"We needed to keep her alive."

Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources. 

In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato.  I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers.  I have an appointment with him next week.  More on this in a moment.

We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do.  It's lovely.  I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.

"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely.  He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved.  I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him.  He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.

Her friend was a student of hers.  "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata."  Now I'm confused.  Her friend was washed away?  As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived?  I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it.  Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people.  Hence my confusion.  She was "washed away" and then treated later?

"It was a miracle," my friend says. 
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake.  The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami.  The woman was at home with her three children.  After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape. 

"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says.  "Bad luck, you know?"  I nod.  "She had to turn the car around.  By that time, the water engulfed the car.  The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it.  My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet.  That's the last thing she remembers."

The woman survived.  All six of them were tossed out of the car.  She was found later, the only one breathing.  Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.

"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law.  Six people.  Everyone in her family.  She's the only one who survived."  I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?"  I'm not sure I would.
"I know.  I know.  Right?  We needed to keep her alive.  We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend.  Here again; women helping women.

"She's not doing well now.  It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve.  It's not good.  She's not well.  At all."

Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.

The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."

The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon.  The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach.  We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain. 

Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories.  And repeat them.

Why human translators/interpreters will always have work

As I sit at my desk pounding away at my keyboard translating Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm struck over and over again of my role.  Mayor Toba is the author.  I'm the translator.  I'm responsible for putting his words into another language, conveying meaning, context, content, words, and feeling the way he wrote it.  My words need to mirror his words.  On the one hand I'm honored by the responsibility.  On the other hand, it's a helluva burden to carry.

Except not all translators operate the same way.  I once worked with an interpreter who felt it was his role, nay responsibility, to interject his opinion into the conversation.  (It's not.)  We had long discussions into the night, and ultimately I gave up.  Go knock yourself out, buddy. 

Then there are those who simply do not know how to use interpreters and translators.  I once told a group of people using bilingual staff they were "burning through your interpreters."
"No we're not," was their reply.  "We've used interpreters before, Amya."  I almost said, "Not well, evidently," except my phone rang and I took that as a sign that was my time to leave both the conversation and the group.  (It's a long story.)

Ultimately, how well words and text are conveyed from one language to another is the responsibility of the one repeating the words, and the one hiring that "repeater."  It goes both ways.

Which is why when I see signs like this, I can only shake my head in wonderment. 

Is this intentional?  Not being a dog person, I can't tell if this is some inside joke, or if the owners of this store selling doggie goods thought they were being smart, stylish, and catchy.

Right next door to Dog-Wiz is this store.

I'm not sure what is says about me that I can't say whether "Scorn Jazz" is a type of legitimate jazz style.  Or, perhaps being scorned at a jazz cafe is a fetish trend in Japan?

The conversation I had regarding the jacket worn by this man clearly makes my point of the day.  (WARNING:  R-rated language coming.)

I saw him in the group of about 100 or so people gathered at this event, mostly because the foreigners in the group were stopping him, making him turn around, reading his jacket and then either giving him a thumbs up (usually preceded by guffawing) or shaking their heads.  I had honestly put this man out of my mind until I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"You're Amya, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"Can you tell me?  Is this jacket, uh, 'bad'?"  He turns around.  I see this.

Oh my.  Oh my, my, my, my.  Oh, wow.  What do I say?  What can I possibly say?  He turns over his shoulder to look at me.  "Answer him," I think to myself.  I need to answer him.
"Well, uh...." and I've got nothing.  Nada.  Honestly.  I don't know what to say.
"That bad?"
"Uh, well, hmmm.  I wouldn't wear this outside of Japan," is finally decide upon, but then again, I wouldn't wear this in Japan either.
"Can you tell me what it means?"
No.  I can't.  I can't translate this.  Again, I've got nothing. 
"I don't know what to say," and I decide to fold.  "I don't know how to translate this."
"It's bad, huh?"
"Yeah.  It's bad." I also decide to be honest.
"Okay.  Thanks."  And, with that, I'm saved.  He walks away, but I decide what I've just seen must be recorded, and I snap a photo.

Not checking with a native speaker before naming a store or putting words on a jacket is not a problem exclusive to Japan.  I've certainly google-translated a sentence before and then used it.  The point here is that native speakers, those who truly get the nuanced meaning behind what's being conveyed cannot be replaced by machines.  All this to say, you translators and interpreters out there who know your stuff, can walk the walk head held high, you will continue to have work.  Finding that work is another matter entirely.

Random Act of Kindness

I fire up my iPhone as I get off the plane, checking for phone messages during the two weeks I was home.  A text message pops up with one word.  "Shipside."  It's from Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  I stop in my tracks.  Still half way down the gangplank, I stare at the message on the screen.  Shipside means "I'm coming out to the plane to get you."  It takes sway, real sway with real connections to get permission to come out to the plane.  He has this sway, I know, because he came shipside last March when I first arrived to volunteer.  I keep walking, slowly, thinking this through.  Alpha Male is coming shipside?  When?  Today?

"Hey," I hear, and look up.  "Welcome home."  And, just like that, there he is standing by the wall, under one of the many Citibank ads covering the tunnel from the plane into the airport.

"Hey," I say back, completely stunned.

"Come on," he says, "You're holding up the line."  I am.  People are trying to move around me, some still behind me.  "Let's go."

"What are you doing here?" I ask as I follow him down the rest of the narrow hallway.

"I came to get you," I think I hear, but he's in front of me so I'm not sure.  He acts if this is the most natural thing in the world.  I tag along behind him, still totally dumbfounded.  We all mull into the concourse, walking fast.

"Why?"  It's not what I mean to ask, but this is what comes out.

"Come on.  I'll get you through immigration and customs.  We'll talk later."  We walk in silence.  I've not been this confused in a long time.  What is he doing here?

I look at his back as he walks in front of me.  I'm reminded of how I described him to my son on one of my last trips home.

"He's as wide as he is tall," I said.  My son guffawed.  "That would make him a cube."  We both laughed.  "I get it," my son then said.  "He's a big guy."

That's putting it mildly.  He is big.  The phrase "parting the waters" comes to mind.  People simply move out of his way.  This is the man in Japan whom I feel safest around.  He's just the slightest bit badass, and people really do look at him and scurry.  He could and would beat the crap out of people harassing me if I asked him to.  In this context, size matters.  Walking behind him, I realize in the sea of medium-sized people, he sticks out.  What a sight we must be.

At immigration, I walk towards the line of people standing to get passports stamped, and he tugs at my arm.  "This way."  I follow again, silent and still confused.  He stops in front of an immigration official standing at the room reserved for "problem passengers."  The officer beams, recognizing Alpha Male.  Of course.  I shouldn't be surprised he's known all over the place.  The immigration man greets Alpha Male by name.

"What are you doing here?"  Alpha Male nods his head over to me.  "Came to get her," and uncharacteristically, starts talking fast.  "I brought her in last year, late March.  Remember her?"  I see the immigration guy look at me.  It’s de ja vu.  I know I was here last year with Alpha Male, but I couldn’t tell you if this was the man who processed me then.  "This one came here to volunteer up north last year.  She's back.  Rather, she's been back.  She’s been working up north again since December."  Here, Alpha Male takes the passport I've been holding, and shoves it into the official's hand.  "Stamp it.  Let her in.  Quickly.  She's tired."  "She's tired"?  Well, yes I am, but since when does he talk to airport officials this way?  What the hell is going on?!

The passport is taken from Alpha Male with a quick bow, and the man runs back into the room, and within a minute, he's back bowing again as he hands it back to me.  "Thank you for what you're doing for Japan," he says.  I'm still having a hard time understanding what's going on.  All I can muster is a bow back.  Alpha Male jumps in.  "Why don't we go up there and work?  Because we can't, right?  We've got work," and I know he's being sarcastic.  "It takes a foreigner to get things done.  We should be ashamed."  The man from immigration nods, looking down at the floor.  I'm now officially totally and completely embarrassed.  I bow, and when I look up, Alpha Male is walking down the stairs towards baggage claim.  I run to catch up.

"How many bags?" He asks over is shoulder.

"Two.”

"Show me."  We stand next to the baggage carousel both quiet.  When my two come out, I point, and he grabs them as if they're filled with nothing.  Pushing my cart he marches forward, and I'm running again.  At customs, he just walks on through saying "She's got nothing to declare," as if daring the man to stop him.  I look at the uniformed customs cop standing behind the counter who is looking just as confused as I feel.  He looks back at me.  He doesn't say anything, so I hand him my paperwork, and take this as a cue to follow my host.

Once out in the waiting area, he says "You like the Chinese place here, right?  Let's go.  My treat."

"Wait," I say, finally finding my words, and I stop walking.  "Stop.  What is this?  What's going on?  How did you know when I'd arrive?  Why are you here?  What are you doing here?  I mean it.  Really. What's going on?"

"Food first," is his response, and he's walking again.  I roll my eyes, but then it hits me.  Something must be wrong.  This is way too weird to be just a normal "I came to get you” visit.  I will simply wait for him to tell me.  There must be a good explanation for all this.  He’ll tell me soon enough, I’m sure.  I’ll make him tell me.  Ha.  Right.

We're seated in the back of the restaurant, which is my favorite place to eat in the airport.  How he knows this is beyond me, but this whole evening has been too strange so I put it out my head.  “Stop wondering how he knows,” I tell myself.  He stares at the menu, and then looking up asks "What do you want?  Eat.  Anything you want.  It's on me tonight."  At this I laugh, partly annoyed, partly amused. 

"When have you ever let me pay for anything?"  He doesn't laugh back.  Great.  Now I've pissed him off.  "Order," he says, and calls over a server.  I quickly tell her what I want and finally sit back, giving him my best "Well?" look.

"I realize you're surprised," he starts.

"You think?  What the hell is going on?"  I snap at him.  He stops.  I'm sorry.  I'm not.

"Let me talk for a few minutes," he looks up at me, probably checking if I'll snap again.  I don't.  "Let me just talk.  Okay?"  There's something in his voice.  It's softer.  There's nothing soft to this man.  That he's trying to tell me something, that he's trying to be kind melts me inside, and I'm afraid I will cry.  I hate being this confused.  My emotions are all over the place.  I nod so he won't notice. I’m fighting tears because I’m tired, right?  Right.  I didn’t sleep the night before I left, and actually I don’t know how long I’ve been up.  Two days?  Three?  I’m so tired.  

Out of the blue, I flashback to boarding school.  Working on a deadline for the yearbook, the two of us in charge of the photos stayed up days pumping out one photo after the next.  Between the fumes from the chemicals in the darkroom, and exhaustion like I’d never felt until then, I was a walking disaster.  One sharp word from the editor and I lost it.  I shot back with words not usually a part of my vocabulary, and promptly burst into tears.  At that moment I knew it was the lack of sleep that pushed me over the edge.  “Get her out of here,” was the editor’s reply, and I promptly marched back to the dorm, brushing off people trying to calm me down.  I felt the same way now.  I’m so incredibly tired.  Alpha Male’s kindness is too much right now.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.  I will not cry.

"Look," he starts.  "You're here for how long this time?"

"Seven weeks.  Maybe eight."

"Right.  That's a long time to be away from home.  From your husband."  At the mention of my husband I'm confused all over again.  And angry.

"You think we're splitting up?  Not you, too."  Annoyed by all the nasty comments and insinuations my husband and I get back home, my question sounds more like an accusation, and this time I am sorry.  He doesn't say anything.  I look away.

"Let me keep talking," and this is my cue to shut up.

"There are a bunch of us who are concerned about you."  I look back at him.  What?  Who?  Why?  He looks at me, and I know he's wondering whether I'm going to talk or let him keep going.  I keep quiet.

"We're worried about you.  What you're doing is really important.  Really brave.  Amazing.  We're all really impressed that you keep coming back."  He pauses, and I stay silent.

"We also know you don't ask for help.  You keep plugging away, and you push yourself.  We know you."  Here he smiles, and I lose it.  The tears start flowing.  All the aggression I've felt is gone.  There's nothing wrong.  He really did come all the way out here just to tell me this.  Elbows on the table, I put my head in my hands and focus on breathing.  I really don’t want to cry.

Alpha Male doesn't smile often.  He doesn’t crack jokes.  He’s quintessential old school.  He doesn't do "nice."  He doesn't speak softly.  That he's doing all of this now I realize, is for me.  To put me at ease.  I've been so confused, and shocked by everything that happened from the moment I turned on my iPhone, and it's now all coming out.  I really do not want to cry.  I'm embarrassed.  I get up to go to the bathroom.  I need to compose myself.

"Sit," he says, and his voice is kind.  Gentle.

"No, please.  I want to get some tissues."

"It's okay.  Sit."  He passes me some not-the-kind-you-blow-your-nose-in napkins from the holder on the table.  I sit back down, defeated.  These things are useless as napkins, much less Kleenex.  I dig into my purse for some real tissues.

"Listen, okay?"  I nod.

"You have to take better care of yourself.  You need to find a way to take time off, and I don't mean by going home.  You go weeks without taking a break.  You need a day off here and there.  You need to eat better.  You need to get out.  Have fun.  If you don’t, you're going to burn out.  We're all worried you're going to get sick.  You can't keep going like this."  He stops.  I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to speak, so I don't.

"Do you understand?  Does this make sense to you?"  Yes.  No.  Maybe.

"You came out to the airport to tell me you and others are worried about me?"

He doesn't reply right away.

"Yeah."

"Can I talk now?"

"Yeah."

"You're all worried about me.  Why?  I mean, I get it.  You think I work too hard, but I’m not some fluffy cotton ball…" and before I can finish, he interrupts me.

"It’s not about that.  We know you're strong.  We’ve seen you work.  We know you.  You’re good.  We know you're capable.  But, we've also seen you tired.  Exhausted even.  We just want you to be careful.  Pace yourself."  It's my turn to interrupt.

"But, what makes you think I'm not pacing myself?"

"Because you're not.  You run full-steam ahead.  You don't eat three meals a day.  You don't sleep well.  How many times have I called you to take you out somewhere and you've had an engagement?  Said, ‘I’m booked for the next several days.  Sorry.’?  How many times have I taken you out to eat, and you've said, ‘I haven't eaten yet today.’ laughing like that’s no big deal?"

"But, that's my job right now.  I'm supposed to be busy.  You're busy.  Busy is good.  I'm okay," and I feel like I'm a child talking to my parents, telling them something untrue, hoping they won’t catch me in my lie.

"You're okay, but you're not okay," he continues.  "Look.  All we want is for you to be healthy.  This time around, these next seven or eight weeks, you can't go at the pace you've been going at.  You just can't.  Not alone, at least.  We want you to ask for help if you need it.  We want to help.  Let us in.  Let us help you."  I try not to look at him.  

“Let me ask you this.  How many people do you have here in Japan you can call and complain to?”   The question catches me off guard.

“I do,” I say.  “I have people,” and I know I sound defensive. 

“Right.  You have people.”  And then, “Name them.”

“Fine.  I will,” and I start ticking off names, my index finger touching fingers with each name.  “That’s the list of people you call to chat, isn’t it?  Friend-chat.  I’m talking about people you can really complain to.  People you can be yourself around.  Cry, yell, say nasty things.  Who’s on that list?  Your visa sponsor?”  And he recites several more names of people I’ve told him about.

“I’m not going to call my visa sponsor and cry,” I say, offended by the implication that’s somehow acceptable.  “Nor would I call those other people you mentioned.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re men.”

“So?”

“They’re businessmen.  They don’t ‘do’ emotion.”  I quickly add, “You don’t.”

“Fine.  They’re not on the list of people you call.  But, I can listen, “do” emotion, as you say.  You just don’t ask.  That’s the problem.  You don’t ask.”  He pokes his finger into the table with each word. 

“You said so yourself the first time you came after the tsunami last year, that you can’t do this work without ‘safe people.’  Those are your words.  So, I’m asking.  Who are your ‘safe people’?”

Not about to be told I haven’t thought this through, I start listing names.  He’s on this list, too, of course.

“Okay.  Good.  You’ve got a list.”  Then leaning in, “But you don’t ever call this list.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do, too,” and now I really feel like I’m ten.  Then it hits me.  It’s true.  I don’t call these people.  But, how does he know that?  How does he know I don’t cry into the phone?  He knows half the people on the list.  They’re mutual friends.  No.  No way.  Please.

“Because I checked.”  Dear God.  He didn’t.  He did.

“You went around asking people I just listed to see if I call them.”  It’s a statement, and not a question.

“I did.”

“Why would you do something like that?”  Now I’m angry.

“Because this is exactly why we’re all worried.  You go at all this alone.  You don’t ask for help.  You go home to your husband, which is great by the way.  But, the rest of the time you’re here, you act as if you don’t need help.  When’s the last time you cried?  I mean here in Japan?  When’s the last time you yelled at someone?  About someone?  When did you last vent about someone you don’t like?  Someone who did you wrong?  When’s the last time you did something fun that wasn’t work related?  When’s the last time you went out and didn’t talk about work?  See what I mean?”  

My food arrives and I'm not the least bit hungry.  I pick at it, moving the bits of vegetables around on the plate.  Afraid he'll say "Eat!" if I don't, I start to put food in my mouth.

"You understand?"

I nod.

"Really?"

I nod again.

"You've got people who care about you.  Hey.  Look at me.”  I look up.  Crap.  More tears.  “Let us help.  If nothing else, let us take you out every now and then.  You need to have fun.  You need to slow down.  We can help with that.  Once you relax, we’ll get you to start talking.  We know that’s not a problem."  Here he laughs.  I laugh, too, more relaxed.

 “I don’t go shipside for just anyone,” I hear him say.  With that, we’re done.  That last statement was a big one.  It’s true, I know.  He doesn’t pull rank, strings, or make calls to get himself out to the plane. I’m touched.  I’m really touched.  If I’ve been annoyed until now, this realization diffuses that annoyance.  I sit back in my chair and exhale. 

The rest of my meal was spent with me grilling him on how he got my itinerary ("You told me", "Did not", "Then it's a secret"), and me eating while he watched.  It will take a few days for all this to sink in.  One random act of kindness from someone I think the world of is potentially changing the rest of my time in Japan.  I'm touched and confused, but more touched, and certainly in more ways than I can express.

What Jimmy Page, Passion, Commitment, and "Brain Dumps" Have in Common

There have been just a few moments in my life where I see, watch, read, or hear something so profound it stops me in my tracks.  I think about it for days.  I read it over and over again.  I watch it multiple times.  I write down what I heard, and pull out the slip of paper, glancing over the words soaking them in.  The past 24 hours of have been one of those moments in time where ideas enter with a bang, implant themselves in my soul, and continue to flicker.  I'm buzzing.

"I don't know if you'll like it," is how my husband describes a DVD he recently watched.  "It's about Jimmy Page, The Edge, and Jack Black."  I turn my nose up.  I can't stand Jack Black.  Ever since a good friend told me Jack Black flipped her off when she waved at him saying hello, he's been on my shit list.  If you choose the life of a "celebrity", you say hello to your fans, even if you're in the middle of dinner.  It really is that simple.  You chose this life.  You get paid a lot of money to do what you do.  The least you can do is say hello back.  I tell him I'll watch it, and if Jack Black gets too annoying, I'll turn it off.  He agrees.

The DVD in hand, my husband says, "It's not Jack Black.  It's Jack White."  We both laugh.
"Who's Jack White?" I ask.  He describes Jack White, whom at the end of the explanation I still can't place.  We start the DVD, but I secretly don't have high hopes for it.  My life is about to change, my mind along with it.  I don't know this, but it's coming.

In short, it's a must-see documentary.  Called "It Might Get Loud" it talks about three guitarists of different ages, all of who take their music very seriously.  The way the three talk about their guitars, their childhoods, their music, I know I'm watching something very, very special.  I'm being let in on a secret.

Jimmy Page, 65 or so at the taping of the film, still clearly loves playing his guitar.  He smiles, focuses, moves, gyrates, and I see the guitar as an extension of his body and soul.  His facial, physical, emotional, and musical expressions are truly in sync.  It's beautiful.  It's erotic.  It's hypnotic.  I'm in awe.  I'm inspired.

The Edge talks about decisions he made about how his life and music intertwine.  He talks about looking for that pure sound.  He was moved and changed by musicians who played before him, both good and bad.  It all ties together.

Jack White combines his childhood, uncompromising love for the blues, and turns it into music "the masses" can handle.  He plays so hard his fingers bleed.  His piercing focus, watching how the other two play, and the intensity that has--this isn't faked for the film.  It's beautiful.

The three guitarists jam several times during the film.  I watch them as they watch each other play, focused on each others' fingers and movements, and I'm speechless.  They're serious.  They're committed to getting better.  They're still willing to learn.  At 65, Jimmy Page still asks questions of the other two.  At 50, The Edge knows he can still learn.  At 30-something, Jack White is taking it all in.  That they take their craft seriously, passionate about what they do, committed to it--I've not seen anything like this in a long time.

During a part of the film where the three talk about making decisions and choices, something triggers a memory in me of a comment made by my husband several months ago.  "I just read this book," he says, describing one of those "How To" books often touted by business executives.  "You should read it."  I know I won't.  I hate those "let-me-fix-your-life-for-you" books.  I take pride knowing my life can't possibly be so simple as to be fixed by a book.  I share this with my husband, who rolls his eyes, saying  "Oh, the complicated life you lead," and laughs.  "You'd be surprised, I think."
"Just give me the CliffsNotes version," I say, still not interested, much less sold.  He describes for me what ended up being a key practice I have adopted.  My husband knows me well.  Yet again, he calls it.  Spot on.

"It's called a 'brain dump'."  What he goes onto describe actually sounds really helpful.
"Hey, that's not bad," I say.
"I told you," he replies, grinning.

What followed was my first "brain dump."  I took small pieces of paper and wrote down everything in my head that I had put on my various to-do lists.  Almost an hour I'm done.  In the end, I had a small mountain of torn slips of paper on the dining room table.  These next got sorted into piles.  Today.  Tomorrow.  This week.  Later.  Way later.  I made it through to the "later" pile by the end of the week.  I believe I strutted.

I do not play the guitar.  If I did, I truly believe all that's stored in me, all I want to say, could come out musically.  I would "brain dump" into my guitar.  I envy Jimmy Page, The Edge, and Jack White, whose passion comes out in their choice to commit to music.  What then is my passion?  What have I committed to?  Anything?

It's been pointed out the projects I'm working on in Tohoku "aren't sexy."  Corporations, I'm told, want flashy, sexy, and big projects.  It's true.  Mine aren't.  Whereas some around me focus on large-scale economic development, I chose smaller, grass-roots, individual-, and community-based needs.  Alas, these aren't sexy.

But, I'm committed.  And, if I'm passionate about anything, it's what Maya Angelou says below:

Decisions and choices.  I've thought a lot about this since first watching the film my husband suggested.  I may have no guitar, I may not have sexy projects, but I do have soul.   If people throughout Tohoku can feel better because of something I do, say, or leave behind, I can live with that.  Not everything in life has to be sexy.  And, for helping me recognize this, I thank Jimmy Page, The Edge, Jack White, and most of all, my husband.

Strong Women in Japan

I've seen it over and over.  Even among educated men, men who know better than to be dismissive, men who are enlightened about worldly things, when women start talking about women-helping-women, their eyes glaze over.  I hear the non-verbal, "yeah, yeah, yeah" oozing through their body language.  Mind you, that's what I see/get from American men.  Some American men.  Let's just say, in Japan for the most part, I don't often actually talk with men about the women-helping-women phenomenon I'm lucky to be a part of.  Saying this in Tohoku would instantly make me less productive.  I would be one of those radical, American, femi-Nazis promoting western ideas about women, and that, in Tohoku, is a no-no.

Sitting in a restaurant surrounding by several men, I'm not really a part of their conversation as much as I am researching their "friend" recommendations on Facebook.  I'm half-listening, half-reading, sending friend requests to those they tell me about.  Then I hear it.  One of the men says,「女のくせに」and I look up.  The man who runs the restaurant quickly jumps in.  "We're not talking about you, Amya-san."  I mumble an "Uh-huh" and go back to my Facebooking, but I know what I heard.  I'm furious. 

The translation of that potent phrase encompasses several ideas.  There's no literal translation.  Rather, it's a combination of "She's only a woman" and "She should know her place" and "What the hell would she know" and "Too big for her britches" and more insinuations putting her down because she's a woman.

Men would never say about another man, "He can't possibly succeed because he's only a man."  People around me just assume my male colleagues will succeed.  The same is not true for me, or for the women I work with.  When women try things, bold, brave, difficult, and different, the assumptions are "Good luck with that, sweet pea," and "Should you really be doing this?"

Before leaving for Japan, men (Americans) said to me, "How are you going to do this on your own?" and "I'd divorce you if you did what you're about to do."  The latter, I ignored.  I wasn't married to the man who said this, and that made his statement irrelevant.  The former infuriated me.  Did he say this to my male colleagues?  No.  If I can't even get some American men to take me seriously, how can I possibly expect men elsewhere to give me the benefit of the doubt that I'll actually make a difference?  Get things done?

The statistics I'm shown outlining instances of depression and isolation (those with bordering tendencies of agoraphobia) have to do with men.  Not women.  Women take care of the men who won't leave their homes.  Women get out and shop for food.  Women say to me, "I don't have time to be depressed," and "My children depend on me to be okay."

Why then, is there resistance to the idea of women-helping-women?  Why is this so threatening?  What buttons get pushed that makes this idea of positive change and mutual support among women bothersome?  I have no answers.  That societies all over still are threatened by what women can accomplish--the absurdity of this is exhausting.  I can deal with that later.  For now, I will focus on getting things done.

Energy: Individual vs. Collective, Positive vs. Negative

There's a store I got to in Salem, Massachusetts whenever I'm in the mood for a new scent.  There's nothing quite like walking into Aroma Sanctum (http://www.aromasanctum.com/), and saying to the owner Akuura, "I want...." and then describe how I want to smell.  I simply love having my own custom blend.  That she's delightful only adds to the experience.

Someone once said Salem, Massachusetts has a vortex of energy.  That witches have lived there for years, en masse, is part of what creates this source of energy.  (And, can we please not spend time here discussing the virtues or evils of witches.  That's not my point today.)  It evidently has the highest concentration of witches living in one city--at least in the United States.

This vortex of energy, then.  Surely there is something to the power of collective energy.  We talk of "the power in numbers."  Christians say about God "when two or more gather, I am there."  Simply put, the more people who gather together and utilize their energy for good, the more power there is in that energy.  Right?

I have been keenly aware of late, just how finite my own individual energy levels are.  My mother used to say, "Don't waste energy on that" whenever I would rail against the latest injustice I experienced.  Thinking I have extra reserves of energy I could always tap into, her comments annoyed me.  Of course I had energy to expend on my woes.  I have all the energy in the world!

She was right, of course.  I don't.  The amount of energy I have at any given moment is most definitely limited.  There is no secret stash of "extra energy" I can access whenever I want or need.  Living in Japan away from family, I feel this even stronger.  I am not Wonder Woman.

The Japanese would call Salem, Massachusetts a "Power Spot."  I am exposed to these magical, energy-rich places on Japanese television and in print.  There's a fascination the Japanese have with these sacred spots where something is different, and something is special. 

What then is the opposite of a "Power Spot"?  If these places are blessed with some source of positive energy, what do we call places where there seems to be an energy vacuum?  How do we refer to those locations where the energy is not blessed with beauty?

Fukushima is one such location for me.  In Fukushima, I experience the exact opposite of a "positive source of energy."  There's nothing scientific or fact-based about what I'm saying.  That I go to Fukushima and find it "off" and get "bad vibes" is purely my personal experience.  Then again, I have heard others say something similar.  What's going on?  I can't put my finger on what it is about Fukushima that leaves me drained, exhausted, and sucked dry.  I don't want to feel this way, but I do.  Is there something about Fukushima that oozes negativity, or am I hitting Fukushima when I happen to be exhausted? 

This concept of energy--how much I have at any given moment, whether I should find others who can add to it (and if so where), and what to do about a geographic location I sense is lacking in the positive--this is what I've spent the past 24 hours thinking about.  Never one for keeping life simple, I am using energy on questions with no easy answers, except this time I have people around me whom I can tap.  Collective energy at its best.

Random musings: Top 10 likes and dislikes

It takes coming back to the US to make me realize whom and what I miss when I'm in Japan.  The same is true for when I'm in Japan.  I have to be away to recognize what I appreciate, and what I abhor.  Having had a few days to sort out my thoughts and feelings, I've compiled a list.  Consider this a "brain dump."  Clearing out mental clutter makes room for clarity, and peace of mind. 

Here are my Top 10 lists of likes and dislikes, about both Japan and the US, made possible by stepping away from my routine.

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Top 10 things I like about Japan

1.  Trains.
2.  Crowds.
3.  Street food.
4.  The coexistence of old and new, side by side, and with the assumption "this is normal."
5.  Friends.
6.  Polite speech.
7.  The willingness to keep going.
8.  "Gaman."  (Perseverance, Resolve, Dedication, Trying, etc.)
9.  Taxi drivers.
10.  Candy.  (The main reason my clothes no longer fit!)

Top 10 things I don't like about Japan

1.  "It might not be legal but this is our corporate policy so you must abide by it."
2.  Child pornography in the open.
3.  People and cars not stopping for emergency vehicles.  (There is nothing excusable about this, people.  Shame.)
4.  "You're foreign?  We have different rules for you."
5.  The pace of Tohoku recovery.
6.  Perverts on trains.
7.  Vomit on the sidewalks in the morning.
8.  Whatever concrete is used to make sidewalks.  It *has* to be a different material, made specifically (?) to ruin the feet, especially when wearing heels.
9.  The lack of Internet-connectedness.
10.  Politicians.

Top 10 things I like about the US

1.  My family is here.
2.  Driving is simpler.
3.  I can push back without being perceived as the "angry gaijin."
4.  Being able to buy clothes and shoes.
5.  Not being the tallest or largest person around.  (In fact, just so you know, I'm shorter than the average woman, and middle-of-the-road in weight.  The relief I feel knows no bounds.)
6.  I can talk on the phone all I want and not worry about how much it's costing me.
7.  Chips and salsa!
8.  Trader Joe's.  (How I miss you in Japan!)
9.  The rules are simpler.
10.  Credit card companies don't randomly freeze my accounts (the way they do in Japan).

Top 10 things I dislike about the US

1.  Drama, drama, drama.
2.  The political split in this country--downright scary.
3.  The sense of entitlement (especially prevalent in the Boston area).
4.  The lack of interest in what's going on outside of the US.
5.  Unrealistic idealism.
6.  That "I'm soooo busy" has become an acceptable reason to blow people off.  (It didn't used to be this way, people.  Please.  Everyone's "busy.")
7.  Customer service has long-since become a thing of the past.
8.  Massachusetts drivers ("affectionately" called "Massholes").
9.  Rudeness.
10.  That an apology is an admission of guilt.  When in doubt, never apologize, lest you admit wrongdoing and open yourself up for a law suit.  I find this ridiculous.  And, tacky.

***
It takes removing myself from my fast-paced schedule, and not being in the middle of the humdrum of life to release the pent up negativity, and to allow the fun and positive to take root.  Will my list change before I head back to Japan?  After I return?  Likely so.  Fascinating.