I used to have recurring dreams. Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical. I dreamt about tornadoes. Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me. Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green. Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me. Never scared, I loved these dreams. I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace. These tornadoes did not destroy.
A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning. All the books offered the same explanation: trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.
Please. Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift. I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon. Quite the contrary. I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep. I felt calm. Happy. In my dreams, tornadoes were good.
Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries. I didn't agree. They were wrong. My dreams. My rules.
Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries. Allow me to share a story.
Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank. Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp. I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am. (The stamp proves I'm me. Not my ID. Don't ask.)
I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address. I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line. I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.
"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So? You know it's me," but I don't. Here's why.
I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood. Some days my writing is illegible. Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name. Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular. Today it's a combination of the above. The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account. My mood today? Okay. I'm in a hurry. I'm hungry. Not cranky. Generally good. This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m". So then, what was my mood when I opened the account? How the hell am I supposed to remember this?
Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common. All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years: my parents, husband, son. I'm baffled by this. They're baffled by me.
I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me. I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.
"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry. No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.
"Okay. Let me try again." I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here. Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry. No."
You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay. Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask. "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen? You've seen my photo ID. You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry. But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.
I sit back. Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble. Don't other people have this problem? Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change? And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read? Am I weird? I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day. I'm actually stumped.
I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say. "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago. I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper. I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't. I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance. He doesn't get it, of course.
I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance. This is a challenge. He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says. "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."
Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names. I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank. How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.
Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done. I pass. Joy.
Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me. There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath. I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary. Careful what you read, people. It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.
Signed,
Amya
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Mad Men Japan Style
Of course there are exceptions. Don't get all wound up over gross generalizations. I'm trying to make a point.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo.
Tokyo sprawls. It seemingly never ends: blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people. Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills.
Culturally, also, there are major differences. Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae. It's normal. It's good. It's no big deal. Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae. Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings. Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures. It works. This is Tokyo.
Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s. It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan. Social norms haven't changed with the times. Time moves on but ideas haven't.
For the most part.
Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting. Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience. The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year. How grateful am I? Let me count the ways in which this act matters.
First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother. The student faced the doors of the elevator. She looked up at the mirrored ceiling. She watched the people get off the elevator. She pressed buttons. It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it. Her grin was priceless. She was giddy. There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate. Certainly not in Rikuzentakata. Here is a first.
Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese. Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students. This is normal here.
Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation. "You've got four days. Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?" The students' reactions varied.
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You've got four days. Your young. You'll hear English this whole week. You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up." Most are wary. I smile. "Trust me."
If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different. Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.
Grow. Believe. Try.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter
I was cheated. All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo. Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set. All my girl friends had them. All of my girl friends had them. Not me. I am forever scared. My parents did me a great disservice. Send me a box of Band-Aids.
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls? Did they not love me? Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan? Why not? Why not? Pretty please.
My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer. "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."
Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars. They're just dolls. Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls. It wasn't about deserving these beauties. It was simple math. I get that now. Many, many years later, I get that now.
I do not have a daughter. I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him. For many reasons we didn't. I will take this regret to my grave. Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son. "Give me a grandbaby girl." Specifically, a red head. More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes. I've seen the one I want. She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston.
"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day. "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing. "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl. She seems to belong to someone already. Careful what you say. You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say. "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly. Whatever. My son laughs, again. I do, too. Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement. A girl can dream. I'm hoping for a miracle.
Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls? No. I'm firmly in my parents camp. I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls. Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me? No good reason, I suppose. I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer. I wanted these dolls. It was as simple as that.
Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own. This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing. My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess. I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs. Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops. I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for. Oh well. I tried. I truly did.
While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many. We have no signed papers but just an understanding. I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently. She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.
This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago. She was 17 at the time. A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.
She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail. We talked about its content. She explained. I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project. I wasn't in a good place. I should have turned it down."
She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots. I try to keep mine steady. I tell her to call me any time she needs to. I tell her I will always be there for her. I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill". I tell her I'm proud of her. I tell her she's brave. I ask if I can help.
As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls. As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression. Girls can survive being denied dolls. I'm proof. Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow. I'll be fine living without. If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter. Light a candle. Sing. Dance. Send good vibes.
My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs. "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
The Ad in the Train
Tokyo subways are covered with ads. Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip. Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform. I don't mind these much. I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news. Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo. Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
I swear I am not making this up. I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede. Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising. This ad ... this ad takes the cake.
Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens. The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open. This screen is informative. It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train. Stops are easy to miss.
The other screen displays more ads. Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk. I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor. What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?" The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away. The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.
Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer. I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them." The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."
Then comes the bar graph. Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer. I hold my breath. I prepare. This can't be good.
And, I'm wrong. Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away. Nice job, 81 people. That's kind of you to try. Thanks.
I assume this is the end. I am wrong again. (Surely, a record. Twice in one day?) This is the part I can't make up.
So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners. We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality. Why not end it there? This is where my imagination fails me. I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message. Sell something after this? Why? Why ruin a good thing?
What comes next stumped me. The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people. A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"
What? Ramen? We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen? Why?
She asks the same question about the blue-answers. What flavor would they be?
For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored. Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things. I am not making this up.
There's more. (Because, why end here?)
Now comes the advertisement. Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation. Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?" There's an app for that. Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask. It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.
So, there you have it. Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app.
I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you. You're welcome.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Men Behaving Badly and Women Who Push Back
I mean, really. The remarks themselves are sexist enough, but the whole lack-of-creativity part also irks me. You want to put women down? Come up with something other than "if you bleed you can't lead."
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Disclaimer: What the Governor is to have said is something I read online. I haven't verified it. I don't know him.
Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like. (The "manly" is my addition. Couldn't resist.)
Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex. Menstruation? Again? That's all you've got?
To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor. The message was simple: Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home. Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped. That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future? Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet? Who said "men rule Japan"? I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones. I like creativity. In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant. You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor.
I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom: in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics. It's the male lion that has to worry about hair. It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens. And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness? As a part of owl-courtship? Why are we humans not more like these animals?
Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion: If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm on my period. You can't trust my judgment today."
That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.
Friday, January 31, 2014
The Art of Complaining
The magnet on my grandmother's refrigerator read, "The more you
complain, the longer God lets you live." I believed this because
grandma did. In my corner of the world, this woman did no wrong.
Conclusion? Don't complain. When I found this same magnet in a gift
shop I bought it, displaying it proudly on my dishwasher at eye-level,
certain my son would see, learn, and agree.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
There are chronic complainers in my life. Every conversation we have is about what is wrong. They're seldom able to talk about anything other than their latest problem. It's true some times they are given massive doses of life-changing crises, sometimes back-to-back. Then came the realization, the ones who always have issues are the same bunch--I can count them--and this begs the question, should grandma's magnet have read, "The more you complain the more crap God throws at you"?
I imagine us walking on a beach. You're talking and I'm listening. You're actually complaining. Let's just get that out in the open. Somewhere in this process a line magically appears in the sand. This is the line at which I stop listening. You cross it, this line, because you need to spill, but because your complaining becomes too much I tune out. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm sorry, sort of, but not enough to stop the line from appearing.
We all have this line. It appears for us at different times. Most of us who complain are unaware of its existence, that here is a cue for us to shut up and stop which is why we cross it.
I recently complained publicly online about my latest gripe. It's a big gripe, and one I feel justified in sharing. Did you want to know? Probably not. Did I care that you didn't? Not really. Did I cross your line? Maybe.
The problem with complaining is just that: we don't really want to know. Most of us who ask the question, "How are you?" aren't particularly interested in what follows. We want to hear, "Fine" and get on with the conversation. We want to order our food, gossip, and talk about the latest books we've read. Only with a select few do I ever allow myself to spew.
Complaining is an art few of us have mastered. Without expelling problems, they fester. They start to smell. The corners in which we keep our problems hidden become infected, turning into pimples and boils filled with puss.
Pimples need to be popped. Boils need to be lanced. Infections in our bodies need to be removed. The same goes for emotions. Before we are molded by our culture, we are all base humans. The same things make us happy: good food, sex, companionship. The same things make us sad: death, rejection, indigestion. It's through culture we are taught about "good" and "bad" emotions. It's through culture we are taught to "control" our feelings. In Japan, the prevailing sentiment when things to badly is to "suck it up and ride it through." Perhaps that's too crass. That said, the word and concepts behind gaman offer most Japanese little opportunity to complain.
There are 500,000 or more people going through varying degrees of trauma based on the same event. The disaster that took place almost 36 months ago is old news in chronology but not in emotion. Whoever said, "time heals all wounds" was wrong. Time may lessen pain but in the past 36 months I've seen little healing. Asking those who have experienced varying degrees of loss to "hang in there" by personifying strength, stoicism, and patience--all words applying to gaman--there are consequences to this assumption. Not good ones, either.
I do not complain to my friends in Tohoku because I feel my problems are insignificant in comparison. I diminish my issues, whatever they may be and however large they are because, lets' face it, they seem petty in comparison to what they've gone through.
I have not mastered the art of complaining. Neither have my many friends. Those who should be allowed to release their pain don't, and those who ramble on don't see my line.
Let it out or keep it in? I write today not to offer solutions but to urge us all to think--myself included, of course.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
On The Woman-Who-Rhymes-With-Witch and Learning How To Move On
Shit happens in threes. Everyone knows this. Our run with bad luck started back in December. We received a call. The police arrested one of the two who robbed our home two years ago. If we were still pressing charges we would need to fly home for the trial and testify. Or, we could drop the charges and she would go free. We called and said, "We need time," and "We'll get back to you." They said, "Fine." Fine. We would deal with this later.
Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage. Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess. Because two is a stupid number there was more. We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S. Shit happens in threes. Indeed.
This was a bit much. Where do we start? How do we move through these events? Why was this happening to us? We're good people. We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches. What did we do to deserve this?
Frantic transpacific calls ensued. We split the work. I would handle the robbery case. David would handle the water damage. We told our accountant to fix the other problem. In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down. This served to raise our blood pressure and little else. Wallowing felt good but only briefly. We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans. That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good. David found living without water utterly horrid. Neither of us were happy.
Happiness. This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused. "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Yeah. We all want to be happy. There's nothing wrong with that."
How do we define happiness? What makes us happy? The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad." The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness. Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply." Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.
How we process pain differs for us all. I need laughter. With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me: my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies. I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.
Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense. I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on. I do encourage the grieving to laugh. Often is good. Once a day is a must. For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.
As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud. I feel very little relief.
Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014. We're certain we are correct in our assumption. This is most excellent news. It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go. This makes us happy. We will get through this string of bad luck.
In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same. Pain is not funny. Deep pain takes longer to move through. That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.
In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem. Good boy.
Then David flew home to a house with burst pipes and water damage. Floorboards warped, walls and ceilings damaged, the place was a mess. Because two is a stupid number there was more. We received another letter from the government agency that starts with an I and ends in a S. Shit happens in threes. Indeed.
This was a bit much. Where do we start? How do we move through these events? Why was this happening to us? We're good people. We don't deserve this string of back-to-back life-glitches. What did we do to deserve this?
Frantic transpacific calls ensued. We split the work. I would handle the robbery case. David would handle the water damage. We told our accountant to fix the other problem. In the mean time we complained about these undeserving injustices and railed against the conspiring entities who tried to bring us down. This served to raise our blood pressure and little else. Wallowing felt good but only briefly. We soon found this negativity got in our way of moving forward and making plans. That said, I found denying my anger at this woman-who-rhymes-with-witch did me little good. David found living without water utterly horrid. Neither of us were happy.
Happiness. This was the answer to a question posed to me by my brother years ago.
"What do you want out of life, sis?"
"Happiness," I said.
He paused. "That is so Princess Diana."
I took this to mean my answer was not one I would be wise to repeat elsewhere.
Years later I reminded him of this conversation which, of course, he did not remember.
"Sorry about that," he said. "Yeah. We all want to be happy. There's nothing wrong with that."
How do we define happiness? What makes us happy? The simple answer is, "The opposite of what makes us sad." The past month aside, for the past 30+ months I have been surrounded by people who experienced a deep and profound sadness. Whoever said "time heals all wounds" should have added "and for collective pain, this doesn't apply." Three years is evidently not long enough for pain to disappear.
How we process pain differs for us all. I need laughter. With very little in my professional life, I rely on those around me: my husband, our son, my sister, my boarding school buddies. I watch the New Zealand All Blacks do the Haka because while it's not funny, it makes me smile.
Learning to move on is a skill few of us learn and develop thus making our difficult times seem longer, deeper, and more intense. I am in no position to tell those who have experienced loss to move on. I do encourage the grieving to laugh. Often is good. Once a day is a must. For your dose for today, read these answers given by a child whom I would be proud to call my own.
As I lash out in my imaginary conversations with the thief who is the woman-who-rhymes-with-witch, I feel my heart pound as I say things to her privately I will never have the chance to say out loud. I feel very little relief.
Shit happens in threes so we are clear for the rest of 2014. We're certain we are correct in our assumption. This is most excellent news. It's not three weeks into the year and we're good to go. This makes us happy. We will get through this string of bad luck.
In the mean time, we will laugh and will encourage others to do the same. Pain is not funny. Deep pain takes longer to move through. That said, there's plenty of humor in life and some of it is simply too good not to share.
In the spirit of locating our own personal funny bones I share Jonathan's art and poem. Good boy.
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