On Being Busy and the Art of Saying "No" in Japan and a Few Thoughts on "Emoji"

March is always a crazy month.  The end of the academic year for schools is also the end of the fiscal year for government organizations and even some companies.  We tie up loose ends.  Students graduate.  New hires arrive in April needing to be trained.  Government and corporate departments shift personnel leaving many with new bosses, subordinates, and colleagues in April.  Before April there is March.  Wrap everything up and move on.

Which is why we're all busy.  Which is why it takes days to respond to a simple e-mail or a phone call.  Many of us in Japan go into complete triage mode.  The loud ones, demanding an answer get it.  Everyone else?  Pick a number, sit, and wait.

I abhor the "I've been busy" line as an excuse.  People say it's true and it might be, but I find it sloppy.  I see "busy" as an issue of priorities.  Let's face it:  You DON'T rank.  When e-mails and phone calls are blown off, it means your request is less important than that of another. 

Which is why I'm struggling this month.  I'm truly busy.  I get up early and stay up late.  I go to meetings and then come back to pound my laptop keys.  Not everyone's e-mail gets a reply that same day.  I'm sorry.  But, clearly not sorry enough to get up earlier or stay up later.  It's about priorities.  I triage.  I'll reply tomorrow.  I use the same line others use on me.  I hate March.

I contemplate this now because it's March and I find it almost comical and ridiculous how much I'm working, but more so because I've taken another assignment.  As of next month I will continue my work with Rikuzentakata City Hall for one more year.  I vowed not to.  I swore I needed to focus on me.  I changed my mind.  I can and will do this for one more year.  It's the right thing to do.

But, I reserve the right to say "NO".  I've not done this until now.  You needed something?  I obliged.  You wanted something done?  I did it.  Those days are gone.  Part of recovery from any crisis--medical, personal, environmental, natural--requires figuring it out on your own.  Long-term dependency is not the answer.

City hall will not be accustomed to this new me.  So then, the inquiring minds ask, how does one go about saying "no" in Japan?  Do people just say it?  Refuse?  Shake their heads? 

No. 

The commonly understood method of turning someone down in Japan is to suck air through your teeth, cock your head, and say something, "Yeah, that's difficult."  That's a cue.  That's an incredibly good indication you won't get what you want.  I'm fully prepared to adopt this into my répertoire of phrases.  Bring it on.  Sorry people.  To quote the Rolling Stones, "You can't always get what you want."  I'm hoping my "Hmmm, difficult" utterings will help people I work with to realize this is how "you get what you need."

Side note:  I woke up to a series of Facebook texts this morning from an ex-boyfriend from high school.

"Are you coming to our high school reunion?  If not, why?"

It takes a unique group of students from a high school to be the only class in the past 30-plus years to have NOT held a class reunion.  It takes an even more unique group of students to be this way when clearly, very clearly, our class was the coolest the school had and has ever seen.

We are busy.  That's the truth.  The rag-tag gang of boarding school friends who live in Tokyo--all men but me--cannot find the time to gather for a drink or a meal because one of us (usually more than one) is somewhere else.  As in South Korea, or Singapore, or San Francisco.  On this, I renege my point from earlier.  We're not blowing each other off.  We simply are too busy and we prefer to meet as a group.  That means we're willing to wait until all can gather.

With the pressure from the one pushing us all to attend our class reunion, e-mails, LINE messages, and phone calls flew around the world throughout our day.  None of the men in my gang are subtle.  We all revert to our 17-year old selves when we talk.  All rules I apply to other men in personal and professional settings fly out the window with these guys.  They're jerks and I absolutely love them.

Our LINE messages today were peppered with emoji, art posing as punctuation marks, words, and used primarily to make a point.  I am not someone who finishes my sentence with a smiley face.  With these guys, I search through the emoji options available on my iPhone to see how to put them down, build myself up, show how grossed out I am by their teenage antics.  We are silly adults, resorting to using emoji for unicorns, bottles of wine, and hot tubs.  (But, we're still the coolest class ever.)

Perhaps a rambling post without any real point.  Then again.  Then again.

PTSD and Me

Evidently doctors hate it.  Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed.  "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes.  Do I do this, too?  Yes.  Watch me.  I'm going to right here.

I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this.  Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms.  I might be a candidate for treatment.  When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder.  Do I have PTSD?

I've been on vacation for a week.  I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day.  My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza.  We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17.  We've done so for years.  The servers know us by what we eat.  There's comfort in this routine.

Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine.  In with the new.  It's delicious.

It took us a week to get here, to Emma's.  We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19.  There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server.  We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple.  Alas.

My husband and I chat.  We look at the other customers.  I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night.  We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday.  Then I hear it.  My head jerks towards the big window.  My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.

A man on a Harley Davidson rides by.  The low rumble was his motorcycle.  I know that now.  Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to.  Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit?  To be warned?  So we can prepare?

No.  There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming.  We can't stop it.  The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake.  We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.

I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake.  My body, however, does not operate with the same speed.  I cringe.  I begin to shake.  I walk through airports with the same discomfort.  The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.

Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings.  The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake.  My mind, however, did not register safety.  Quite the opposite.  I braced myself for the impending earthquake.

Is this PTSD?  I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering.  Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge.  I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.

I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern.  Is there a solution?  Will I grow out of this?  Move on?  Get over it?  I don't know.

I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative.  So it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's what happened in December.

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

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

And then...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Warnings Fail: Chicken Little, the Boy Who Cried Wolf, and the Japan Meteorological Agency

The drama all started with an e-mail I received four days ago on a news thread I subscribe to for updates on post-disaster radiation in Fukushima.  I read it so I'm in the loop.  I'm not worried about radiation in Japan but feel better being informed.  I want to be clear on this.  Japan is not some radioactive, glow-in-the-dark hot bed of nuclear waste.  Certain parts of Fukushima are.  Don't assume all of Japan is.

The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow.  This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared.  The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.

I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before.  Everything coming from Japan is contaminated.  (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death.  (It doesn't.)  When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look.  I wanted to be clear in how I responded.  While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate.  I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago.  As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading.  The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy.  "Pure bullcrap."

This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth.  I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk.  The sky is not falling, Chicken Little.  Chill.

These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism.  When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously.  Postings like these are an egregious public disservice.  Knock it off.  Please.

Now I will switch gears and contradict myself.  My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency.  If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning.  This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right.  I trust their numbers.

Tsunami warnings are another matter.  When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters.  The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters.  One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building.  Sixteen?  No.  This error is too big to dismiss.  On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.

Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?"  We saw the tornadoes on television.  They already hit.  How is telling us this helpful?  Why hold a press conference?  Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know.  Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful.  At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.

Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States.  Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively."  I almost spewed tea reading that line.

Allow me to make the following observation:  define obsessively.  Quantify this please.  Am I to wash often, or wash for longer?  Or, is it both?  How often is often enough?  How long is long enough?  How do I know the water is safe to use?  Do I wash just with water or do I use soap?  You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice.  Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.

Language can be beautiful.  The word "warning" contains the point it makes:  to warn.  Let's allow language to do what it's meant to.  Warn me when I need to act.  The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.

Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."

Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns.  The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II.  Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions.  They come from a time where modesty was the norm.  I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share.  He's already one of a kind.  I consider him a total and complete exception.

This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement.  Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help.  Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.

Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves."  The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people.  Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations.  Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes.  The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you.  I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive."  Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends?  Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren?  Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami?  Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?

Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing.  I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse.  I do hope stories about March 11 will be told.  Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid.  Today I offer one from an adopted family member.

We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me.  I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table.  I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here.  I can picture it in my mind.  My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about?  I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way.  It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands.  Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me.  Evidently I am wrong.  I know it was pointing the other way.  I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me.  "You're just tired."  She goes to the fridge.  "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink.  These things aren't cheap, but I really like them.  I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside.  What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle.  Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen.  Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack.  Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls.  "Daddy doesn't have to go."

Dad is a volunteer firefighter.  Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days.  Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened.  He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."

The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit.  She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit.  Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet."  I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come.  Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given."  I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them.  They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers.  I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too."  Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again.  "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator."  I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says.  "My parents aren't rich.  Refrigerators aren't cheap.  At least my mother wouldn't think so."  I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor.  My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall."  I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs.  "But, it's not.  Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape.  To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible.  When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there.  Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord."  Misa is now laughing out loud.  I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."

Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not.  Misa's story shocked me.  Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item.  I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more.  What does this story tell me?  I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in.  If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced.  I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion.  What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance?  Again, I have no answers.

Parents Who Snap At Their Kids: What Post-disaster Recovery Looks Like Today

I am in no position to diagnose.  With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what.  What I can say is this:  I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku.  Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm.  Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.

Kazu is drunk.  The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes.  Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons.  His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.

"They're just too well behaved," he says.  "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod.  "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem.  We snap at the kids.  We're all tense.  We've got short fuses.  We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids.  It's not right but we do it anyway."  He sips his drink.  How many has he had?  I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out.  They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry.  Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile.  When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair.  "I did it, too," he says.  "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him.  "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb.  It's true I was mad.  Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device.  "I hate those things," he says.  "I had told Yuuki to go to bed.  He didn't, of course."  Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh.  "So I yelled at him.  Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed.  We're all like that, us parents.  We're all stressed."

It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety.  Do some?  Yes.  Do many?  Perhaps.  Probably.  The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too.   Why wouldn't he be?  Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy.  "People are giving up," he tells me.  "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting.  Change and improvement, it's so slow.  It's taking so long.  Too long."  He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.

In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year.  Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available.  It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going.  In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors.  The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents.  Or so Kazu says.

Clearly I don't have the solution.  I listen.  I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them.  I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him.  I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.

Tsunami Tendenko: Save Yourself, No Matter What

Depending on who you are, depending on where you live the date of September 11 holds a different meaning.  Today marks the 12th memorial of the terrorist attacks in the United States.  Two and a half years ago on this day, the coastline of most of northeast Japan was forever changed.  Regardless of how this day is important to you, and even if it's not, this day allows us to learn.

There's a saying in the Tohoku region of Japan.  The two-word saying is, tsunami tendenko.  These words contain a simple but powerful meaning:  if facing a tsunami save yourself first.

I've heard this from many of my adopted family and friends over the past two and a half years.  People living in Tohoku have grown up with this saying, hearing it from their parents and grandparents.  Evacuation drills stress safety and survival.  For those who live along the coastlines of Japan, that tsunamis follow an earthquake is a given.  The only escape is to get to higher ground.

It's a simple message.  Why then, did so many people lose their lives in the series of tsunamis that hit the Tohoku coast in 2011?  The answers are many.  Some are painful to divulge, while others are simply tragic.  The concept of when and how to escape begs repeating.  Fair warning:  what sounds easy isn't.  

Multiple foreign groups have visited Rikuzentakata since March 2011.  I've had the opportunity to share stories with many of them.  Part of my job is to relay information on what happened during and after the tsunami.  Another part of my job is to convey a message.  Prepare.  Think.  Have a plan.

Disasters cannot be predicted, whether natural, war, or cause by carelessness and accidents.  Many cannot be avoided.  While not diminishing routine fire and evacuation drills, the most important way to prepare is to not take disasters lightly.

This is where tsunami tendenko comes in.  Those living along the coastline of Japan are taught to run to high ground after an earthquake.  What we learned from the disaster of 2011 is as follows:  stay on high ground, remain calm but run, don't drive to evacuate, and take warnings seriously.

The tsunami hit approximately 30 minutes after the M9.0 earthquake.  Many who had run to higher ground went back to their homes and businesses thinking they had time to get their dog, their bank book, cash, and other items of importance.  The lesson learned?  Don't.

On March 9th, 2011 another large earthquake hit the same region.  A tsunami warning was issued but nothing happened.  Many who were in the towns where the warning came on March 9th stayed put on the 11th.  No tsunami two days ago meant it wasn't going to happen today either.  They paid for their mistake with their lives.

Those who tried to drive to safety ended up in a traffic jam.  Logic dictates cars run faster than people.  The truth behind this doesn't take into consideration people can get to places cars can't, and if people run they can avoid being stuck in traffic.

What does it mean to have a plan?  What does it mean to think through this plan?  Tsunami tendenko teaches people the simple message, everyone for themselves.  On the surface this seems cold and harsh but it warrants a second look.

For many, the idea of escaping to safety, to protect oneself is natural.  Our instinct is to live.  To survive.  For some, it's equally natural to want to help those around them.  Tsunami tendenko offers a simple message:  don't. 

This begs the following question:  Are you willing to die for others?  If so, whom? 

Parents naturally want to protect their children.  Are you prepared to leave everything behind (i.e. keys, cell phone, cash, passport, your backpack filled with emergency food and water) to grab your kids?  If faced with the decision of protecting your spouse over your children whom will you choose?  What about your colleagues?  Your friends?  Will you stay behind to help an injured friend or will you run for your life?

The message is simple.  Think.  Have a plan.  Stick to it.  Live.

My hope is days like September 11th will hold meaning for no one.  None of us want to commemorate disasters, whether caused by terrorists or an earthquake.  That said, none of us can see into our futures.  Life is precious.  Have a plan.

On Death and Selective Visual Intake

One of my colleagues in Rikuzentakata City Hall came up to me yesterday saying he has something to tell me.  Ichiro has the ability to know when to be serious and when to cut loose.  Because I like all of my colleagues in my office, I can’t say, “Ichiro is one of my favorite people in city hall.”  That said, I enjoy his company immensely.  With each trip up north (even when we have spats of disagreement and hard feelings linger for a few hours or days) I’m reminded how lucky I am to have intelligent, interesting, hardworking people around me.  I like my co-workers.

Ichiro and I are alone in the crowded kitchenette.  I sense his news is not positive but I can’t imagine what it might be.

“XXX-san,” he starts, and immediately I don’t follow.  I shake my head to show I don’t know who he’s talking about.  Ichiro switches to the man’s last name.  “XXX-san,” and I nod, “he went into the hospital awhile back, and,” Ichiro pauses, “and he passed away.”

I’m often amazed at how our minds can process extreme volumes of information in a split second.  Here was one of those moments.  I’m struck by two facts immediately.  There are thirteen of us in the executive section of city hall.  I did some quick mental math and determined I’m the third oldest.  Of the thirteen, three are referred by title (mayor, deputy mayor, director), two are referred to by their last names, and the remaining eight, myself included are called by our first names.  I take back what I said about rigid hierarchy in Tohoku.  At the very least, in our department within city hall here, that rule doesn’t apply.  We are friendly, genuinely caring of one another, and aren’t all that concerned about who’s what age.  Nowhere else in Tohoku have I seen such casual use of first names.  The man who passed away was a manager, which usually means he would receive the courtesy of being called just “manager.”  Instead they referred to this man by his first name.  I didn’t, which is why when Ichiro first used the man’s first name I didn’t recognize whom he was referring to.  Add to this, it's been awhile since I've seen him.

This second fact hits me hard.  As I listen to Ichiro explain in more detail, it dawns on me I’ve not seen this man at his desk on my past several trips to city hall.  I just assumed he was on a business trip, had already left for the day, or there was some other reason for his absence.  It never occurred to me and I never asked whether he might be unwell.

What we choose to see, whether we choose to see what happens in our daily lives and routines isn’t evident until we’re forced to stop and look.  I noticed this yesterday on a different matter but kept my thoughts to myself. 

Yesterday I accompanied a visitor through a tour of Rikuzentakata, explaining what was where, what happened, why the remaining buildings are significant.  At one of the buildings I stopped at, after I gave him some space to take in the symbols of what occurred over two years ago, I directed his attention to the remnants of household items buried in the sand-dirt mixture of what used to be a home.

“Look,” I say and point.  “Here are pieces of a bowl.  Here’s a cooking pot.  Here’s a sweater, and here a t-shirt.”  He looks down and I know he’s shocked and bothered by the realization I’m sharing with him.  These were homes.  People lived here.  People died here.  Then I see it.  A tube of wasabi lies between tall weeds.  I point it out to him.  That tube has been here for almost 30 months, unmoved.  Next to it is a crumpled up brassiere. 

I was just here last week, at this exact same spot.  I was here several times.  How did I miss these?  The slippers, pot, and shards I remember.  The t-shirt and sweater I could tell myself I saw and believe it if I had to.  The wasabi?  No.  The bra?  There’s no way these were there last week.

I glaze.  Some parts of post-disaster life register everyday activities and images, while other items I “see” but don’t.  I had two separate camera crews with me here last week and must have spent an hour between the two crews walking through these tall weeds and talking.  Making a point to show them as much detail as possible, I can’t honestly believe I walked right past these items.  Did they not register?  Did I not see them?  Was I glazing?  Did I choose not to see?

Back in city hall, after my meeting with the mayor, I walk past my late colleague’s desk and notice a tall bouquet of flowers, a white lily prominently standing out from among the rest.  I didn’t see these before.  They’ve surely been here all day.  All day I’ve been here in this office walking past his desk this way and that, and it’s only after I’m informed of his death that I see the memorial flowers.

Lilies are not my favorite flower.  They stink and they remind me of when I laid a similar bouquet into my brother’s coffin.  Let me rephrase.  I hate lilies.  All the more reason why I would have, should have noticed this collection of flowers on his desk.

Routine and patterns;  when everything around me becomes familiar I don’t notice the details.  It’s one thing not to stop and smell the roses because “I’m too busy.”  If I don’t even notice roses are there I have a whole other problem.

I blame fatigue, and then defend myself by saying this is a defense mechanism I use to protect myself.  If I acknowledge every piece of pain-inducing item present in this disaster zone there’s no limit to the mental and emotional exhaustion I would experience.  I have to block things out.  Right?

Or do I?

I have to wonder how many “roses” I’ve walked past without even noticing their presence. It takes a death of a colleague for me to admit there’s a lot I’ve closed my eyes to in Tohoku.  I’m not quite sure what to do with that.

Mayor Dad

It was April 2011 when I first met Mayor Futoshi Toba.  Thinking back, this must have been a few days after a policeman in Rikuzentakata, the mayor's cousin, found the body of the mayor's wife.  I didn't know this at the time. 

On this same day, standing in front of what was the make shift city hall a young boy of about six walked by me, carrying his sister of three or so on his back piggy-back style.  He called out a hearty "good morning!" and this sight made me choke up instantly.  Here was a classic example of post-disaster strength.  I wasn't expecting to see it from a child. 

Having lost his wife on March 11, 2011 Mayor Toba became a reluctant single parent.  I'd never heard of Rikuzentakata until this day, much less stepped foot in it so I've not ever met Mrs. Toba.  The stories I hear make me want to have known her.  I never will.  I have, however, gotten to know the mayor well.  His two sons, too.  With so much change in their lives, it would be understandable if these two teenage boys were confused, troubled, or even wild.  They're not.  In fact, I don't think I've met boys who are so well behaved, well adjusted, and happy even.

I visited the mayor's home the night before the second memorial this year.  He held a small dinner, and I joined the gang.  The boys are ardent basketball fans so I took Boston Celtics gear, chiding them for having other team paraphernalia on their bedroom walls.  We compared notes on who the best NBA players were, with me making sure Celtics heroes were named often.

The mayor has been frank in sharing the younger boy is the one who's had the most difficulty with his mother's death.  Indeed, the morning of the memorial service, he was silent, sullen, and pained.  The joking from the night before was gone.  I realize this is neither the time nor place to remind him of how he silently handed me a Celtics mug, both of us grinning at his conversion to a true basketball fan.  I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would change the meaning of this day.

Which is why Mayor Toba's recent postings on his Facebook page celebrating the fact both boys are now able to talk about their mother in daily conversation is such welcome news.  Until now the mayor's reminders of their mother's words, "No, you can't have ice cream before dinner!  What would your mother say?" were not met with grins or replies.  Today they talk about their mother more freely, with real and imaged words that may or may not have come from Mrs. Toba.

The boys are well mannered.  They get along well.  Teenage angst does not seem to have kicked in.  On one particular night, however, the mayor came home to two boys who were on the verge of quarreling.
The older, "He won't let me read his comic book!"
"The pages are always smudged and messy whenever he gives them back to me after he reads them!" the younger objects.
"Are not!"
"Yes, they are!"

Somewhere in this not-quite-yet-a-fight, one of them said, "Remember when mom said..." which prompted the other one to reply, "I'm like mom in that..." as the mayor stood by and listened letting the boys hash it out on their own.  Happy they can talk about their mother in this way, it was not important who was saying what, but more they were both able to talk about their mother.  

I'm an observer standing on the sidelines watching this unfold.  I'm proud of the mayor, and proud of his boys.  On my trip up to Rikuzentakata in early August I'm taking bagels for the younger boy (his new favorite food) and a big Celtics mug (to compete with his brother's) for the older son.  I'm looking forward to what fodder this might become for boy-and-auntie banter.

On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)

A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R.  Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat.  As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r.  Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice.  Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced. 

When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm.  My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm.  Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating.  Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing.  In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player."  Very, very different things.  Perhaps you had to be there.  I didn't find much om that day.  Too much giggling.

On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused.  Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands.  "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased.  Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you."  Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!"  I stop.  Are they saying, "Love you"?  I can't tell.  If they are, this is huge.  Like is a safe word.  Like a lot is also okay.  But, love is reserved for the super special.  I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured.  The tots don't let up though and I must respond.  I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.

I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh!  A new word!" or a "Pffft.  We knew that one."  We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.

The Problem With Giving

Large organizations, UNHCR and Harvard Medical School and the like are said to offer up "two" as the magic number.  Two years post a natural disaster and things change.  Aid dries up, and those left behind must find their own way.  I've pondered this of late as I found myself muddling through a sea of obnoxious requests, outrageous comments made about aid received, and an overall ugly sense of entitlement creeping into the Tohoku disaster region as a whole.  Two-plus years since a series of tsunamis wiped out Japan's northeastern coastline, there's absolute truth work still needs to be done.  Equally, a victim-mentality and a "gimme gimme" environment is now just as prevalent as is the community of those who are striving to move on.

If the statement "what doesn't break you makes you stronger" is true, many in Tohoku are now broken.  How and where does one find the will to rebuild without an income?  Those who are elderly (adult diaper sales surpassed baby diaper sales for the first time in Japan) should take out a loan to build a house where they will ... what?  Move in and die?  Words like these sound crass and cold.  That doesn't make them untrue.

Wide-spread depression, questions on how to move forward, whether life is worth living are all present.  This is not to say most feel this way.  I say this to point out with the passage of time and little tangible improvement hope wanes.

Is it then natural for those so used to the twisted combination of grief and pain who have also asked for and received pretty much all they need to now use their loss to ask for more?  The word to focus on is "natural" and the implication, "is this normal?"  That I am being asked to raise funds for items no one would dare have wished for just a few months back ... what does this mean?

Some complaints I've heard about items received remind me of an ill-behaved child who would scold grandma for giving her a birthday cake with white icing instead of pink.  Others impress me with their justification for why they need a new (insert pretty much anything here).

I can't quote the Rolling Stones and sing to them "you can't always get what you want."  Nor can I bring up the example of how ridiculous it is for little girls to ask for ponies for Christmas, the ultimate in a "but I want one thus deserve it" argument.  In the minds of many disaster victims, they truly "need" that item the rest of us don't have.  Does their pain explain their behavior?  Does being a victim mean they should get to ask for whatever they want and expect it?  If you knew the kinds of requests I'm getting I think you would agree, the answer is "NO."

Giving in post-disaster Tohoku needs to change.  For this to happen, donors must know what defines a "must have" versus "wouldn't it be nice if."  This requires a level of honesty among those in Tohoku that is lacking.  There's no other nicer way of saying this.  For many outside of Tohoku there's a real desire to help, especially now that time has passed and the residents left behind feel forgotten.  Offering up everything on their wish list is not the way to offer aid.  They won't like me saying this, but again, that doesn't make it any less true.

The ugliest part about this is what I can't and won't share:  the actual examples.  I purposely block the nasty parts of the reality of Tohoku giving (and receiving) from reaching you because if you knew what some wanted and that word got out to the donors ("they asked for what?") aid would dry up right then and there.  (At least from that donor and others they choose to tell.)  This is why I post updates like this.  You're getting the truth.  Just not all of it. 

My point is this:  I ask for reflection from donors going forward.  Are you giving because you want to check off your "I donated" box?  Is this a real need?  Whom does it help?   This is not a band-aid?  Where are you getting your information?  How much of this aid is actually reaching the recipient?  Do you trust the NPO/NGO/organization you're donating to?  Are you sure they're not sucking up your donation as they "spread it out among the locals"?

The magical "two year mark" has come and gone.  Going forward, I ask for and urge caution, care, honesty, and rechecking facts before checks are cut, items sent, offer extended.  No, little girls in Tohoku do not deserve a "pony" for their birthday.  Grandma gives you a birthday cake?  The words you're looking for are "thank you" and not a complaint about the color of the icing.  Yes, these are examples.  I settle for these as the truth would make us all weep.

Think before you give.  I'm gently working in Tohoku on the "think before you ask" part.  Hopefully between the two parties putting more thought into what is truly needed there can be more of the kind of aid truly needed.

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.

What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate

Let me be clear.  I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual.  These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings. 

Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu.  Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.

First, a brief history lesson.  Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town.  This was in the 1600s.  More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000.  Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk.  Park benches were strategically placed.  By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.

The key word here is "was."  All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people.  Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching.  They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.

Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing.  Or, again, was. 

The short version is this:  this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died.  Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011.  The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do.  On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting.  "Life goes on" is what it says.  "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out.  The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose.  Or, it could attempt to preserve it.  But, how?  How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree?  And who pays for this?

Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips:  "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument?  That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did.  It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial."  There's some sense to this.  Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster.  What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this:  people died here.  For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders.  Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together.  Save the buildings?  So others can visit and learn and understand?  What about those with band-aids?

The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made.  Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost.  It was war.  No apples and oranges comparison here.  Apples and spaghetti, maybe.  War and tsunamis are both disasters.  Apples and spaghetti are both food.  The comparison ends there.

Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree.  The cost for this was unprecedented:  preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date.  The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars.  That's a lot of money for a tree.  Yes.

Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?"  Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg."  Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to."  Here's where I roll my eyes.  Dear people.  Do your homework before you cast stones.  Please.

The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment.  Fine.  It's no longer a "tree."  So what?  The tree died.  Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"?  That provides hope?  To whom?  How?

True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep.  But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat.  The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics.  I live in Tokyo.  As far as I can see, we're fine here.  We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive.  Why is no one writing about that?  Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds? 

If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing.  This is not the case.  I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city.  Right there is proof money is not drying up.

As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey.  You really have no clue, do you?  We would be building homes faster if we could.  Typical of what the city faces is this:  thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing.  That's the problem.  Not a tree.

Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive.  I get that.  I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales.  It's the name of the game, I suppose.  Sad, really.

Tales from Rikuzentakata: "That's All I Did."

No spin.  No embellishing.  This is a story without preservatives.  Made with all natural ingredients, it comes straight from the front lines of disaster-stricken Rikuzentakata. 

Teiichi Sato is a man who looks like he chops down trees in his spare time.  Barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper hair flying in all directions, he's quick to tear up and quick to recover.  He's one of the victims-turned-survivors from the tsunami that wiped away the City of Rikuzentakata, his store and home included. 

Mr. Sato will be the first to admit his mind did not belong to him for a month after the tsunami took away everything he owned.  "I wasn't myself.  I didn't know what to do.  My mind?  It was white.  Like that screen on television, black and white static.  I had nothing."  Today, he is the proud owner of his seed store selling literally seeds and seedlings.  How anyone can stay in business selling only seeds, competing with the giant box-stores selling the same seeds for less--this is a mystery to me.  I don't ask questions.  His income, he tells me is "Less than what most people make around here" but this doesn't seem to bother him.  Personifying stubbornness, a fierce will to live, and commitment to survival, the hostility he showed to his customers two summers ago when he was working through this PTSD is all but a memory.

"I wanted to get this story out from inside me.  That I rebuilt this store, if you can call it that....that I rebuilt it from scraps of debris that I found all over town.  That I rebuilt my store to show that even someone normal like me can start over.  That even someone like me who lost everything can still live.  I wanted to get this story out but it was too painful to write it in Japanese."
I nod as I listen.
"So I wrote it in English.  And then Chinese."  Here he drops the bomb.  "But I don't speak, read, or write English or Chinese."  He laughs.  "So, I looked up words in the dictionary one after the other, and then started putting together not knowing at all whether my English was correct.  Then I heard of an English teacher who was holding classes here in town once a month and I asked for help.  He and I worked through my manuscript, polishing it so it was presentable.  And then I published it.  It's not high prose, but it's readable."  He says this as if it's no big deal at all to write a book in two languages he doesn't understand.  He did the same thing with the Chinese document.  "Dictionaries are really helpful," he says, nonchalantly.  "Get a native speaker to check your work, and" he claps his hands together, "just like that, you've gotten out what was pent up inside.  That's really all I did."

That is most definitely not all he did.  It never occurred to me here is where I would found the one person I know in my life who wrote a book about a terrible and painful experience in two languages he neither comprehended nor ever used.  The result is a short book revealing grief and hope in ways only he can retell and capture.  I won't spoil it for you.  Don't buy it if you're not interested.  If you are, however, here is a true, first-hand account of a victim who turned himself into a survivor out of sheer will.  Read and weep as many have. 

Please contact me at amya@city.rikuzentakata.iwate.jp if you are interested in purchasing a copy.  Each book costs 1500 yen.  You will need to pay via bank transfer.  I will provide you with details.
It's worth it.  Take my word for it.

More Firsts in Japan: Pulled Over by Cops

The memorial services marking two years since a giant tsunami tore apart most of Tohoku are next week.  This means the hotels along the coastline are booked with press and visitors.  That means I'm staying in a hotel far inland, and hour and a half each way to Rikuzentakata City Hall where I work.  I'm okay with this.  I listen to books downloanded onto my iPhone as I drive safely tucked in my car in my own personal space.  With no one around me this is precious alone-time I crave. 

I'm deep into my book, listening and driving when my other phone rings.  I see it's someone who's in New York City and know I need to answer this call.  Not having time to unplug my headset, type in my password and stop the recording, log into my other phone and plug in my headset, on a whim I pick up the phone and put it to my ear.  One hundred meters down the road, I see a blue car pulling up next to me, hear a honk, look in my review mirror, and a few seconds later see it's a police car.  Crap.  Not good.  A cop is saying something to me over the loud speaker which I don't really hear--I'm talking on the phone after all--but I get the gist.  I'm busted.  I don't curse the way I would normally, not wanting to mystify the person in New York with my foul language but tell him I have to go and hang up on him.  I see a young officer in the mirror jump out of the cop car, come to my window which I roll down, tyring to smile as he says, "You can't talk on the cell phone."  I nod.  "Please bring your license and your phone and follow me."  Oh joy.  This is the first time I've ever been pulled over by the police in Japan.  I push aside the temptation to record this new experience as an anthropologist might, observing the process and noting it for future generations, instead deciding to be humble, obedient, and cooperative.  I will not pick a fight the way I've been known to with Tokyo cops.  I will not.

I sit in the back seat of the police car as the driver-cop says again, "You can't talk on the phone while you're driving." 
"I know," I reply and decide not to apologize right off the bat.  Clearly, my not-so-pleasant experiences with Tokyo cops not entirely out of my system, I sense in myself the combativeness starting to ooze out.  "Control yourself" I say in my head.  He takes my license, reads my name and asks if this is me.  "Yes."
"This will be a fine.  That's it."  Here, I decide this is his way of saying I won't have points shaved off my license.  I've been told of this dreaded points-system, something every driver fears.  I've heard rumors about a license with points increasing my insurance rate, delaying the ability to obtain the coveted "Gold License" showing what a wonderful driver I am.
"Thank you," I say showing I am indeed capable of being remorseful and appreciative.
"You can pay your fine at any bank or the post office."
"I understand."
"What do you do here?"  For a split second, I contemplate whether I should offer up my title at Rikuzentakata City Hall or say I work for my visa sponsor.  I go for the former.  "I'm the Global Public Relations Director for the City of Rikuzentakata."  The cops look at each other.  Are they contemplating whether this qualifies for an exemption?  In the States, I've been known to conjure up tears when I want to get out of a ticket.  It's worked and I'm not adverse to using this method to prove how sorry I am, worthy of a warning but not a fine.  I've been told this won't work in Japan and decide not to tempt fate although I'm positive I could make myself cry on cue if I absolutely had to.  Before I complete this thought I also realize in giving them my title, I must now inform the mayor, deputy mayor and several other people in city hall of this traffic stop.  I immediately start writing the e-mail in my head, appropriately apologetic, explaining why I took the call, etc.  I can visualize the mayor, half-annoyed and half-amused laughing as he tries to scold me.  City hall will be buzzing with this news when I arrive tomorrow.  Great.

I'm handed the form I'm to take to the bank or post office to pay my fine.  I lean in, looking at it.  I decide to try something.
"I've never been stopped in Japan so I don't know how to do this," I say, and then, "Can I pay this at any bank?"
"Yes," the driver-cop tells me very politely and I wonder if he's just a bit sorry he pulled me over.  I allow myself a quick fantasy about how he'll have to explain to his superior who will surely read my title and yell at him for "not finding a way to let her go."  A girl can dream.
"Once you pay the fine, that ends everything.  It's not like you'll be on trial or anything," and here it takes everything I have not to crack up.  A trial?  For talking on a cell phone? 
"I see."
"You must pay this by March 11th," he says, pointing to the date on the form.  "This much," he says, pointing to my fine.
"I will."

They go over the paperwork, ask to see my phone, take down the model number (I kid you not) and then ask, "Was this a work-related phone call?"  I decide I will give them all the details.  That I've been playing phone tag with this man who's now in New York, that this has to do with children in Rikuzentakata, assistance for them, etc., etc., etc.  (Just a few guilt-inducing facts in case it registers.)  Maybe I'll end up on some list of people not to pull over?  Again, a girl can dream.

"Please sign here," and I'm handed the form which I sign.  And then, "And here," he points to the space above my signature, "Explain why you took the call."  I look up from my signature blankly.  He understands my confusion.  "Say that you had an important call to take, that it was about work."  Oh.  I get it.  I explain myself in the best Japanese handwriting I can muster up, adding for good measure the call came from the US.

When it's all done, I take the rest of the drive slowly and continue writing the e-mail to the mayor in my head wondering just how much of a scolding I'll get.

Life in Japan.  And so it continues...

Post-Earthquake Update

The M7.3 earthquake that hit off the coast of northeastern Japan last night has left many in Tohoku shaken.  Too close to where "the big one" hit 20 months ago, memories kept right under the surface pop out again like pimples.  It's too soon.  It's too raw.

I was in Rikuzentakata City Hall when the earthquake hit.  There was a bit of a roar, the earth rumbling with a warning, but it wasn't enough of a notice for us to prepare.  Our pre-fab building shook.  A lot.  Items started falling off the shelves.  People got up, propping up tall file cabinets, bookshelves and the like.

I sat.  It's all so unreal.  That famous line from cop shows "It happened so fast" is real in ways I don't want it to be.  There's also a sense this is happening around me.  It's as if I'm not really a part of this.  Japan is not my country.  I feel oddly disconnected.  I'm not technically a Rikuzentakata City Hall employee.  They've already been through this with disastrous consequences.  Having lost one quarter of their employees and another 100 or so in contract workers, they know the drill.  Literally. 

And, I do mean it literally.  Once the shaking subsided everyone went into action.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

There are lessons to be learned here.  Immediate lessons we need to drive home.  Not just for those of us here in Tohoku, but for every kind of disaster.

I reflect upon the following:

1).  I've always thought I had an escape plan.  To be fair, I did.  Having said that, I never made myself go through a "drill" of any sort.  Behind the apartment I stay in is a hill, and I can see where I would go to escape, but I've never practiced.  I don't know how long it takes.  This is not okay.  Considering we are to be prepared for aftershocks for awhile, I will do this today.

2).  With time we all become more complacent.  While I can argue how normal this is and many would agree, this is dangerous.  My cell phones are often only half-charged.  It wouldn't hurt if I could find (and then carry) a small solar-powered flashlight.  It's simply not smart to assume anything.  It's hard to always be vigilant.  It's harder to be caught off guard and thus completely screwed.

3).  People care.  My phone rang frequently with people checking up on me.  "Where are you?"  and "Are you okay?" were welcome questions, especially considering my family were fast asleep in the US.  It's okay to hang onto these lifelines.  It's further okay to...

4).  Ask for help.  The apartment I stay in when I'm in Tohoku is too near the ocean for my comfort at times like this.  I called friends who live in town, a good distance from the coast and asked to spend the night there.

5).  Follow the leader.  There are people who have to be calm in situations like this, and they're resources.  Use them.  Trust them.

In Rikuzentakata City Hall, there were those who went straight into battle-mode.  Others clung to each other.  At first glance, it looked as if they were hugging.  It's not a hug when you don't or can't let go.

I'm concerned about post-earthquake trauma.  Sirens, a good source of information because they always follow with an announcement are actually ominous and eerie.  Necessary but they're not tools that induce calm. 

I'm okay.  I will be okay.  I have people I can rely upon and I will spend the rest of the afternoon preparing while trying not to obsess or feel stress.

Prepare yourselves, people.  It's the right thing to do.

The Ultimate Telling Off

The 2012 Best Television Commercial Award in Japan went to Toyota and the series of ads they created for the Prius.  Here again is one of these "I can't make this up" stories.  Look up on YouTube "Toyota Prius CM" and "Kimura Takuya" or "Beat Takeshi."  The commercials are called "Toyota ReBorn" numbering quite a few.  Try to start at the beginning.  Here's the storyline.

Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, two lords notorious for betrayal, rivalry and war in Japanese history meet in modern-day Japan as Kimura Takuya and Beat Takeshi, two major and current celebrities.  Kimura and Beat go on a road trip, with Beat giving the younger Kimura instructions.  "Take the highway up north," and several commercials later they end up in Tohoku, Ishinomaki to be exact.  Along the way they pick up Matsuko Deluxe, an popular and obese transvestite who's seen hitchhiking in a flowing black gown (looking very much like the grim reaper to me) who ends up being the wife or mistress of one of the two men.  (I've forgotten enough of my Japanese history that I don't understand the historical significance of this woman.  Google "Oichi-no-Kata" for more details.)

Once in Ishinomaki, they visit what used to be an evacuation shelter (now boarded up).  While there, Beat says to Kimura, "Let's go to the ocean."  What comes next is the best, most honest telling off--of the ocean.  Beat screams, face twitching, the ultimate Japanese version of "F*** you."  Technically, yelling "Bakayaro!" at the ocean that destroyed Ishinomaki and countless other cities and towns along the coast, he's calling the ocean stupid.  Anyone who knows this man, however, knows he doesn't just say "stupid." His language is much more coarse.  Not known for being nice or polite, Beat is absolutely, most definitely saying anything akin to just "stupid."  In this one word, he does what we've all wanted to do since March 11th.  The commercials are strong, powerful, and painful all at the same time.  They deserve the award.  If I were creating these commercials, I might have added Bolero as the soundtrack, but that's just me.

The commercials are worth watching.  I applaud Toyota's audacity, their ability to take a subject not the least bit funny, taking two men admired and loved and turning a hybrid car into the medium by which to tell a story, express anger, and remind people to care.  Watch it.  Laugh and cry.  Care.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afzj_J8MizM