Why a book read to me by my first grade teacher has stayed with me all these years is a true mystery. Books by Ayn Rand, the Brontë sisters, and Charles Dickens are all lodged somewhere in my subconscious, but seem to have left significantly less of an impression than this one book. How is that? What triggers such a strong reaction to a book read to a group of six year olds?
The Japanese folk tale "Kumo no Ito" or in English, "The Spider's Strand" as in the single strand of silk it ejects when getting from place to place, is a story about a spider (God) lowering one lone strand down to earth to bring up the good people into heaven. The good people of earth do indeed climb up, sharing the space single-file. Pleased, God the Spider decides to do this again, at which point a bad man climbs up the strand of spider silk kicking down those who try to make their way to heaven behind him. Displeased, God the Spider sends this bad man down into hell where the Japanese version of the devil, red, big, mean, surrounded by fire awaits this man.
That was all it took. Spiders and Hell were forever connected in my mind. Six year olds can be convinced of pretty much anything, and in my case this meant I began to believe spiders (God) some how have the power to send people to hell.
Fast-forward to the no longer six year old me, I don't actually believe spiders are that powerful, or that there's some yet to be proven connection between spiders and god. My point is broader than that. I walked into a single strand of spider silk last night, connecting the staircase bannister to the wall. I always find myself fascinated by the fact spiders actually get from point a to point b. Do they fly? Do they just float through air waiting to land on something? Spiders lowering themselves downward, that I can understand. It's this sideways movement, the strand that can measure many meters at times, how they do this is what confuses and fascinates me.
My fear of spiders and the horrible Japanese version of the devil all came back to me in that one instant as I frantically batted this strand off me. Knowing I would feel this strand on me the rest of the night in the same way I feel non-existent spiders on my skin all day when I find one crawling on me in the morning, the miracle of horizontal spider-flight, amazing as it is, would be overshadowed by the fact I would toss and turn trying to rid myself of the strand I just walked through. I really don't like spiders. I am not proud to say I scream and flail when I feel one me.
This latest spider-thread incident has brought back how much of what I grew up with, all that is buried in my psyche untapped and ignored, is still very much a part of me regardless of whether I give it any time or energy. Indeed, all it takes is walking into spider silk, and I'm taken back decades to the classroom where I trembled at the power of what is surely the evil called "Spider."
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Perception, Fukushima, and Modern-day Seppuku
My first encounter with what I call "modern-day seppuku" was at age 12. Our sixth grade had three homerooms. Our teachers must have been in cahoots, testing us, telling us all specifically not to do something and wondering if we would obey. All three classes did exactly what we were told not to do. All three classes were caught. Busted.
An emergency meeting was held. The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather. From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended. Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility. I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that, "you're not going to resign." I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on. We will fix this. We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."
I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do. Why was he running away? You don't resign. You fix your mistakes. You stay and fight. Right?
I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style. He was supposed to resign. As was I. Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement. I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition. This is how Japan apologizes. This is how Japanese take responsibility.
Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years. Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously. They apologize. They resign. It's done. This is modern-day seppuku.
I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did. But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves. Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional. Perception matters. It really matters. I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do. Nice beats mean. It just does.
The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up. People lied. TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied. Politicians lied. To what extent? About what? That will come out. Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll. Can anyone prove these lies? Can anyone prove there was no lying? Finding those answers is important, yes. The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful. How did this happen? How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this? Again?
Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer. This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission: "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.' Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity. Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)
These are incredible words. I've never seen anything like this. The Commission in its report calls out all of Japan, its culture, people, ways of thinking and essentially says "this must stop." No modern-day seppuku. No resignations. No new prime minister. These powerful words bear repeating. Mr. Kurokawa goes on to say that the emphasis should not be "blame" but "to fix." I could not agree more. This is the new "perception" of Japan I've been waiting for all my life.
The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year. It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree. When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year. Eight weeks later this tree is huge. Why does this matter? Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown. It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring. I asked around. "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"
The answer, mathematically at least, is eight. The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago. However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me. Eight is the wrong number. People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker. But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong. It's perception again. While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right. That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.
Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan. It's hardly working in Japan. The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world. The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this." It's bad enough the problem is enormous. How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance. If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.
An emergency meeting was held. The class presidents and vice-presidents were told to gather. From our homeroom, Panda, our class president, known for his bushy eyebrows and thick and long eyelashes, the smartest boy in the class, and I the vice-president attended. Asked what we were going to do about what our class did, Panda said, "I take responsibility. I will resign."
"No, stupid," and I really did call him that, "you're not going to resign." I then said to the three teachers, "We will stay on. We will fix this. We'll take responsibility, but we're not resigning."
I had no idea what I meant when I said Panda and I would "fix" this, but I thought falling on his sword, committing modern-day seppuku was the stupidest thing he could do. Why was he running away? You don't resign. You fix your mistakes. You stay and fight. Right?
I didn't know then Panda was doing exactly what was expected of him, Japanese-style. He was supposed to resign. As was I. Many years later, I understand why I was wrong back then, but I still stand by my statement. I don't agree with modern-day seppuku, based on ritual disembowlment, acts of complete loyalty to one's master and sacrificing life in the act of ultimate contrition. This is how Japan apologizes. This is how Japanese take responsibility.
Which is why there have been sixteen prime ministers in the past 23 years. Which is why heads of corporations, when caught in a scandal, hold a press conference, table at the front, and when the time comes, rise and bow their heads, camera shutters clicking away furiously. They apologize. They resign. It's done. This is modern-day seppuku.
I used to tell my employees I needed them to be really good at what they did. But, I needed their skills to be 70% of what they put out there, and the remaining 30% had to be what they projected about themselves. Long ago I learned you can be really good at what you do, but if you're not likable you won't get as much done as if you are nice and professional. Perception matters. It really matters. I will get so much more done playing nicely in the sandbox and operating at a high level than, say, someone who's a jerk but really good at what they do. Nice beats mean. It just does.
The perception over the Fukushima nuclear disaster is that there was a cover-up. People lied. TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company, those who operate the nuclear plants) executives lied. Politicians lied. To what extent? About what? That will come out. Some investigative journalist somewhere will someday crack the story wide open, and heads will roll. Can anyone prove these lies? Can anyone prove there was no lying? Finding those answers is important, yes. The perception of lying, however, is the stain spreading all over Japan, its politicians, and those involved in the "cover-up" and this, this perception is what keeps people unconvinced, pessimistic, and distrustful. How did this happen? How did Japanese politicians and businessmen bungle this? Again?
Mr. Kiyoshi Kurokawa, Chairman of the Fukushima Nuclear Independent Investigative Commission has the answer. This is a quote from the introduction of the 646-page report submitted to the Japanese Diet by the Commission: "What must be admitted – very painfully – is that this was a disaster 'Made in Japan.' Its fundamental causes are to be found in the ingrained conventions of Japanese culture: our reflexive obedience; our reluctance to question authority; our devotion to ‘sticking with the program’; our groupism; and our insularity. Had other Japanese been in the shoes of those who bear responsibility for this accident, the result may well have been the same."(Bold text added by me.)
The lilac tree I planted near my walkway has exploded in size just this year. It's as if someone planted a magic ball of vitamins under the tree. When I was home in the spring, the tree bloomed with dark purple lilacs (what joy!) but the tree itself was the same size as last year. Eight weeks later this tree is huge. Why does this matter? Because horticultural math can't possibly convey accurately how much this lilac tree has grown. It's twice as tall, twice as wide, and twice as deep as it was last spring. I asked around. "How many times bigger is this tree now with those numbers?"
The answer, mathematically at least, is eight. The tree is eight times larger than it was two months ago. However correct this math might be, if I go around saying "My lilac tree is eight times bigger than it was just this past spring!" no one will believe me. Eight is the wrong number. People would believe that it's twice as tall, wider, and thicker. But, multiplying those numbers to get eight, then saying "it's eight times as big as it was before" sounds wrong. It's perception again. While I mean to be telling the truth, it really is eight times bigger, this doesn't sound right. That it doesn't sound right is the point. Perception just matters.
Modern-day seppuku doesn't sound or look right to those outside of Japan. It's hardly working in Japan. The revolving doors of new prime ministers is neither okay for Japan nor the rest of the world. The Fukushima problem, the problem of how Tohoku will recover, these need consistent leadership--one voice saying, "We will fix this." It's bad enough the problem is enormous. How Japan is perceived, by its own citizens as well as from those around the world is hanging in the balance. If something doesn't change now, not only might the country never recover, the perception we are left with will be forever that of apologies and resignations, empty acts that fix nothing.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Blogging: A Problem?
Nora Ephron has been on my mind lately. The news of her death last week has occupied quite a bit of mental space. I liked her. I still do. Her writing-style, wit, humor, observations, and willingness to put herself "out there" inspired me, pushed me, and made me want to keep writing.
I spent the weekend reading her essays, books, and watching movies she wrote and directed. It was my private send-off for her. Except....
I didn't like the movie "Julie & Julia." More specifically, I didn't like the Julie character. Julia Child has always been an inspiration. Here again was a woman with biting wit, fearless, and willing to try new things. I like women who reinvent themselves. Wanting to cook like Julia Child, I bought her cookbooks. I can cook, but realizing I don't have the love of cooking Julia Child was blessed with, I long ago gave up wanting to be her.
Julie, the woman in the movie who blogged about her year of cooking from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, wrote about her trials, experiences, feelings, and frustrations. This, I found tedious. I couldn't relate. Herein lies my latest concern.
Why do I blog? What does blogging accomplish? I tell myself I'm sharing news about the tsunami that hit Tohoku last year, that keeping this news on someone's radar screen is my mission. It's my job.
But...
Just as I got tired of Julie in less than two hours, I have to assume there are plenty of people in the world who are sick of hearing about Tohoku. No. I know there are people sick of hearing about Tohoku. Immediate family members, good friends, so-so acquaintances have told me as much.
"Your poor husband."
"Japan can take care of itself."
"You're leaving your family behind. For what? Why?"
For better or worse, we are dependent upon the media for our news. News stories, what's considered "Breaking News" changes with each new event. Sexy stories stay on the front pages a bit longer than the rest. Since March of last year when the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan, the media reported on Libya, Bin Laden's death, the whole Weiner-gate thing, Arnold Schwarzenegger's love child, the floods in Thailand, the typhoon and subsequent floods in the Philippines, tornadoes, Olympic atheletes, the upcoming US Presidential election, and the Colorado wildfires. That's not even a partial list.
I went to Japan because I have an emotional connection to the country. The only news story from the aforementioned list I have such a connection to (a remote one at that) is the Presidential election. All the rest are stories that took place somewhere else. I can't relate to the other stories. I don't have that "emotional connection" so necessary to be able to continue reading. How then can I expect people without this attachment to relate to what's going on in Japan?
Before leaving for Japan last March, I sent out a series of e-mails telling people I was going to Japan, and that I was taking donations. A pastor from a local church wrote saying she was "disappointed" and wished I had given the congregation more time to donate items. I wrote back saying I would have given the church more time if I myself had known sooner I was going. When she asked for the two duffel bags she donated to be returned, I said I'd ask someone else for duffel bags. (I wasn't going to ask people who hadn't worn clean underwear in three weeks to return a donation.) When she wrote this past February saying she couldn't and wouldn't disseminate my report to the congregation because it sounded like I was asking for money, I gave up. Sadly, this is a classic example of what happens when people are detached from a story.
While I will keep blogging about Tohoku and Japan in general, I realize putting myself out there to the world, the unknown world at that, comes with a price. I could be just as tedious to some as Julie was to me today. While this concerns me, greatly mind you, I hope you are able to think bigger and broader, be less picky and critical, more open-minded and willing to hear just what's needed, what's going on, and why this is important. For those who do not share my emotional connection to Japan, I realize I'm asking a lot. I trust your maturity takes you beyond where mine took me today.
I questioned myself today as to whether I should keep blogging. I really didn't like Julie. In the end, I decided to trust in the goodness of humankind. Surely, just as those who read Julie's blog and liked it, there are those who aren't tired of hearing about Tohoku.
So, for now, I will keep blogging, hoping as I write my dislike of Julie is not an accurate barometer of people in general.
I spent the weekend reading her essays, books, and watching movies she wrote and directed. It was my private send-off for her. Except....
I didn't like the movie "Julie & Julia." More specifically, I didn't like the Julie character. Julia Child has always been an inspiration. Here again was a woman with biting wit, fearless, and willing to try new things. I like women who reinvent themselves. Wanting to cook like Julia Child, I bought her cookbooks. I can cook, but realizing I don't have the love of cooking Julia Child was blessed with, I long ago gave up wanting to be her.
Julie, the woman in the movie who blogged about her year of cooking from Mastering the Art of French Cooking, wrote about her trials, experiences, feelings, and frustrations. This, I found tedious. I couldn't relate. Herein lies my latest concern.
Why do I blog? What does blogging accomplish? I tell myself I'm sharing news about the tsunami that hit Tohoku last year, that keeping this news on someone's radar screen is my mission. It's my job.
But...
Just as I got tired of Julie in less than two hours, I have to assume there are plenty of people in the world who are sick of hearing about Tohoku. No. I know there are people sick of hearing about Tohoku. Immediate family members, good friends, so-so acquaintances have told me as much.
"Your poor husband."
"Japan can take care of itself."
"You're leaving your family behind. For what? Why?"
For better or worse, we are dependent upon the media for our news. News stories, what's considered "Breaking News" changes with each new event. Sexy stories stay on the front pages a bit longer than the rest. Since March of last year when the earthquake and tsunami hit Japan, the media reported on Libya, Bin Laden's death, the whole Weiner-gate thing, Arnold Schwarzenegger's love child, the floods in Thailand, the typhoon and subsequent floods in the Philippines, tornadoes, Olympic atheletes, the upcoming US Presidential election, and the Colorado wildfires. That's not even a partial list.
I went to Japan because I have an emotional connection to the country. The only news story from the aforementioned list I have such a connection to (a remote one at that) is the Presidential election. All the rest are stories that took place somewhere else. I can't relate to the other stories. I don't have that "emotional connection" so necessary to be able to continue reading. How then can I expect people without this attachment to relate to what's going on in Japan?
Before leaving for Japan last March, I sent out a series of e-mails telling people I was going to Japan, and that I was taking donations. A pastor from a local church wrote saying she was "disappointed" and wished I had given the congregation more time to donate items. I wrote back saying I would have given the church more time if I myself had known sooner I was going. When she asked for the two duffel bags she donated to be returned, I said I'd ask someone else for duffel bags. (I wasn't going to ask people who hadn't worn clean underwear in three weeks to return a donation.) When she wrote this past February saying she couldn't and wouldn't disseminate my report to the congregation because it sounded like I was asking for money, I gave up. Sadly, this is a classic example of what happens when people are detached from a story.
While I will keep blogging about Tohoku and Japan in general, I realize putting myself out there to the world, the unknown world at that, comes with a price. I could be just as tedious to some as Julie was to me today. While this concerns me, greatly mind you, I hope you are able to think bigger and broader, be less picky and critical, more open-minded and willing to hear just what's needed, what's going on, and why this is important. For those who do not share my emotional connection to Japan, I realize I'm asking a lot. I trust your maturity takes you beyond where mine took me today.
I questioned myself today as to whether I should keep blogging. I really didn't like Julie. In the end, I decided to trust in the goodness of humankind. Surely, just as those who read Julie's blog and liked it, there are those who aren't tired of hearing about Tohoku.
So, for now, I will keep blogging, hoping as I write my dislike of Julie is not an accurate barometer of people in general.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
"I'll protect you."
The innocence of babes, of children who do not know the impact their words have, is something we've all likely experienced. Facebook postings are riddled with the comments our children make, heartwarming, uplifting, genuinely kind, and unprompted. We're proud parents when we share our children's words. It's beautiful. It's love in its purest form. I firmly believe these acts of kindness bear repeating. Often is better.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
My friend in Ofunato tells me the following story.
"My kids knew here," she taps her head, "something terrible happened last year, but here," now tapping her heart, "is a different story." I nod.
"Tell me."
"My store was washed away, right?" I nod. We're in her "new" pre-fab store for a reason.
"The kids, maybe for a month after the tsunami last year, everyday after I'd pick them up from school would say, 'Let's drive past the store.' They knew it wasn't there. I don't know why they said this, but for a month, everyday, we'd drive to where the store was. Maybe it needed to sink in for them, and that took time? I don't know. We'd just sit there in the car until they said, 'Okay. We can go home now.'"
"Wow." I don't know what else to say. Wow.
"Then one day, my oldest said, 'We don't need to see where the store used to be, Mama. We don't need to go there anymore.'" Again, wow.
"That's when my middle kid said, 'I'll protect you, Mama. If another tsunami comes, I'll protect you.'"
Wow.
My friend continues, "I asked my daughter, the one who said this, how she was going to protect me from the tsunami, and she says, 'I'll beat it up.'"
My friend and I both laugh but it's the wrong response. The daughter who said this to her mother was three years old at the time. The beauty and bravery of this girl's words stung.
"What did you say to your daughter?" I ask my friend.
"I just cried," she says back, and there, right there, we both lost it.
Pure innocence combined with fierce love is what I had the privilege of hearing about that day. We need more of this everywhere in the world.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
How Urban Legends Begin
Insomnia is my latest night-time companion, and one I'm not particularly fond of. In Ofunato, Insomnia (I feel I need to refer to him/her as a person) is more of a problem, as there's no noise at night. This is a problem for me. Tokyo nights are filled with traffic noises, sirens, and the occasional loud quarrel. In Ofunato, there's no noise. That means I hear everything.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
How can I hear everything if there's no noise? Glad you asked. The noise I like to fall asleep to is the Tokyo-type noise. Cars honking? A lullaby. Sirens? The chorus of a song. Ofunato? With no traffic, I hear all the night noises.
Take, for example, the sounds of nature. They're either frogs or crickets. That I don't know the difference in the sounds they make is a bit of a joke around here. Whatever they are, I hear them. Crows fly at night. Did you know that? This makes them all the more mystical and magical, but still, I could do without their "music."
Then there are the noises in the apartment. This places creeks. I've been told in no uncertain terms, what I'm hearing are a). ghosts, or b). the natural shrinking of the wood expanded during the day. The consensus among those I talk to is split right down the middle: fifty-fifty.
I bring this up to say ghost-sightings are a common occurence around here. Here again is another fifty-fifty phenomenon. Some people want to see them, others are terrified.
Rumors, urban legends, stories abound in Ofunato.
Ghosts lined up outside, standing in cue at an opening of a major supermarket. Ghosts walk the streets at night. Ghosts are seen hanging onto steering wheels, bags, boxes, rakes, and bicycles. Ghosts wander around looking for their homes. Ghosts sitting on the sidewalks, crying.
Pretty much everyone around here believes in ghosts, and understands why they're here.
"After the earthquake, they didn't think a tsunami would come so they stayed home drinking tea. Then BAM! The wave hit, and just like that, they died. But, the thing is," and here my friend points her chopsticks at me, accentuating the point, "They don't know they're dead. That's why they're wandering around."
I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. It's not that I don't believe in ghosts. But, I haven't seen any here. I'm not particularly scared of them, but I could probably do without an encounter.
"Do they only come out at night?" I ask.
"No. They're all around. At all times, day and night."
"Do ghosts live somewhere? I mean, is there a place they come and go from?"
"Oh yeah. When they're done for the day or night, whatever, they go back into the ocean."
Interesting. This is simply amazing.
"You know," another friend, one who works out of my apartment tells me, "People died around here. My relatives just up there," and here she goes by the window and points up the hill. "Four people died just around their home. It would make sense there are ghosts nearby, don't you think?"
"Yeah, but why here, then? Surely no one died here, right?" Here, I seriously hope the answer is "No."
"They see your light on. Because you never sleep!" And, now we're back to my friend, Insomnia. Laughing, my friend is done talking about ghosts, evidently finding my "little problem" as she so tactfully puts it, more of an appropriate topic for the rest of the afternoon.
Ghosts or no ghosts, the noises in Ofunato at night will surely keep me up for a few months longer. Until I see one for myself, I will just assume the ghosts don't speak English, and as such, will leave me alone.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
An Open Letter to People of Faith
Dear Friends,
I credit my parents. If you disagree with me, you will likely replace "credit" with "blame." I can handle that. I believe my parents can as well.
It's not as if somewhere in my childhood my parents sat me down and laid this out for me. I picked this up through the way they lived. Their lifestyle personified their beliefs and their faith through the actions they took. For this, I have the utmost respect for them.
It comes down to this: If you are a person of faith, if you have chosen to state you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or Hindu, if people know you as someone who holds a set of faith-based beliefs you are responsible for your actions. More so than those who do not openly state their faith. This is even truer for people of the cloth. If by looking at you I know you are a priest, nun, monk, rabbi, or if I know you as a pastor, I get to hold you to a higher standard. I just do. Your choice to openly, publicly, and formally announce your faith through your profession or clothing gives me permission to raise the bar in how I look at you. I do. You asked for it.
Which is why crimes committed by people of faith like the sexual assaults on children by some of the Catholic "cloth" infuriate me. The same goes for people of faith who are nasty, unkind, passive-aggressive, and rude. You know better. Knock it off. Shame.
Faith is not like poker. You don't get to "fold" or call "all in" when it suits you. Faith is like parenthood. Once a parent always a parent. This is what I learned from my parents. You're either always "all in" or you're not. My choice to live a life based on faith was not something I undertook lightly. Here in Japan where I stick out as it is my actions are noted, and my moves observed. I take this very, very seriously. People have made assumptions I'm here to spread the gospel, teach and preach, or convert. I'm not. I'm here because there's a need to find ways to put food on the table. My "mission" here is not about the after-life. It's about the day-to-day life.
A recent e-mail brought up in me this feeling of living an "all in" life. My job, now and for the foreseeable future is to spread the word about what's going on in Tohoku, post the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011. I understand there will come a point where people are tired of hearing of this. Some are already tired of news about Tohoku. I've heard, "Japan can take care of itself," and "Move on," and "Japan is rich," and "Japan is not a third-world country, so we don't need to help." If you can live with these statements, more power to you. Not being here, not seeing what happened, not living among those whose pain is still very, very real, it's probably easy to arrive at those conclusions. I can't force you to help.
But, I can cry foul, especially for those whose faith teaches them to help people in need regardless of how well-off that country or region might be. The e-mail I received this morning told me a faith-based publication "didn't have space" to print a feature article on Tohoku. How do I respond to a statement like that? Where do I begin? If it weren't a faith-based group, I would have let it go. I would have judged them as small and petty people, but I would have let it go. My reply, a nasty one I'm afraid, said "MAKE space." I'm guessing that probably didn't go over well.
Pick a spot on the map preferably along the ocean and now draw a line extending 300 miles. It doesn't matter whether you go north, south, east, or west. Now, imagine EVERY SINGLE city, village, and town on that line has lost people, sometimes thousands at a time. Buildings and homes are destroyed. If it wasn't made of concrete, it's gone. Imagine some towns are almost entirely wiped off the map. Now, tell me how (first-world country aside) you "don't have space" to print an article about the millions of people whose lives have been turned upside down. Really?
Today, I'm disappointed in these believers who don't know how to make space in a publication to tell an important story. Tomorrow, I will disappoint someone. The difference is, I'm trying.
I credit my parents. If you disagree with me, you will likely replace "credit" with "blame." I can handle that. I believe my parents can as well.
It's not as if somewhere in my childhood my parents sat me down and laid this out for me. I picked this up through the way they lived. Their lifestyle personified their beliefs and their faith through the actions they took. For this, I have the utmost respect for them.
It comes down to this: If you are a person of faith, if you have chosen to state you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or Hindu, if people know you as someone who holds a set of faith-based beliefs you are responsible for your actions. More so than those who do not openly state their faith. This is even truer for people of the cloth. If by looking at you I know you are a priest, nun, monk, rabbi, or if I know you as a pastor, I get to hold you to a higher standard. I just do. Your choice to openly, publicly, and formally announce your faith through your profession or clothing gives me permission to raise the bar in how I look at you. I do. You asked for it.
Which is why crimes committed by people of faith like the sexual assaults on children by some of the Catholic "cloth" infuriate me. The same goes for people of faith who are nasty, unkind, passive-aggressive, and rude. You know better. Knock it off. Shame.
Faith is not like poker. You don't get to "fold" or call "all in" when it suits you. Faith is like parenthood. Once a parent always a parent. This is what I learned from my parents. You're either always "all in" or you're not. My choice to live a life based on faith was not something I undertook lightly. Here in Japan where I stick out as it is my actions are noted, and my moves observed. I take this very, very seriously. People have made assumptions I'm here to spread the gospel, teach and preach, or convert. I'm not. I'm here because there's a need to find ways to put food on the table. My "mission" here is not about the after-life. It's about the day-to-day life.
A recent e-mail brought up in me this feeling of living an "all in" life. My job, now and for the foreseeable future is to spread the word about what's going on in Tohoku, post the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011. I understand there will come a point where people are tired of hearing of this. Some are already tired of news about Tohoku. I've heard, "Japan can take care of itself," and "Move on," and "Japan is rich," and "Japan is not a third-world country, so we don't need to help." If you can live with these statements, more power to you. Not being here, not seeing what happened, not living among those whose pain is still very, very real, it's probably easy to arrive at those conclusions. I can't force you to help.
But, I can cry foul, especially for those whose faith teaches them to help people in need regardless of how well-off that country or region might be. The e-mail I received this morning told me a faith-based publication "didn't have space" to print a feature article on Tohoku. How do I respond to a statement like that? Where do I begin? If it weren't a faith-based group, I would have let it go. I would have judged them as small and petty people, but I would have let it go. My reply, a nasty one I'm afraid, said "MAKE space." I'm guessing that probably didn't go over well.
Pick a spot on the map preferably along the ocean and now draw a line extending 300 miles. It doesn't matter whether you go north, south, east, or west. Now, imagine EVERY SINGLE city, village, and town on that line has lost people, sometimes thousands at a time. Buildings and homes are destroyed. If it wasn't made of concrete, it's gone. Imagine some towns are almost entirely wiped off the map. Now, tell me how (first-world country aside) you "don't have space" to print an article about the millions of people whose lives have been turned upside down. Really?
Today, I'm disappointed in these believers who don't know how to make space in a publication to tell an important story. Tomorrow, I will disappoint someone. The difference is, I'm trying.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Kindergarten Memories
It all started last spring when I first came to Ofunato. One encounter after another I heard the same words. "We've only seen foreigners on television. You're real." We would laugh. "Yes, I'm real."
Fast forward to my latest work in Tohoku. There are many ways to make a difference. One way is to show children who've witnessed pain and loss there's still something fun in life. It's okay to laugh. It's okay if I'm the one being laughed at. It certainly wouldn't be the last time.
I was five when I went to a nearby kindergarten in Obihiro. The only foreigner, of course (unless you count the one Ainu boy) my days were filled with drawing, running, eating the lunches my mother made, begging her to replace the raisins with chocolate chips.
I liked my teacher, and I was comfortable at kindergarten except for one thing. The lone male teacher (even a rarity back then) loomed large in the halls carrying kids on his back piggyback style, three at a time. We called him "Amano Gorilla Sensei." I still remember his black, curly hair. He seemed huge, and definitely very gorilla-like. I was scared of him. Really scared.
It was the memory of Mr. Gorilla that led me to ask the local municipalities if I could play with kids in pre-schools and after school programs. If I remembered Mr. Gorilla from when I was five years old, there was a good chance the kids I was playing with would remember Auntie Amya. Hopefully, with fondness. Not like the gorilla memories I have.
I have many goals. I want to show them the foreigners they'd only seen on television to date were indeed real, not scary, and possibly even fun. I want them to know English isn't hard. If this led to them wanting to explore the world, so much the better.
Kids are amazing. I've learned a lot from them, many lessons coming completely out of the blue. Don't wear black (it makes them cry). Bright colors get comments ("Your shirt matches your lipstick"). Bulky shirts end up with hands exploring what's underneath (don't wear these). Hands find pockets (snap them shut ahead of time). Earrings are tugged, fingernail colors critiqued. The lack of socks is a topic of discussion (couldn't have guessed this).
Taking the sting out of the assumption learning a foreign language is difficult is not as hard as it seems. The kids already know English, French, Portuguese. They just don't know they know.
"What's this?" I show them a photo.
"Lion!" In unison.
"That's English!" I wish I could capture the squeals that follow. I continue with tomato, pool, piano, truck, ice cream, toilet paper. They know all these words, and when I tell them these are all English words, they start to get it.
Then come the numbers. And colors. After all this, I tell them "See. You do speak English!" They beam.
And so it continues. Spreading cheer one kid at a time.
Fast forward to my latest work in Tohoku. There are many ways to make a difference. One way is to show children who've witnessed pain and loss there's still something fun in life. It's okay to laugh. It's okay if I'm the one being laughed at. It certainly wouldn't be the last time.
I was five when I went to a nearby kindergarten in Obihiro. The only foreigner, of course (unless you count the one Ainu boy) my days were filled with drawing, running, eating the lunches my mother made, begging her to replace the raisins with chocolate chips.
I liked my teacher, and I was comfortable at kindergarten except for one thing. The lone male teacher (even a rarity back then) loomed large in the halls carrying kids on his back piggyback style, three at a time. We called him "Amano Gorilla Sensei." I still remember his black, curly hair. He seemed huge, and definitely very gorilla-like. I was scared of him. Really scared.
It was the memory of Mr. Gorilla that led me to ask the local municipalities if I could play with kids in pre-schools and after school programs. If I remembered Mr. Gorilla from when I was five years old, there was a good chance the kids I was playing with would remember Auntie Amya. Hopefully, with fondness. Not like the gorilla memories I have.
I have many goals. I want to show them the foreigners they'd only seen on television to date were indeed real, not scary, and possibly even fun. I want them to know English isn't hard. If this led to them wanting to explore the world, so much the better.
Kids are amazing. I've learned a lot from them, many lessons coming completely out of the blue. Don't wear black (it makes them cry). Bright colors get comments ("Your shirt matches your lipstick"). Bulky shirts end up with hands exploring what's underneath (don't wear these). Hands find pockets (snap them shut ahead of time). Earrings are tugged, fingernail colors critiqued. The lack of socks is a topic of discussion (couldn't have guessed this).
Taking the sting out of the assumption learning a foreign language is difficult is not as hard as it seems. The kids already know English, French, Portuguese. They just don't know they know.
"What's this?" I show them a photo.
"That's English!" I wish I could capture the squeals that follow. I continue with tomato, pool, piano, truck, ice cream, toilet paper. They know all these words, and when I tell them these are all English words, they start to get it.
Then come the numbers. And colors. After all this, I tell them "See. You do speak English!" They beam.
And so it continues. Spreading cheer one kid at a time.
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