Yes."
And, that's as far as I can take it. I leave my ear bud out in case she wants to say something further. (If I had plugged myself back into my iPhone I would have been signaling I was done talking. I assume she figured this out.) None of this feels good. Did I overstep? Should I have kept quiet? What was I doing reading her phone anyway? What if she was suicidal and this was her way of asking for help? And, how pray tell, would I know this? What was I doing?
She got off at the next stop (wouldn't you?) and as I sat there in my seat I decided I had no idea whether I did the right thing. What would you have done?
At first, they didn't register. The woman sitting next to me on the train today was flipping through the pages on her cell phone. Her finger moving down the screen from top to bottom, she would stop every now and then reading the title of a link to an article. Or so I assumed.
It was probably at one of these lingering moments as she decided whether to click the link that I noticed the words. It's amazing what our eyes take in. There they were: suicide, and "I want to die." Not only did my eyes register these words, I was also able to read the full titles of the links. Each one started with "I want to die."
Was she contemplating suicide? Was she a student researching suicide? How would I know? What do I do?
She clicked on a link. The article which I read along with her listed the causes of suicide (i.e. family problems, finances, job-related stress, relationship difficulties). I see the word "depression." Her finger keeps dragging the page down, faster and faster it seems and I wonder for a minute whether she's actually reading.
She clicks the back arrow next and we're taken to the previous screen. I now notice each of the articles above the one she just read are in a lighter purple, the ones below in dark blue. I know what this means. All the articles in purple are ones she's read. Noticing again each article beings with the words "I want to die" I now start to panic.
Maybe panic isn't the right word. I no longer feel comfortable reading over her shoulder (surely she must have noticed by now) and sit up straight. I look ahead and decide to dive.
I take the ear bud out of my left ear and face her. She looks right at me as if she knew this was coming.
"Are you alright?" I ask. She nods quickly, smiling.
"Yes."
I'm not content with this answer. What did I think she was going to say? Did I expect her to confess she's contemplating suicide? I could sit back and accept her denial (?) but this feels too simplistic. Even though she couldn't possibly tell me in a crowded train why she's reading articles about suicide, I decide to ask again.
"The links" and I point to her phone, "you were searching here. Are you really alright?"
She nods fast.
"Yes."
And, that's as far as I can take it. I leave my ear bud out in case she wants to say something further. (If I had plugged myself back into my iPhone I would have been signaling I was done talking. I assume she figured this out.) None of this feels good. Did I overstep? Should I have kept quiet? What was I doing reading her phone anyway? What if she was suicidal and this was her way of asking for help? And, how pray tell, would I know this? What was I doing?
She got off at the next stop (wouldn't you?) and as I sat there in my seat I decided I had no idea whether I did the right thing. What would you have done?
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Tokyo Station Blues, Part 2
I decide on a whim—perhaps the planets are aligned perfectly
today—Tokyo Station deserves another chance.
It doesn’t, of course. I’m being
generous. “This doesn’t happen often,” I
want to say to the station, an inanimate object with no capacity to be grateful. “Don’t get used to it. It won’t happen again.”
I have thirty minutes before my train leaves to go up north,
and I decide to go down into the abyss to the “Tokyo Station Lost and Found
Office” to locate my stolen wallet.
Perhaps some kind soul picked up my wallet and turned it in. Perhaps the pickpocket, after taking my money
out tossed it into the trash and one of the cleaners found it. This is Japan. This happens here all the time. Wallets dropped and stolen are often
returned.
Before I navigate the multiple passageways down into the
catacombs, I must first figure out where this office is. I need a map.
Usually displayed on one face of the rectangular columns holding up the
sky (ceiling), so long as I can find the map I can find the office. Yes. I
can do this. I do indeed find a map and
look at the hallways, stores, escalators, elevators, and restaurants spread
out, the crisscrossing intersections making the station look like it’s a
city. First floor, B1, B2, I keep
looking and finally find it, tucked away deep into the corner, far away from
anything civilized. Of course.
Undeterred, I begin.
Following the signs, I only get lost once. When I turn the corner, I see a long hallway
leading to a large window where two seated men await. It’s like a scene from a dream—“You must
first walk down this long hallway before you can…” and here Morgan Freeman or
James Earl Jones would either say “find your way into heaven” or “find the Holy
Grail” or “fulfill your destiny.”
There’s nothing between the two men seated behind the window and
me. They see me coming, and I see them
watching me. I start walking towards
them down this very long hallway. This
is some how comical. Truly. This is like a movie.
I finally stand in front of them and say, “My wallet was
stolen by a pickpocket awhile ago and I’m wondering if anyone turned it
in.” The two men look at each
other. What? Was I not clear? I feel like turning around and saying to the
ceiling, “Well?” hoping to hear Mr. Freeman or Mr. Jones say just the right
thing. I don’t, of course.
“What did it look like?”
I describe it.
“Was there anything that had your name written on it, inside
the wallet?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Driver’s license, health insurance form, Alien Registration
card, credit cards…”
“Got it, got it. So
your name would be clear, address too, if anyone handed it in.”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?” I
tell him.
One of the two men is typing in my name while I realize the
other has been typing in what I’ve been saying up to this point.
“Well, I don’t see it under the description you gave me,”
the second man says.
“When was it stolen?”
The date? The exact
date? Hmmm. I don’t actually remember the date. Awhile ago? I inhale, looking at the calendar on the wall
and pick a random date three weeks back.
That feels about right.
“Whoa,” the first man says.
“That long ago?”
“Yes,” and then, “Wait.
I have a copy of the police report.”
“You went to the cops?
Did they find it?” Huh? No,
they didn’t find it. That’s why I’m
here.
“Yes, I went to the cops, and no, they didn’t find it, and
the date…..January 29th.”
I swear I saw them both roll their eyes.
“Well, that’s
different,” the man on the left says, evidently annoyed he has to retype the
date.
“That changes everything.”
Now I’m annoyed.
“How does that change everything?” I ask. “You’re a slippery little man and I’m not in
the mood,” is what I really want to say but don’t, because my mother raised me
with manners.
“I have to retype the date now.” Yes.
He actually said that. I’m this
close to turning around and throwing my hands into the air, yelling at the
imaginary Mr. Freeman and Mr. Jones to “Get down here and fix this!” but decide not to because….I’m sane. Or something.
“Nope. It’s not here,”
he says, leaning back as if he accomplished some intricate and complicated
deed. The first man folds his hands in
front of his chest and says, “You know, if we’d found it, if it had been turned
in we’d have sent you a postcard by now.”
I swear I have to keep from laughing.
You’d send me a postcard? But, they’re serious. It’s true.
I would have been sent a postcard saying, “Your wallet has been returned
to the Lost and Found Office in Tokyo Station.
Please call this number to schedule a pick up time and date,” or
something of the sort. I would have
squealed hoping the photos of my son and nieces were safe, the little bits of
paper I’ve collected over the years are still tucked away in the side pockets,
my lucky $2.00 bill safe. Back to the
postcard, though. I cock my head to the
side and say, “So, if you’d have found my wallet you’d have sent me a
postcard.”
“Yup,” they say and they’re so proud.
“So, there’s no way it would be here,” I say as a statement
and not a question.
“Not unless they turned in just the wallet and took all your
IDs out or it just showed up today.”
“Hmmmm.” I nod. I feel there’s a sort of “Oh, dear poor
woman. If you only knew how things
worked here, you could have avoided wasting our time” attitude hanging in the
air and right there, I choose to fully embrace the fact I will never see that
wallet again. Ever.
I also decide Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones are having
a good laugh at my expense and start retracing my steps leaving behind what
surely must be a sort of Hollywood version of hell. Tokyo Station is full of tricks—nasty ones at
that—and I just wasted 20 minutes trying to relocate a wallet I’ll never see
again. Perhaps it’s time to start riding
the bullet train from Ueno Station and avoid Tokyo Station altogether. In fact, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do
from now on. Ha.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Tokyo Station Blues
Let's establish some basic facts: 1). I am not directionally challenged, 2). I am comfortable in large crowds, and 3). I'm not careless. How then can one location I visit repeatedly cause me so much grief? Enter Tokyo Station and I'm off my game. The ground under me must shift into another dimension. If it were an isolated incident here or there, if these mysterious encounters with confusion happened elsewhere with similar frequency I would be more inclined to acknowledge the possibility I just might be slipping. This is not the case. There's something about Tokyo Station that throws me.
I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week. Yes, in Tokyo Station. Of course. Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people. I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life. I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan. So, no. I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime. That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.
I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well. The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time. Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?"
I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time. This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times. Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year. A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change. So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else. Surely that store wasn't here last time?
Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease. Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place. Do I dare hope?
No. Of course not. Why do I let myself think these things? Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from. When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back. All roads lead to Tokyo. So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up." It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.
So, I look at the train car. It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything. Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi!" A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me. I have no idea who he is.
"Hi! I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is. "How are you?" Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay. Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?" I stall with this question. I've still got nothing. No clue who this man is. He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it. I'm pretty sure, in fact. Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?" He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look. What? I'm wrong? This isn't that fire fighter guy I know? He tells me who he is and where we met. I'm so off it's embarrassing. It's bad.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly? "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.
And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo. Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues. Evidently, however, today is not that day.
I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week. Yes, in Tokyo Station. Of course. Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people. I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life. I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan. So, no. I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime. That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.
I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well. The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time. Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?"
I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time. This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times. Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year. A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change. So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else. Surely that store wasn't here last time?
Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease. Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place. Do I dare hope?
No. Of course not. Why do I let myself think these things? Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from. When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back. All roads lead to Tokyo. So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up." It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.
So, I look at the train car. It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything. Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Hi!" A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me. I have no idea who he is.
"Hi! I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is. "How are you?" Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay. Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?" I stall with this question. I've still got nothing. No clue who this man is. He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it. I'm pretty sure, in fact. Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?" He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look. What? I'm wrong? This isn't that fire fighter guy I know? He tells me who he is and where we met. I'm so off it's embarrassing. It's bad.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly? "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.
And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo. Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues. Evidently, however, today is not that day.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 2
Alpha
Male’s question hits hard. I don’t want
to answer him about whether I’ve been felt up on Tokyo trains by perverts. I’m embarrassed. In the silence between us it’s clear the ball
is in my court. It’s my turn to
speak. I look at him.
“I
don’t want to tell you.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical. Except it’s not. This is him trying. We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know. I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses. “Yes, I know. But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it. At least not the way you want me to.”
I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk. The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes. We pass a car dealership. I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it. My mind is blank.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical. Except it’s not. This is him trying. We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know. I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses. “Yes, I know. But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it. At least not the way you want me to.”
I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk. The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes. We pass a car dealership. I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it. My mind is blank.
“Hey,”
he says.
“I know,” I reply. “I’m thinking.” I lie. Do I tell him? How will he understand if I don’t? It’s time. Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me. It’s eating away at my soul.
“I know,” I reply. “I’m thinking.” I lie. Do I tell him? How will he understand if I don’t? It’s time. Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me. It’s eating away at my soul.
“Well,”
I start, “let me tell you some stories.”
I decide to cover myself—a poor attempt to maintain anonymity. “I won’t say whether any of these stories
happened to me or someone I know.” He
doesn’t speak.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.” And, I begin.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.” And, I begin.
“She
was standing near the door. She could
see her reflection in the window because it was dark out. The first thing she felt was his breath on
her neck. It smelled like beer. Then she felt a hand on her butt, moving up
and down. ‘Nice ass,’ he said. She glared at his reflection in the
window. He grinned back at her. They were communicating through their
reflections. ‘It’s big, your ass,’ he
said. This shame,” I pause, taking a
deep breath, “This shame—it’s powerful.
There’s shame, and then there’s anger.
It’s pretty scary stuff, making the heart race in a way that’s probably
really unhealthy.” I look out the window
again. “She’s wearing heels today, and
decides to fight back. She leans back
into him, and two things happen at once.
He says, ‘So you like it?’ and she steps on his foot. He’s wearing soft shoes, tennis shoes maybe,
and so the heel digs down. She hears,
‘Ow!’ so she knows she’s got him. She
keeps putting her weight down on her heel and feels him trying to pull his foot
out. He pulls his hand off her butt, and
he’s now pushing against her back. She
keeps stepping down. ‘Stop it’ he
whispers, and it’s a violent whisper.
Something pops in his foot and he yelps.
People are looking at him. She
sees this in the window reflection and smiles, no sneers at him. He gets off at the next train station,
limping.”
Alpha
Male laughs. “Good girl! She fought back! I’m impressed.”
Feeling
bold with what I take is his support, I go on.
“Then
there was this time this woman just shamed him.
Feeling a hand moving up and down her thigh making its way toward her
butt, she just said right there, out loud ‘Get your hand off my butt.’ Everyone went quiet. Immediately.
He didn’t pull his hand away, so she said it again. ‘Will you please get your hand off my
butt.’ He did. The man standing next to her asked if she was
okay. Before she could answer the doors
in front of her opened and the man behind her pushed her aside and ran out,
flying down the stairs in front of them.”
“She spoke up. That’s good,” Alpha Male is encouraging.
“Yeah.” My face is burning.
“So, when you say middle-aged women are targets, well I guess I appreciate the warning, but it’s hard to hear.”
“I’m telling you these things so you’ll know.”
“I know that. I know, but…”
We
pull up to a subway station. This is
where I’m to get out. I stay in the car
and say, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes. “These are things we don’t hear a lot about. Real stories, I mean. I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife. I guess I should ask her. If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do. My wife, too. All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know. Thanks.” I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me. Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door. This is ridiculous. I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen. “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes. “These are things we don’t hear a lot about. Real stories, I mean. I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife. I guess I should ask her. If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do. My wife, too. All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know. Thanks.” I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me. Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door. This is ridiculous. I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen. “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I
get out, wave good-bye and walk down the stairs towards my next ride through
the tunnels of underground Tokyo. When I
get on the train, I look around me and see who is where and make my way to the
corner, pushing my back up against the wall trying to look as nonchalant as I
can.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 1
My first encounter with groping, a chikan, came at age 12. The entire sixth grade went to an indoor skating rink to...play? Practice? I don't remember. What I do remember about that day was the hand between my legs as we stood outside waiting for the bus to take us back to school. Knowing in an instant what was going on, I was being felt up and groped, I spun around only to see a blue coat running away. Shocked and livid, I followed the boy in the blue coat with my eyes until I lost him. I must have had "the look" as a classmate next to me said, "What's wrong?" to which I replied,
"Find a boy in a blue coat."
"Why?"
"Just do it." One boy, another classmate, laughed, "Were you felt up?" and I gave him a look I hoped would kill him on the spot. Did he know? How? The anger I felt inside scared me. What just happened?
I never did find that boy. I don't remember what, if anything I said to my parents that night. I do remember seething rage, shame, and an ultimate sense of violation. Had I found the boy, I was truly prepared to get violent. Not having physically fought at that age, I probably would have done the only thing I knew would cause boys immense pain, the thing I was specifically told not to do: kick him in the balls. Repeatedly.
Fast forward several decades and I'm in the car with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan. The topic of chikans (gropers) comes up for some reason, and he says, "You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I reply.
"No, I mean it. You're a target. Your type is 'in' right now."
"What's that supposed to mean? My type?"
"Japan's going through a jukujo phase." This is a new word for me.
"What's that?"
"Think about it. The characters." I do, but I can't place what the character for juku would be. I ask him.
"Ripe," he replies.
"Ripe woman?"
"Uh huh."
"What the hell is a 'ripe woman'?" He looks at me.
"Think," he says back. "You're it. Middle-aged. Experienced. Willing. Desperate."
I'm shocked. That's what Japanese men like now? This is what Japanese men think middle-aged women want? They think I project this?
"You're middle-aged," Alpha Male continues. "You're presumably," pausing, "experienced." I'm about to object to the "willing" and "desperate" part but before I can say anything he adds, "And, you've got, well, boobs--padding top and bottom. You're what men are in to now." I don't now whether this is a compliment or an insult. I'm stunned. I look down at my chest. For what? To see if my breasts are still there? I don't know what to say. Picking up on my confusion and shock, Alpha Males says, "Look. Just be careful, okay?"
Browse any Japanese porn site and sure enough, there's now a jukujo category. The requisite links to lolitas, maids, foreigners, and wives (the last fetish) are still present. Clubs listing services, prices, faces of the women with their ages compete for men from sexless marriages. Or, perhaps just those who want a little fun on the side. Who knows. The point is, there's now a category for men looking for ripe, middle-aged women. We don't have to be pretty. Or thin. In fact, many I see on these sites are neither. Willing and desperate. Those two words haunt me.
What is it about Japan where women are bought for sex (but "legally"), felt up on trains to the point there are now cars for women only, and if strong are considered loud and "not-for-marriage-material"?
I noticed the signs in train stations two years ago when I came back to Japan for a longer stay. These posters weren't there before. Now prominent, they're everywhere--loud, angry. "Groping is a crime." "Report a chikan." "Ask for help." It's not just the women being groped who are supposed to call out for help. Those who see what's going on are supposed to speak out as well.
This poster, specifically the writing in orange print has confused me. The literal translations is something like, "'I did it on a whim' is not an excuse." What? I like to think I know a thing or two about Japanese ways of thinking. That this warning is supposed to curb that desire to grope, that it would prevent assaulting a woman is, even by Japanese standards lame. I ask Alpha Male about it. "How's this supposed to deter?"
"The idea is to keep men who wouldn't normally grope from going through with it. On a whim, as the poster says."
"That's stupid," I say angrily. "That makes no sense."
"It also means, the reasoning 'I did it cause I felt like it' doesn't fly."
"And this poster would make men think twice?"
"Yeah."
"Really? You really believe that?"
Alpha Male pauses. "The point is, these posters are now visible. They're posted in trains and throughout train stations. Before they weren't. Everyone knew about chikans but no one reported them. Women wouldn't say 'Stop!' so men went on groping, whereas now men are aware women can say that. And do. It's supposed to make men think twice before they do something stupid."
This man is important to me. He's my go-to man in Japan. But, that the man I think so highly of comes out with this explanation pains me. He can't believe this, can he? Is Alpha Male just another Japanese man? My silence and anger bothered him evidently, as he asks, "You okay?" No, I'm not okay. You don't get it either. You never have to worry about this. That you're huge is deterrent enough, but more than that you're male. You're Japanese. I can't possibly expect you to understand. But, you of all people--I was counting on you to get this.
None of this comes out, but I think it.
"Hey," he says, touching my arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I reply and don't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."
I'm not, of course. I think back to a television talk show I watched, a sort of "Facts About Japan" show where a group of foreigners on one side point out things uniquely Japanese, as another group of Japanese celebrities and the like offered back commentary. The group of foreigners, thirty or so, are comprised of people from different countries. On this day, a Russian woman did a report on why there was so much Japanese smut in newspapers and posters visible to all.
"It's called the 'pink pages' or something," she complained. "Why is there Japanese pornography being advertised on trains? Why do newspapers have a section reporting on where to go for sex?"
I remember this because a young woman representing South Korea spoke up following the Russian.
"Why don't women actually speak up when they're being groped on trains? Why do they suffer silently?"
Bravo, dear woman. My point exactly.
"You don't get it," I replied to Alpha Male after he checked to see whether or not I got what he was saying.
"You don't ever have to worry about groping or having unwanted advances hurled at you or being a target of harassment or assault. No one's ever going to feel you up." I'm angry. Of all people, I want him to understand. He doesn't speak for what seems a very long time. When he does I know he's choosing his words carefully.
"I can see how you'd think that," he offers. "But, Japan is changing. Japan is trying to change."
"By creating a new target of women to grope? Middle-aged women who, what?" I wave my hand around in the air. "Project it's okay to be felt up because we're desperate?"
"This is Japan," I hear him say and it almost sounds like he's pleading. "It's not right. I know it's not like this overseas," and I interrupt.
"You got that right."
He inhales.
"Look," but I cut him off.
"No. It's not right. What the hell?! I'm now a part of a targeted group of women for groping? Because of my age? Because I've got 'padding' as you say? What am I supposed to do? Not ride trains?"
"Do you want me to tell you these things or not?" He snaps at me. Oh wow. Are we fighting?
I recall this conversation to my husband.
"You've got to be careful with this 'you-can't-possibly-understand-because-your-male' attitude," he says.
"It's true, though. You can't understand."
"But, saying it that way is off-putting. It's not much of a leap for us to then say, 'Fine, then. If I can't understand I won't try.' That's not what you want."
"No, that's not what I want. I want you to fight along with us. I want you to be as upset as we are. I know you can't empathize, but I want your anger."
"Some people will understand what you're saying. Others won't. You have to decide if Alpha Male is one of those guys who will understand."
I want Alpha Male in my corner. I do want Alpha Male to tell me these tidbits about what's "in" even if I'm angered by the content. Alpha Male epitomizes objectivity, safety and neutrality. He's calm. He doesn't rattle--except during this back-and-forth about me being the latest target for gropers. I'm caught between my anger and not wanting to sound hysterical. I feel hysterical. And angry. Not wanting to actually fight him futher, I decide to tell him a story.
"I was told once about this American woman who came to Japan on business. She got felt up and fought back. She grabbed the wrist between her legs, dragged the guy off the train at the next stop and proceeded to beat the shit out of him right there on the platform. People came running over, and she was the one arrested--charged with assault. He claimed he didn't grope her. She said he did. He got off but she got arrested, all because people saw her beating him and no one but her knew it was his groping wrist she grabbed."
Neither of us say anything for awhile. "This is what I'm up against," I say finally. "It's a he-said-she-said. I can't actually prove it's him if he denies it." When Alpha Male speaks, his words make my heart race. I'm about to cry.
Softly, he says, "Has this happened to you, too?"
...to be continued.
"Find a boy in a blue coat."
"Why?"
"Just do it." One boy, another classmate, laughed, "Were you felt up?" and I gave him a look I hoped would kill him on the spot. Did he know? How? The anger I felt inside scared me. What just happened?
I never did find that boy. I don't remember what, if anything I said to my parents that night. I do remember seething rage, shame, and an ultimate sense of violation. Had I found the boy, I was truly prepared to get violent. Not having physically fought at that age, I probably would have done the only thing I knew would cause boys immense pain, the thing I was specifically told not to do: kick him in the balls. Repeatedly.
Fast forward several decades and I'm in the car with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan. The topic of chikans (gropers) comes up for some reason, and he says, "You need to be careful."
"I'm always careful," I reply.
"No, I mean it. You're a target. Your type is 'in' right now."
"What's that supposed to mean? My type?"
"Japan's going through a jukujo phase." This is a new word for me.
"What's that?"
"Think about it. The characters." I do, but I can't place what the character for juku would be. I ask him.
"Ripe," he replies.
"Ripe woman?"
"Uh huh."
"What the hell is a 'ripe woman'?" He looks at me.
"Think," he says back. "You're it. Middle-aged. Experienced. Willing. Desperate."
I'm shocked. That's what Japanese men like now? This is what Japanese men think middle-aged women want? They think I project this?
"You're middle-aged," Alpha Male continues. "You're presumably," pausing, "experienced." I'm about to object to the "willing" and "desperate" part but before I can say anything he adds, "And, you've got, well, boobs--padding top and bottom. You're what men are in to now." I don't now whether this is a compliment or an insult. I'm stunned. I look down at my chest. For what? To see if my breasts are still there? I don't know what to say. Picking up on my confusion and shock, Alpha Males says, "Look. Just be careful, okay?"
Browse any Japanese porn site and sure enough, there's now a jukujo category. The requisite links to lolitas, maids, foreigners, and wives (the last fetish) are still present. Clubs listing services, prices, faces of the women with their ages compete for men from sexless marriages. Or, perhaps just those who want a little fun on the side. Who knows. The point is, there's now a category for men looking for ripe, middle-aged women. We don't have to be pretty. Or thin. In fact, many I see on these sites are neither. Willing and desperate. Those two words haunt me.
What is it about Japan where women are bought for sex (but "legally"), felt up on trains to the point there are now cars for women only, and if strong are considered loud and "not-for-marriage-material"?
"The idea is to keep men who wouldn't normally grope from going through with it. On a whim, as the poster says."
"That's stupid," I say angrily. "That makes no sense."
"It also means, the reasoning 'I did it cause I felt like it' doesn't fly."
"And this poster would make men think twice?"
"Yeah."
"Really? You really believe that?"
Alpha Male pauses. "The point is, these posters are now visible. They're posted in trains and throughout train stations. Before they weren't. Everyone knew about chikans but no one reported them. Women wouldn't say 'Stop!' so men went on groping, whereas now men are aware women can say that. And do. It's supposed to make men think twice before they do something stupid."
This man is important to me. He's my go-to man in Japan. But, that the man I think so highly of comes out with this explanation pains me. He can't believe this, can he? Is Alpha Male just another Japanese man? My silence and anger bothered him evidently, as he asks, "You okay?" No, I'm not okay. You don't get it either. You never have to worry about this. That you're huge is deterrent enough, but more than that you're male. You're Japanese. I can't possibly expect you to understand. But, you of all people--I was counting on you to get this.
None of this comes out, but I think it.
"Hey," he says, touching my arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I reply and don't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."
I'm not, of course. I think back to a television talk show I watched, a sort of "Facts About Japan" show where a group of foreigners on one side point out things uniquely Japanese, as another group of Japanese celebrities and the like offered back commentary. The group of foreigners, thirty or so, are comprised of people from different countries. On this day, a Russian woman did a report on why there was so much Japanese smut in newspapers and posters visible to all.
"It's called the 'pink pages' or something," she complained. "Why is there Japanese pornography being advertised on trains? Why do newspapers have a section reporting on where to go for sex?"
I remember this because a young woman representing South Korea spoke up following the Russian.
"Why don't women actually speak up when they're being groped on trains? Why do they suffer silently?"
Bravo, dear woman. My point exactly.
"You don't get it," I replied to Alpha Male after he checked to see whether or not I got what he was saying.
"You don't ever have to worry about groping or having unwanted advances hurled at you or being a target of harassment or assault. No one's ever going to feel you up." I'm angry. Of all people, I want him to understand. He doesn't speak for what seems a very long time. When he does I know he's choosing his words carefully.
"I can see how you'd think that," he offers. "But, Japan is changing. Japan is trying to change."
"By creating a new target of women to grope? Middle-aged women who, what?" I wave my hand around in the air. "Project it's okay to be felt up because we're desperate?"
"This is Japan," I hear him say and it almost sounds like he's pleading. "It's not right. I know it's not like this overseas," and I interrupt.
"You got that right."
He inhales.
"Look," but I cut him off.
"No. It's not right. What the hell?! I'm now a part of a targeted group of women for groping? Because of my age? Because I've got 'padding' as you say? What am I supposed to do? Not ride trains?"
"Do you want me to tell you these things or not?" He snaps at me. Oh wow. Are we fighting?
I recall this conversation to my husband.
"You've got to be careful with this 'you-can't-possibly-understand-because-your-male' attitude," he says.
"It's true, though. You can't understand."
"But, saying it that way is off-putting. It's not much of a leap for us to then say, 'Fine, then. If I can't understand I won't try.' That's not what you want."
"No, that's not what I want. I want you to fight along with us. I want you to be as upset as we are. I know you can't empathize, but I want your anger."
"Some people will understand what you're saying. Others won't. You have to decide if Alpha Male is one of those guys who will understand."
I want Alpha Male in my corner. I do want Alpha Male to tell me these tidbits about what's "in" even if I'm angered by the content. Alpha Male epitomizes objectivity, safety and neutrality. He's calm. He doesn't rattle--except during this back-and-forth about me being the latest target for gropers. I'm caught between my anger and not wanting to sound hysterical. I feel hysterical. And angry. Not wanting to actually fight him futher, I decide to tell him a story.
"I was told once about this American woman who came to Japan on business. She got felt up and fought back. She grabbed the wrist between her legs, dragged the guy off the train at the next stop and proceeded to beat the shit out of him right there on the platform. People came running over, and she was the one arrested--charged with assault. He claimed he didn't grope her. She said he did. He got off but she got arrested, all because people saw her beating him and no one but her knew it was his groping wrist she grabbed."
Neither of us say anything for awhile. "This is what I'm up against," I say finally. "It's a he-said-she-said. I can't actually prove it's him if he denies it." When Alpha Male speaks, his words make my heart race. I'm about to cry.
Softly, he says, "Has this happened to you, too?"
...to be continued.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Porn on the Train
I first heard about the Mayan calendar, the "December 21st is the last day for humankind" story on a camping trip to New Mexico years ago. Let's just say nature called out. I needed to reconnect. True I was burnt out; tired of airports, hotels, and living out of a suitcase. I camped with a group of women in the hills of New Mexico. This is most unlike me. I don't camp. It was one of those things in hindsight I can't explain. Nature has not called me to reconnect since, and I don't expect I'll commune with it even if it does. I'm simply not a nature girl. But, I digress.
It's December 21st in Tokyo, and while there are several hours left yet in the day, the world has not come crashing down around me. In fact, I had a most wonderful lunch and dinner. Coming away from it feeling tall and useful, happy and loved, I was convinced life is truly good and no way would the world come to an end today. On that note, who's December 21st are we to be looking at anyway? Whose clock officially kicks off this day? Are we to calculate this day using GMT, or on Mayan time? If the latter, December 21st starts around Pacific Standard Time in the US? That actually means December 21st is about 36 hours long for us here in Tokyo. This is too much math for me to contemplate.
I'm heading home on the subway after dinner, yawning because I haven't had enough tea today. I'm looking off into space, not really paying attention to my surroundings. Still happy from my meetings, I let myself dwell in this special moment.
I yawn again, and cover my mouth but a bit too late. Looking to see if anyone noticed I see the man sitting across from me staring. What? You've never seen a woman cover her mouth only half-way through a yawn? Sorry. Bad manners on my part. Our eyes have met. Here, he looks down to the magazine he has open in his lap. He looks up at me again. I look down at the magazine. It's porn. It's actually child pornography, but in anime, Japanese cartoons. The front cover facing me has a barely dressed preteen in an erotic pose. Well now. I look back up at him. He nods. Am I being challenged? I sit still. He nods again, this time to the empty seat next to him. Is he serious? He wants me to sit down next to him? I ponder this. Briefly. He nods again, gesturing down at the seat with his head.
I decide there is this vortex of confusion over the earth today, December 21st and all, and that our planet is trying to decide whether or not to stay alive. In this confusion, I'm thrown in front of a man reading child pornography on the train who evidently wants me to read it with him. I get up and sit down next to him. Be prepared, dear man. Bring it. You have no idea what you're getting into.
Sitting side by side, he looks at me and I look back at him. This is a fight. I can feel it. I'm determined not to lose, although I can't quite pinpoint what exactly "losing" would mean. He starts reading the magazine again. I join in. It's not reading as much as it is looking at the pictures.
Of girls being raped. Of girls giving blow jobs. Of girls. There's nothing about these drawings that would make anyone think these characters are anything but six-year olds. This is child pornography. This is smut. Possession of this child pornography in Japan is legal. He's not breaking any laws. Attempts by foreign governments to shame Japan into proposing legislation that would categorize even anime as child pornography have a). not succeeded, and b). been met with furious opposition from the "artists" who draw these scenes of torture and debauchery. "It's art," they say. Bite me.
We're both quiet. He flips pages and I follow along. The "stories" are short. He starts another and I see this one contains a dog. That's it. That's my limit.
I look at him. "You like this?"
He looks back. "Yeah."
I turn my ahead away from him and look straight ahead. People are watching us. I'm silent for a minute and then say, "Huh."
"You don't like it?"
I turn, then pause, and cock my head to the side. I'm giving him my best "you're-kidding-me" look, hoping he gets it. Straightening back up, I say, "No, I don't."
I'm not done. "I don't get why looking at this is fun. I think it's gross. This," and I point to the dog, "Really?"
"Yeah, the dog is a bit much."
"The dog is a bit much? The rest is okay?"
"Yeah. The rest is okay. It's not real."
Aaah. There it is. It's a cartoon so no one's getting hurt.
"You're foreign so you don't get it. This is okay in Japan," he says and I feel my eyes widening and I'm so close to punching him and I have to force myself to exhale.
"Well," and I take a deep breath because I'm now shaking, "in my country this is illegal." I pause for effect. "This is considered counter-culture, stupid, dirty, and the worst kind of perversion out there. You'd be arrested for reading this in my country."
"Good thing I'm in Japan then," he says.
"Yeah, only in Japan. The rest of the world thinks this is wrong. You guys are way behind the times in what's considered decent," I say and this is my cue. I get up. I've had enough.
I did not punch him. For this I'm proud of myself but only sort of. I got off the train three stations before mine. I needed air. I could feel my heart in my chest, beating furiously. I wasn't expecting to change his mind, lead him to an epiphany where he would see how morally and socially corrupt this whole "it's not real so it's okay" argument is. I equally did not see myself coming away feeling this deflated. I feel gross. My hands feel oily. I want to scrub myself clean.
It was a matter of time before this happened. Today it did, and it some how makes sense that it would on this particular day, but I know this argument will hold no water when I face a similar experience again in future and it's not a day the world is to come to an end. Deal with that then? I guess. It's frightening how wrong that answer is, and yet. And, yet.
It's December 21st in Tokyo, and while there are several hours left yet in the day, the world has not come crashing down around me. In fact, I had a most wonderful lunch and dinner. Coming away from it feeling tall and useful, happy and loved, I was convinced life is truly good and no way would the world come to an end today. On that note, who's December 21st are we to be looking at anyway? Whose clock officially kicks off this day? Are we to calculate this day using GMT, or on Mayan time? If the latter, December 21st starts around Pacific Standard Time in the US? That actually means December 21st is about 36 hours long for us here in Tokyo. This is too much math for me to contemplate.
I'm heading home on the subway after dinner, yawning because I haven't had enough tea today. I'm looking off into space, not really paying attention to my surroundings. Still happy from my meetings, I let myself dwell in this special moment.
I yawn again, and cover my mouth but a bit too late. Looking to see if anyone noticed I see the man sitting across from me staring. What? You've never seen a woman cover her mouth only half-way through a yawn? Sorry. Bad manners on my part. Our eyes have met. Here, he looks down to the magazine he has open in his lap. He looks up at me again. I look down at the magazine. It's porn. It's actually child pornography, but in anime, Japanese cartoons. The front cover facing me has a barely dressed preteen in an erotic pose. Well now. I look back up at him. He nods. Am I being challenged? I sit still. He nods again, this time to the empty seat next to him. Is he serious? He wants me to sit down next to him? I ponder this. Briefly. He nods again, gesturing down at the seat with his head.
I decide there is this vortex of confusion over the earth today, December 21st and all, and that our planet is trying to decide whether or not to stay alive. In this confusion, I'm thrown in front of a man reading child pornography on the train who evidently wants me to read it with him. I get up and sit down next to him. Be prepared, dear man. Bring it. You have no idea what you're getting into.
Sitting side by side, he looks at me and I look back at him. This is a fight. I can feel it. I'm determined not to lose, although I can't quite pinpoint what exactly "losing" would mean. He starts reading the magazine again. I join in. It's not reading as much as it is looking at the pictures.
Of girls being raped. Of girls giving blow jobs. Of girls. There's nothing about these drawings that would make anyone think these characters are anything but six-year olds. This is child pornography. This is smut. Possession of this child pornography in Japan is legal. He's not breaking any laws. Attempts by foreign governments to shame Japan into proposing legislation that would categorize even anime as child pornography have a). not succeeded, and b). been met with furious opposition from the "artists" who draw these scenes of torture and debauchery. "It's art," they say. Bite me.
We're both quiet. He flips pages and I follow along. The "stories" are short. He starts another and I see this one contains a dog. That's it. That's my limit.
I look at him. "You like this?"
He looks back. "Yeah."
I turn my ahead away from him and look straight ahead. People are watching us. I'm silent for a minute and then say, "Huh."
"You don't like it?"
I turn, then pause, and cock my head to the side. I'm giving him my best "you're-kidding-me" look, hoping he gets it. Straightening back up, I say, "No, I don't."
I'm not done. "I don't get why looking at this is fun. I think it's gross. This," and I point to the dog, "Really?"
"Yeah, the dog is a bit much."
"The dog is a bit much? The rest is okay?"
"Yeah. The rest is okay. It's not real."
Aaah. There it is. It's a cartoon so no one's getting hurt.
"You're foreign so you don't get it. This is okay in Japan," he says and I feel my eyes widening and I'm so close to punching him and I have to force myself to exhale.
"Well," and I take a deep breath because I'm now shaking, "in my country this is illegal." I pause for effect. "This is considered counter-culture, stupid, dirty, and the worst kind of perversion out there. You'd be arrested for reading this in my country."
"Good thing I'm in Japan then," he says.
"Yeah, only in Japan. The rest of the world thinks this is wrong. You guys are way behind the times in what's considered decent," I say and this is my cue. I get up. I've had enough.
I did not punch him. For this I'm proud of myself but only sort of. I got off the train three stations before mine. I needed air. I could feel my heart in my chest, beating furiously. I wasn't expecting to change his mind, lead him to an epiphany where he would see how morally and socially corrupt this whole "it's not real so it's okay" argument is. I equally did not see myself coming away feeling this deflated. I feel gross. My hands feel oily. I want to scrub myself clean.
It was a matter of time before this happened. Today it did, and it some how makes sense that it would on this particular day, but I know this argument will hold no water when I face a similar experience again in future and it's not a day the world is to come to an end. Deal with that then? I guess. It's frightening how wrong that answer is, and yet. And, yet.
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.
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