I've learned the hard way since a year ago March I am not made of stone. Neither am I made of glass. I'm strong, and yet also vulnerable to pain. I'm made of steel, but when exposed to strong heat, I melt.
On my last trip back home to Boston, I realized I missed my husband when I was home more than when I was a continent and ocean away. It was all I could do not to call him at work and ask, "When are you coming home today?" Having him near, or the possibility of having him near meant when he wasn't immediately present the void was that much larger. This wasn't good.
Good-byes at the airport never get easier. Ever. I miss my family terribly. A friend's comment on Facebook, "You can't always expect your husband to be your knight in shining armor" was the smack I needed. Something in my life here in Japan, in Tohoku and Tokyo, something here had to change.
I decided to get counseling. There's an English-language counseling service aimed at foreigners in Tokyo, and looking them up, I asked for help. Taking this step alone, I already feel better.
Which then got me thinking. The stigma associated with counseling in Japan is real. I've known this. Would it help those in Tohoku, those who could really use counseling, to hear I too am talking to a counselor?
In Japan, counseling is very much reserved for the mentally ill. You need to have a "problem" in order to need it. Or, so people think. So people say. I find this a very unfortunate phenomenon, especially at a time where there's such a mass need to unload, ask for help, cry, get guidance. The "taboo" as people in Tohoku call it--can we some how undo this? If I'm open about getting counseling, would people say to themselves, "Well, she's not mentally ill and she's
getting counseling. Maybe I will, too."? Will they make that leap?
I've been asking around. "So, if I say I'm getting counseling, if I'm not shy about saying this, do you think people might try it, too?" The answers, to date, are unanimously against.
"People will think you don't have friends."
"They'll think it's some 'American' thing."
"You'll be labeled."
"You can't do that here."
My reply to all of these statements has been "Why?" and here people get stuck.
"Just because," is what I most often hear.
I get it. I do. It's hard in a small town to be known as the person who breaks the mold and tries something new, especially when those who "get counseling" are thought to bee some how "off."
"You might get away with doing that, but we can't." I hear this over and over.
Determined to some how find a way to make the idea of counseling less taboo and more acceptable, I keep talking to people. Just today, I spoke with a young woman in town to get her perspective.
"I'd first wonder 'why' and then assume you shop." Shop? That's a first. I ask her to explain.
"You know. Some people, when they are having a hard time, they shop. Compulsively." Ah. Right.
"I'd wonder if you were 'one of those.'" I don't know how to respond. To make sure she clearly understands I'm not getting counseling to alleviate my non-existent shopping "problem" I say, "I wish I could shop more." We both laugh. I hope to myself that made sense to her.
I ask another woman for her opinion as I hang out at her store.
"It's the word 'counseling' that's the problem. You know? It's the same thing with 'therapy' and 'mental health.' You know what I do?"
"No," and I'm genuinely curious.
"I call over an astrologer."
"Really?"
"It works. You wouldn't believe what people tell astrologers. I've had women here bawling their eyes out, telling the astrologers their deepest fears and concerns. That's therapy, too. People will talk if we don't call it 'counseling.'"
I ponder this. "So, even if I'm open about talking to a counselor, people here won't try it?"
She sighs. "It's the word. It's just a bad word. Astrology is safe. It's fun. Counseling isn't, well, fun. It's serious. I don't think it will work even if you say you're doing it."
I need to think this through. It's sad knowing the need for counseling is so real, and yet the possibility of getting help through a counselor is so unreal. With a bit more thought I hope to find a way to explain in a way people will understand there's nothing wrong with what I'm setting out to do. I hope living by example will help someone step up and take the leap.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
No Shame in Asking
Over the past 14 months, I've become pretty good at asking for favors. Not for me, mind you. With each trip to Tohoku, with each story I hear, I think of ways to give a little something to those I meet, those who've lost so much.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
It's not hard. I put out there what I want to get for the people here in Tohoku. I ask nicely. I tap my network. I push. I ask others to push. It works more often than not. When it does, the heavens open up, angels sing, and there's magic in the air. I'm truly blessed to be a part of this.
The requests I make come from stories I hear. There's usually no special event that kick-starts the story telling. Conversations over lunch and dinner spin off into sharing of personal sorrows, concerns, and memories over lost ones.
Kazu-san and I are having dinner again. A member of Ofunato's ad-hoc "relief supplies delivery team" we met last April. He's one of these "genuinely good guys." A bit of a sports fanatic, he's tanned year-around, always looking for the latest sports craze. I like him.
"Did I tell your our local baseball team is called the Ofunato Red Sox?" he tells me one night months ago.
"No, you did not," and I'm just the slightest bit annoyed. Tickled as well, being from Boston (go Sox!) but I also can't believe we've known each other for months and he's just now telling me this.
"You're just now telling me this?" I mock scold. He laughs.
"Yeah. I don't know why I didn't tell you before."
"Are you any good?" I must ask. No team using the name "Red Sox" can be mediocre.
"Yeah. We're good."
"You better be," and I hide my smile. Not well, evidently, as Kazu smiles back.
Months go by and after March 11th this year, we're out to dinner again. This night he tells me two of the eleven team members from the Ofunato Red Sox team died last year. I didn't know this until now. One was working at the Rikuzentakata Hospital, and one was driving around his neighborhood in Ofunato looking for people to take to higher ground when his car was swept away. On March 11th of this year, the remaining nine teammates went to the two locations where their friends died offering prayers and incense. Kazu and I were together for part of the day on the 11th, ringing the bell at one of the local temples at 2:46pm sharp, along with the other temples also ringing bells. We looked out over the ocean and bowed our heads.
Kazu cries this night as he tells me how the guys went out on the 11th after praying for their two friends. He's embarrassed he's crying, and he wipes his tears away quickly.
"Sorry," he says.
"Sorry. I haven't cried in ages. I'm sorry. Really."
"It's okay," I say, but I know it's not for him.
"My dad told me, 'If you're going to cry, cry by yourself. Don't ever let others see you cry.' Sorry. You aren't supposed to see this."
He goes on to tell me half the players on the team don't want to play ball this year. Losing their two teammates left too big of a hole.
"They were good guys, you know?" Kazu says. I nod. "Some of the guys don't want to play without them."
"How about you?"
"I do." Of course he does.
And, here I hatch my plan. Every baseball player in Japan, professional or amateur, old or young, knows Bobby Valentine. The Bobby Valentine who is now the Manager for the Red Sox. The Red Sox. I decide to write to Mr. Valentine, explaining what Kazu just told me, and ask for a letter of encouragement. A sort of, "If you guys are going to use the Red Sox name, you sure as hell better play ball" letter. I ask Kazu if he'll write a letter, too.
"I'll translate it," I tell him.
"Really?"
"I can't promise anything. I'll try, though. I'll hit everyone I know who knows someone in the Red Sox."
"Really?" Kazu asks again.
"Really."
Fast forward two months and I get a call from Kazu one Saturday night.
"Guess what came in the mail today?" and just like that, I grin into the phone.
"No way!"
"Really!"
This is Kazu and one of the players going through the box of good sent by Mr. Valentine and the Red Sox. Tonight, several of the other team members are meeting to decide who gets what. I translated the letter Mr. Valentine wrote (truly beautiful). They each have copies. The guys who come tonight will also get copies.
"You going to keep playing?" I ask the two as they do the manly equivalent of girlie squeals picking up the items in the box.
"Hell yeah," Kazu says. His friend is silent. I look over and see he's choked up. It's moment like these I'm grateful I've shed any sense of shame in asking for favors. And, the Boston Red Sox rock. Just saying.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
When Playing By The Rules Means Defeat
Last year I wrote saying I had the answer to why there was no looting in Japan after the tsunami and earthquake. My answer? Taxi drivers. They personify the politeness and calm the Japanese are known for. Except for the one or two I've come across who have been not rude as much as unhelpful, I stand by my observation. While the "no looting at all" statement no longer holds water, that's not the point today.
If I know why politeness prevails in Japan, I also know why recovery in Tohoku is slow-going. Yes, that's a bold statement. I know. I also believe I'm right. The dots I've connected are not difficult to find. They're all over the place. Go talk to to any bureaucrat, go to government office and the place is covered in these dots.
Take today for example. I have my paperwork. For once. I'm at the license bureau to apply for my Japanese driver's license. The sign above where I take my papers reads "This is the busiest license office in Japan. Be prepared to wait two hours." Great.
My number is called. I hand them my US license, translation, passport, and Alien Registration card. The officer looks at my passport and sighs.
"This says you were issued this passport in March."
"Yes. My other passport was stolen." I hand over the police report outlining what was stolen and when.
"Ah, but this means you can't prove you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." He brings out a paper which says, of course, I must be able to show I've lived in the US for three consecutive months after having my license issued.
I go over what he said in my mind. Having a passport issued in March means I haven't lived in the US for three consecutive months? Ever? How does one reach this conclusion?
"We need something showing you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." Three consecutive months. Yeah. I got that part.
"Like what?"
"An electric bill. Your tax returns. A mortgage statement." None of which prove I've lived in the US for three consecutive months, mind you. I could live in London and file my taxes in the US. I could own a house in Boston but not live there. But, this is what they want. The rigidity and stupidity of these rules baffle me. There is no thinking outside the box.
"How about if I have someone from your headquarters call and vouch I've lived in the US for three consecutive months." I try not to be sarcastic. I do have a friend who can vouch for me. Clearly, this is not something the official's heard before. He calls over his supervisor. I repeat myself.
"But, how can he prove that?" I'm asked. As in, how can he prove I've lived in the States "better" than my electric bill? I know I won't win this one, either. They want what they want.
Having just completed the translation for Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm reminded of something he wrote. In the immediate days following the tsunami last year when Rikuzentakata was in shambles, the city received a shipment of gasoline from the Self Defense Forces. The town had no electricity, little food, few locations with running water, no cell phone coverage, and certainly no operational gasoline stations. The gasoline would be used for cars as well trucks delivering much needed food to the evacuation centers where people were staying. When it came time funnel the gasoline into the vehicles, the Self Defense Force guys received instructions from higher up.
"You can't fuel the cars."
"Why?"
"Your job is to deliver. You don't have permission to actually put the fuel in the cars."
This, dear friends, is Japanese bureaucracy at its worst. The mayor had to go find someone with the proper license to handle "hazardous material" and call them over to put the fuel in the cars. When lives are at stake, this kind of adherence to rules, the lack of flexibility is inexcusable. Fighting cops over the protocol (albeit ridiculous) for a driver's license is one thing. Being told "you can't do that" because of regulations in place, which "sorry, can't be bent" is simply not okay in a time of crisis. This attitude and sentiment exists all throughout bureaucratic Japan, and this is a key factor in why it's taking so long for life in Tohoku to get back to normal.
This is a side of Japan I'm not fond of. Tomorrow I will go back and fight the cops who, today, wouldn't give me my license. If pushed, I will call my friend at headquarters. I will point out the absurdity over their rules. I will make them pick a regulation and stick to it, even if this means I have to make a stink about the inconsistency.
So, tonight I'm not happy. Tomorrow I will be. I will take so many documents they can't possibly prove otherwise. Three consecutive months? My ass.
If I know why politeness prevails in Japan, I also know why recovery in Tohoku is slow-going. Yes, that's a bold statement. I know. I also believe I'm right. The dots I've connected are not difficult to find. They're all over the place. Go talk to to any bureaucrat, go to government office and the place is covered in these dots.
Take today for example. I have my paperwork. For once. I'm at the license bureau to apply for my Japanese driver's license. The sign above where I take my papers reads "This is the busiest license office in Japan. Be prepared to wait two hours." Great.
My number is called. I hand them my US license, translation, passport, and Alien Registration card. The officer looks at my passport and sighs.
"This says you were issued this passport in March."
"Yes. My other passport was stolen." I hand over the police report outlining what was stolen and when.
"Ah, but this means you can't prove you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." He brings out a paper which says, of course, I must be able to show I've lived in the US for three consecutive months after having my license issued.
I go over what he said in my mind. Having a passport issued in March means I haven't lived in the US for three consecutive months? Ever? How does one reach this conclusion?
"We need something showing you've lived in the US for three consecutive months." Three consecutive months. Yeah. I got that part.
"Like what?"
"An electric bill. Your tax returns. A mortgage statement." None of which prove I've lived in the US for three consecutive months, mind you. I could live in London and file my taxes in the US. I could own a house in Boston but not live there. But, this is what they want. The rigidity and stupidity of these rules baffle me. There is no thinking outside the box.
"How about if I have someone from your headquarters call and vouch I've lived in the US for three consecutive months." I try not to be sarcastic. I do have a friend who can vouch for me. Clearly, this is not something the official's heard before. He calls over his supervisor. I repeat myself.
"But, how can he prove that?" I'm asked. As in, how can he prove I've lived in the States "better" than my electric bill? I know I won't win this one, either. They want what they want.
Having just completed the translation for Mayor Futoshi Toba's book, I'm reminded of something he wrote. In the immediate days following the tsunami last year when Rikuzentakata was in shambles, the city received a shipment of gasoline from the Self Defense Forces. The town had no electricity, little food, few locations with running water, no cell phone coverage, and certainly no operational gasoline stations. The gasoline would be used for cars as well trucks delivering much needed food to the evacuation centers where people were staying. When it came time funnel the gasoline into the vehicles, the Self Defense Force guys received instructions from higher up.
"You can't fuel the cars."
"Why?"
"Your job is to deliver. You don't have permission to actually put the fuel in the cars."
This, dear friends, is Japanese bureaucracy at its worst. The mayor had to go find someone with the proper license to handle "hazardous material" and call them over to put the fuel in the cars. When lives are at stake, this kind of adherence to rules, the lack of flexibility is inexcusable. Fighting cops over the protocol (albeit ridiculous) for a driver's license is one thing. Being told "you can't do that" because of regulations in place, which "sorry, can't be bent" is simply not okay in a time of crisis. This attitude and sentiment exists all throughout bureaucratic Japan, and this is a key factor in why it's taking so long for life in Tohoku to get back to normal.
This is a side of Japan I'm not fond of. Tomorrow I will go back and fight the cops who, today, wouldn't give me my license. If pushed, I will call my friend at headquarters. I will point out the absurdity over their rules. I will make them pick a regulation and stick to it, even if this means I have to make a stink about the inconsistency.
So, tonight I'm not happy. Tomorrow I will be. I will take so many documents they can't possibly prove otherwise. Three consecutive months? My ass.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
New Places, New People, New Friends
A major advantage to having a car is the freedom to drive where I want, when I want. This past weekend, on my drive back to Ofunato from Minamisoma, I stopped at Minamisanriku (Miyagi Prefecture) to visit the head of a temporary housing complex there.
I have never been to Minamisanriku. What I saw there was a kind of destruction I had not seen to date. Having spent a lot of time in Rikuzentakata, a city almost completely destroyed I assumed this was as bad as it got. I was wrong. Minamisanriku is in shambles. It was Rikuzentakata, and then some. Here again, if it wasn't concrete it was gone. Large vacant buildings, doors and windows blown out crowd what must have been "downtown." Everywhere else, nothing. The foundations of houses, concrete slabs essentially, go on mile after mile. Then came the bridge.
Some evil monster must have come out from the sea, grabbed onto 200 meters of solid concrete, and pulled that portion of the bridge down into the water with it. I've never seen anything like this. How did this happen?
All last year, I was angry. At nature. At the randomness of what was spared and what taken away. Here, I felt fear. Goosebumps. What happened here?
Numb, I call the man I'm scheduled to meet. He gives me directions, and I arrive 10 minutes later. We say hello. He shows me around. I see potted plants with bright colors all along the "street" separating one row of temporary housing from the next. I comment on them, complimenting the gardeners. I meet his wife, and I'm invited into their home. I step into a temporary home for the first time.
I will no longer complain about the size of my apartment in Tokyo. I promise this. I vow it. I was told earlier, the homes are 2DK. That's code for "two bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen." Those who have never stepped into temporary housing, myself included, will assume a "bedroom" is just that. Room for a bed, a dresser, a small stand, etc. This was no bedroom. I've seen closets bigger than this. The dining room barely had room for a table. By "table" I mean a one meter square kotatsu.
We chat. I see two photos of who? The mothers of the husband and wife I'm having tea with? They are up on a shelf near the ceiling, sticks of incense, a tangerine, and flowers in a short vase surrounding the photos. I look at the writing on the paper next to one of the women. March 11th. They must have lost at least one of their mothers in the tsunami. I try not to stare.
We keep talking. They're lovely people. I'm shown the coasters the wife makes to sell at the local souvenir shop. I ask directions, telling them I'll stop by on my way out.
"You'll have to back track," I'm told.
"That's okay. I want to see the shop."
I actually want to see more than the shop. Driving into town, I passed a gas station with a large sign out front that read "Stupid tsunami." 津波のバカ。That was a first. I need to fill up with gas, and I want to ask about the sign. I've seen plenty of signs saying "hang in there" and "we won't give up" but I've never seen anger expressed like this. Driving back into town is no big deal. It's now a must.
It's time for me to go, and as I get up, I comment on the flowers on the back "porch."
"They're cheerful colors, aren't they?"
"Yes. Definitely. They're beautiful."
As I'm walked back to my car, the director of the temporary housing complex tells me a story.
"We're really grateful to the US Military."
"Oh?"
"Here," and he waves his hand over the land right behind us where 250 homes were built, "this was a soccer field. We all came up here to escape from the tsunami. Several hundred of us. We had no water. No food. We were here three days when we decided to spell out 'SOS' onto the soccer field, and next thing we knew, a helicopter landed. It was your military. We couldn't understand them, of course," and here we both laugh.
"I think they were asking if we were injured. We said 'hungry' and 'water' and then they left. I thought maybe they really left but soon another helicopter, a different one this time, came with blankets and bottled water and food. You have no idea how happy we were."
I see him choke up, so I stay quiet.
"We haven't said 'thank you' yet. We don't know how."
"I can help you with that," and we strategize on how to write the letter and get it into the right hands.
There's something to be said for going to new places, meeting new people. They turn into friends more often than not. Trying new things, seeing new things especially when the sights are so horrific, it's tough. It's tough, but worth it. I'm determined to keep going.
I have never been to Minamisanriku. What I saw there was a kind of destruction I had not seen to date. Having spent a lot of time in Rikuzentakata, a city almost completely destroyed I assumed this was as bad as it got. I was wrong. Minamisanriku is in shambles. It was Rikuzentakata, and then some. Here again, if it wasn't concrete it was gone. Large vacant buildings, doors and windows blown out crowd what must have been "downtown." Everywhere else, nothing. The foundations of houses, concrete slabs essentially, go on mile after mile. Then came the bridge.
Some evil monster must have come out from the sea, grabbed onto 200 meters of solid concrete, and pulled that portion of the bridge down into the water with it. I've never seen anything like this. How did this happen?
All last year, I was angry. At nature. At the randomness of what was spared and what taken away. Here, I felt fear. Goosebumps. What happened here?
Numb, I call the man I'm scheduled to meet. He gives me directions, and I arrive 10 minutes later. We say hello. He shows me around. I see potted plants with bright colors all along the "street" separating one row of temporary housing from the next. I comment on them, complimenting the gardeners. I meet his wife, and I'm invited into their home. I step into a temporary home for the first time.
I will no longer complain about the size of my apartment in Tokyo. I promise this. I vow it. I was told earlier, the homes are 2DK. That's code for "two bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen." Those who have never stepped into temporary housing, myself included, will assume a "bedroom" is just that. Room for a bed, a dresser, a small stand, etc. This was no bedroom. I've seen closets bigger than this. The dining room barely had room for a table. By "table" I mean a one meter square kotatsu.
We chat. I see two photos of who? The mothers of the husband and wife I'm having tea with? They are up on a shelf near the ceiling, sticks of incense, a tangerine, and flowers in a short vase surrounding the photos. I look at the writing on the paper next to one of the women. March 11th. They must have lost at least one of their mothers in the tsunami. I try not to stare.
We keep talking. They're lovely people. I'm shown the coasters the wife makes to sell at the local souvenir shop. I ask directions, telling them I'll stop by on my way out.
"You'll have to back track," I'm told.
"That's okay. I want to see the shop."
I actually want to see more than the shop. Driving into town, I passed a gas station with a large sign out front that read "Stupid tsunami." 津波のバカ。That was a first. I need to fill up with gas, and I want to ask about the sign. I've seen plenty of signs saying "hang in there" and "we won't give up" but I've never seen anger expressed like this. Driving back into town is no big deal. It's now a must.
It's time for me to go, and as I get up, I comment on the flowers on the back "porch."
"They're cheerful colors, aren't they?"
"Yes. Definitely. They're beautiful."
As I'm walked back to my car, the director of the temporary housing complex tells me a story.
"We're really grateful to the US Military."
"Oh?"
"Here," and he waves his hand over the land right behind us where 250 homes were built, "this was a soccer field. We all came up here to escape from the tsunami. Several hundred of us. We had no water. No food. We were here three days when we decided to spell out 'SOS' onto the soccer field, and next thing we knew, a helicopter landed. It was your military. We couldn't understand them, of course," and here we both laugh.
"I think they were asking if we were injured. We said 'hungry' and 'water' and then they left. I thought maybe they really left but soon another helicopter, a different one this time, came with blankets and bottled water and food. You have no idea how happy we were."
I see him choke up, so I stay quiet.
"We haven't said 'thank you' yet. We don't know how."
"I can help you with that," and we strategize on how to write the letter and get it into the right hands.
There's something to be said for going to new places, meeting new people. They turn into friends more often than not. Trying new things, seeing new things especially when the sights are so horrific, it's tough. It's tough, but worth it. I'm determined to keep going.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Food Buying Etiquette
The upside of being one of the very few foreigners in town (wherever I am in Tohoku) is that people stop me on the street. We chat. They share stories. Dates are set for tea. The downside of sticking out is that my actions are noted, observed, scrutinized. A recent dinner invitation is proof.
"Where shall I meet you?" I'm given the name of a restaurant.
"Where you had lunch yesterday," my friend says. Just like that I want to ask, "And, how did you know?" but I already have the answer. I said hello to the chef. He said "Welcome back." Word spreads.
So, I'm being watched. This isn't anything new. Growing up in Japan, there was a long stretch of time where I could count the foreigners in our town of 150,000. I knew all of them, because there were less than twenty.
I'm not bothered by the fact I need to watch my step. Most of the time, that is. Oddly enough, buying groceries is when I find the eyes following me most troubling. Take today for example. There's no supermarket within walking distance to my friend's apartment where I stay. There is, however, a convenience store. They sell pretty much everything. I walked down to buy lunch, and was thrilled (!) to find they had cucumbers in stock today.
I should point out here while there's nothing wrong with American cucumbers, there is something beautiful about Japanese cukes. Crunchy and sweet, they are the perfect afternoon snack. They are even better dipped in sesame dressing. Life is perfect if I can smother them in sesame dressing made by Onizaki. Truly.
I see cucumbers. I grin. I put them in my cart. They come two to a bag. This will be my snack today. Then I see another packet. Do I buy these, too? I can surely eat two more cucumbers, say, tomorrow. Yes? Yes. I put those in my cart, too. There's one remaining bag.
Herein lies my dilemma. It's not as if food is scarce. People pretty much have access to transportation now, although maybe not consistently if they don't have a car or can't drive. The supermarkets are stocked. It's a very different scene from when I arrived back in Japan after the tsunami, last March. Shelves in Tokyo even were sparse. They weren't empty, but they certainly weren't filled with the usual merchandise I was accustomed to seeing. Coming up north, the scene was even more stark. The frozen food section had no ice cream. The fish counter had more ice than fish. The produce isle didn't shine with the colors of vegetables and fruit usually seen.
Throughout this time, the general sentiment in Japan was "don't hoard." People didn't stock up on toilet paper or buy out the bottles of water. The expectation was to "leave something behind for the next family." Certainly, there were exceptions. Japan's equivalent to FedEx drivers stealing relief supplies, people selling relief goods meant for others are only some of the stories I've heard. This is not the norm, however. Bad behavior, especially in a time of crisis, is a violation of the most basic of courtesy and manners. People known to have done this are not well received, and that's putting it mildly.
Back to my cucumbers, then. Surely, I'm allowed to take the last bag, right? Or, am I? The store hasn't had cucumbers in stock since Monday. I've looked. I bought carrots to dip into my sesame dressing (not Onizaki, alas), but it's just not the same. They're carrots. They're still uneaten.
On a totally different note, on Saturday when I was shopping for dinner in Fukushima I found a huge pile of cucumbers. "¥45 each" the sign read. That's cheap! I then read on further. "Grown in Fukushima." Produce labels now show where the food was grown. Anything grown or raised in Fukushima doesn't sell. This explains why they were so cheap. I didn't buy cucumbers on Saturday.
I didn't buy the last bag of cucumbers. I wanted to. I really did. If they're there tomorrow, I might. Then again, maybe I won't. Or, maybe this a dilemma I no longer need wrestle with? Am I too sensitive to the fact my every move seems to be noted? I will mull this over while I eat my cucumbers. Perhaps this will provide me with clarify.
"Where shall I meet you?" I'm given the name of a restaurant.
"Where you had lunch yesterday," my friend says. Just like that I want to ask, "And, how did you know?" but I already have the answer. I said hello to the chef. He said "Welcome back." Word spreads.
So, I'm being watched. This isn't anything new. Growing up in Japan, there was a long stretch of time where I could count the foreigners in our town of 150,000. I knew all of them, because there were less than twenty.
I'm not bothered by the fact I need to watch my step. Most of the time, that is. Oddly enough, buying groceries is when I find the eyes following me most troubling. Take today for example. There's no supermarket within walking distance to my friend's apartment where I stay. There is, however, a convenience store. They sell pretty much everything. I walked down to buy lunch, and was thrilled (!) to find they had cucumbers in stock today.
I should point out here while there's nothing wrong with American cucumbers, there is something beautiful about Japanese cukes. Crunchy and sweet, they are the perfect afternoon snack. They are even better dipped in sesame dressing. Life is perfect if I can smother them in sesame dressing made by Onizaki. Truly.
I see cucumbers. I grin. I put them in my cart. They come two to a bag. This will be my snack today. Then I see another packet. Do I buy these, too? I can surely eat two more cucumbers, say, tomorrow. Yes? Yes. I put those in my cart, too. There's one remaining bag.
Herein lies my dilemma. It's not as if food is scarce. People pretty much have access to transportation now, although maybe not consistently if they don't have a car or can't drive. The supermarkets are stocked. It's a very different scene from when I arrived back in Japan after the tsunami, last March. Shelves in Tokyo even were sparse. They weren't empty, but they certainly weren't filled with the usual merchandise I was accustomed to seeing. Coming up north, the scene was even more stark. The frozen food section had no ice cream. The fish counter had more ice than fish. The produce isle didn't shine with the colors of vegetables and fruit usually seen.
Throughout this time, the general sentiment in Japan was "don't hoard." People didn't stock up on toilet paper or buy out the bottles of water. The expectation was to "leave something behind for the next family." Certainly, there were exceptions. Japan's equivalent to FedEx drivers stealing relief supplies, people selling relief goods meant for others are only some of the stories I've heard. This is not the norm, however. Bad behavior, especially in a time of crisis, is a violation of the most basic of courtesy and manners. People known to have done this are not well received, and that's putting it mildly.
Back to my cucumbers, then. Surely, I'm allowed to take the last bag, right? Or, am I? The store hasn't had cucumbers in stock since Monday. I've looked. I bought carrots to dip into my sesame dressing (not Onizaki, alas), but it's just not the same. They're carrots. They're still uneaten.
On a totally different note, on Saturday when I was shopping for dinner in Fukushima I found a huge pile of cucumbers. "¥45 each" the sign read. That's cheap! I then read on further. "Grown in Fukushima." Produce labels now show where the food was grown. Anything grown or raised in Fukushima doesn't sell. This explains why they were so cheap. I didn't buy cucumbers on Saturday.
I didn't buy the last bag of cucumbers. I wanted to. I really did. If they're there tomorrow, I might. Then again, maybe I won't. Or, maybe this a dilemma I no longer need wrestle with? Am I too sensitive to the fact my every move seems to be noted? I will mull this over while I eat my cucumbers. Perhaps this will provide me with clarify.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Seasons: Cycles and Circles
The more time I spend in Tohoku, the more aware I become of the differences between men and women. There's nothing wrong with these differences, per se. My observations are just that: I notice the subtle nuances, changes in behavior and expectations, scene after scene in how these traits are played out.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
I've always thought a key difference between the sexes has to do with how we perceive the seasons. Men look at the calendar and see a linear, chronological series of events. (Apologies in advance for the gross generalizations here.) Quarters are not thought to be cycles, but rather milestones. Budgets need to be submitted by, reports written by, projects completed by the end of a quarter. That's what quarters are for. They peg the calendar.
Women, on the other hand, see the calendar as a series of cycles. Quarters are seasons. Months are not simply a bunch of dates. It feels natural, as a woman, to see life as a repeat of cycles as opposed to a long line of continuing events. Our menstrual cycles probably play a key role in this. We are biologically, naturally cyclical.
It makes sense then, taking this idea of a cycle one step further, that gatherings of women are called "circles." One such circle that is on my mind of late is the women of the "Knit Cafe" in Ofunato. It's a "knitting circle." Of particular interest is that the women who knit together are all post-menopausal. I've heard it said, often at that, women become more creative after menopause. Not being blessed with artistic skills (my drawings of humans are simple stick figures) I can't relate to the joy of creating anything by hand. I can't draw, sew, knit, quilt, crochet. Truth be told, I barely enjoy cooking. I'm hoping some day in the future I, too, will be given the skills to use my fingertips for something other than typing and writing.
Over the weekend, I took a group of women from Fukushima Prefecture to Ofunato. The three women with whom I shared eight hours in a car want to start their own "knitting circle." They wanted to meet other women who are doing this, women who have experiences similar events in the past year post-3/11, and learn what to do and how. Not being a knitter, my role is to connect. That, I can do. Sitting and knitting with them is not my preferred choice of relaxation. Driving, on the other hand, is far more relaxing to me.
We had great weather on the drive from Fukushima to Ofunato and back. We drove on highways and winding mountain roads. One scene we saw over and over we remarked upon every chance we got.
It's the season for wisteria. The purple bunches of petals falling from the trees look like grapes. Driving through the mountains, we saw tree after tree taken over by climbing wisteria, producing a medley of dark and light lavender. We rounded one corner and gasped. (Interesting, isn't it, how the best things we see in life seem to be "right around the corner" or "right over the hill"?) In front of us was a wall of wisteria. The trees underneath were suffocated in such a way we could hardly see the leaves. Purple, pale pink, and paler white wisteria cascaded down the hill as if someone painted the wall, dotting it with a fine-tip brush. It was simply beautiful.
Not to say men wouldn't notice such natural beauty, but it's no understatement to say we spent eight hours alternating between gasping, sighing, and marveling at what we saw.
The cycles of the natural world, both outside and within, and how this translates into our love of circles--it's very much on my mind today.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
On Defining "Who's Boss"
My intent is not to mock, criticize, or complain. I look at what goes on around me purely as a sociological phenomenon, combining anthropological and ethnographic elements into what I observe. Having said this, the expectation I too am expected to play, and honor these cultural norms is, at times, tedious. On a good day, I function just fine. On a bad day, let's just say, I bend the rules to suit me. Here's my story.
Social hierarchy is the only way to describe it. It's "pecking order" Japanese-style. In Tohoku, these rules are rigid. Obedience, and adherence to these rules are a must.
Everyone has their "place." Primarily it has to do with age. Respect is given to those who are older. Even a few years in age difference clarifies who's the sempai, and who is kohai.
The term sempai implies a lot. It's "boss" and "elder" and "superior" and "you-don't-get-to-mouth-back" and "instant respect" all rolled into one. Formally, it starts in middle school. Those who are younger do what their sempai ask and expect. This means the 7th grade girls in the basketball club carry the towels, water battles, and basketballs for the 8th, and 9th grade girls. The same goes for the baseball, soccer, judo, and brass band clubs. The kohai are "underlings." They are at the bottom of the totem pole. They do as they are told. They don't talk back. They don't have a voice.
These rules, who's on top, and who's lower down, continue into high school, university, into the corporate culture, and on into general society. Simply put, the rigidity of these rules essentially "run" Japan.
It's been "interesting" (channeling my father here) to see how I fit into this hierarchical structure. Most people in Japan do not know my age. This is a problem for them, as they don't know where to "put" me. As the sempai/kohai system is largely defined by age, not knowing if I'm older or younger means their speech, mannerisms, and what they can or cannot say to me remains unclear for those around me.
I don't easily cave. With almost every new social introduction, I am asked how old I am. Not really wanting to play this "game" I usually push back, saying "You should never ask a woman her age or weight." I laugh, making sure I'm not seen as being too obnoxious, too gaijin. It works. I get away with this because I am foreign. I get away with this because I am a foreign woman. This is one of the few times I play up my role, all so I can excuse myself from having to be pinned down.
Technically, I am not exempt. Those around me who are unsure of my age do not always know how to speak to me. Do they get to "pull rank"? Must they speak to me using the honorific form of speech? My insistence upon not revealing my age confuses them. This is not considered "nice." I am not playing by the proper rules.
In Tohoku, these rules are far more important, and indeed harsher. This makes the issue of my age all the more relevant. I'm not particularly fond of the way age is used to define roles, and my feelings about how this plays out in Tohoku is no exception. I won't go as far as to say the sempai/kohai rules are "abused" here. That's going too far. There is, however, a lot that is excused by way of "I'm the sempai" and watching this unfold around me at every gathering, every party, every meeting is, to be blunt, uncomfortable.
There will come a time where I will figure this out. In the interim, I will continue to remain "ageless" if for no other reason than to let those around me exclude me from their definitions.
Social hierarchy is the only way to describe it. It's "pecking order" Japanese-style. In Tohoku, these rules are rigid. Obedience, and adherence to these rules are a must.
Everyone has their "place." Primarily it has to do with age. Respect is given to those who are older. Even a few years in age difference clarifies who's the sempai, and who is kohai.
The term sempai implies a lot. It's "boss" and "elder" and "superior" and "you-don't-get-to-mouth-back" and "instant respect" all rolled into one. Formally, it starts in middle school. Those who are younger do what their sempai ask and expect. This means the 7th grade girls in the basketball club carry the towels, water battles, and basketballs for the 8th, and 9th grade girls. The same goes for the baseball, soccer, judo, and brass band clubs. The kohai are "underlings." They are at the bottom of the totem pole. They do as they are told. They don't talk back. They don't have a voice.
These rules, who's on top, and who's lower down, continue into high school, university, into the corporate culture, and on into general society. Simply put, the rigidity of these rules essentially "run" Japan.
It's been "interesting" (channeling my father here) to see how I fit into this hierarchical structure. Most people in Japan do not know my age. This is a problem for them, as they don't know where to "put" me. As the sempai/kohai system is largely defined by age, not knowing if I'm older or younger means their speech, mannerisms, and what they can or cannot say to me remains unclear for those around me.
I don't easily cave. With almost every new social introduction, I am asked how old I am. Not really wanting to play this "game" I usually push back, saying "You should never ask a woman her age or weight." I laugh, making sure I'm not seen as being too obnoxious, too gaijin. It works. I get away with this because I am foreign. I get away with this because I am a foreign woman. This is one of the few times I play up my role, all so I can excuse myself from having to be pinned down.
Technically, I am not exempt. Those around me who are unsure of my age do not always know how to speak to me. Do they get to "pull rank"? Must they speak to me using the honorific form of speech? My insistence upon not revealing my age confuses them. This is not considered "nice." I am not playing by the proper rules.
In Tohoku, these rules are far more important, and indeed harsher. This makes the issue of my age all the more relevant. I'm not particularly fond of the way age is used to define roles, and my feelings about how this plays out in Tohoku is no exception. I won't go as far as to say the sempai/kohai rules are "abused" here. That's going too far. There is, however, a lot that is excused by way of "I'm the sempai" and watching this unfold around me at every gathering, every party, every meeting is, to be blunt, uncomfortable.
There will come a time where I will figure this out. In the interim, I will continue to remain "ageless" if for no other reason than to let those around me exclude me from their definitions.
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