There is a boarding school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo. The doctrine preached here is so religiously rigid the Tea Party (the ultra-conservatives in the USA) salivates over the mere mention. Here is the Mecca of conservative Christians in Japan. I went there for high school not because my parents were particularly thrilled or in sync with the school's teachings but because this was the only international school in Japan with boarding facilities. Here I learned the art of sneaking out of the dorm (I never got caught) and breaking rules without seeming to do so. Here I learned the art of of creatively interpreting said rules, following them by my own code and thus changing the intent altogether, but doing so in a convincing way insuring I would not be punished--skills that have served me well in adulthood.
I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters. Some didn't like me. None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now. Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed. We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go. We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.
Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously. For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone. For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors. Except for one key fact: friends I made back then are still friends today.
There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience. That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond. Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.
Their behavior on these nights out is bad. Really bad. The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean. Last night was one such night. After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following: "You're pretty liberated. Why do you put up with us?"
I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated. Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism." I don't say this because: a). Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b). it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity. Instead I offer an alternative truth.
"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love. It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military. This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship. It connects. It ties together for life.
"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place. We would never be friends."
The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid. Or, TCK. We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs. We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either. Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both. We're comfortable in both. We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment. We are of both (many) but we are of neither. This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it. Who "get" us. This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs. It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else. But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules. Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.
So, today I am grateful for bonds. I am grateful for people who "get" me. Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Red Shoes and Baby Goats
The tendency to think I'm right began when I was young. I have proof of this. Let's use the four-year old me as an example.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a carrot."
I own a pair of red shoes. That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child. Allow me to continue.
Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced: a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny. It never occurred to me I was wrong. No. Never. Why would I be?
The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin. The word used in the song is ijin. They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.
Now, here's the thing. If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a great person."
This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much. It doesn't quite make sense. How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"? What if it was just her father or mother? Not that parents can't be great, mind you. But, still. I must now investigate.
There are two other definitions of the word ijin. I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused. Here's the thing. One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.
The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian. So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian? This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners. Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse? To look down upon foreigners?
Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage". There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race. Perhaps they are going to a picnic. The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.
Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably. Poor thing.
Here's a different story.
I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps. This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack. (Google it.) The song goes like this:
Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat
Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance. I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.
I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance? Baby goats aren't important? They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition? My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.
As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats. A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.
"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math? (I didn't write that.) Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused. The word koyagi means baby goat. Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi. It's so sweet you think that, though. Really.
He sent photos.
"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance." His response was kind.
Ah. So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat. Yes. That's much better. Much less cruelty and death.
Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult. So it is in life.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a carrot."
I own a pair of red shoes. That's what triggers the memory of me singing this song as a child. Allow me to continue.
Those are not the words, the little girl taken away by a carrot, but the four-year old me was convinced: a). the little girl singing the song on the record didn't know carrots didn't walk and thus clearly had the mistook the lyrics, or, b). the person who wrote the song was trying to be funny. It never occurred to me I was wrong. No. Never. Why would I be?
The word for carrot in Japanese is ninjin. The word used in the song is ijin. They sound alike, which is why the little girl singing the song could have gotten it wrong, or the person writing the lyrics thought this play on words would be funny.
Now, here's the thing. If we replace ijin with ninjin then the song goes like this.
"There's a little girl wearing red shoes. She was taken away by a great person."
This is better than being taken away by a carrot but not by much. It doesn't quite make sense. How does the person singing the song know the person leading the girl away was "great"? What if it was just her father or mother? Not that parents can't be great, mind you. But, still. I must now investigate.
There are two other definitions of the word ijin. I've not heard either used in a conversation during my years in Japan and this has me all the more confused. Here's the thing. One of the definitions for ijin is significantly worse than the idea of being taken away by a carrot.
The definition in question is this: ijin is barbarian. So, the little girl was taken away by a barbarian? This definition also says it's a disparaging word for foreigners. Is this Japanese children's song teaching kids to curse? To look down upon foreigners?
Another definition is "a person from a mixed marriage". There is certainly nothing wrong with a little girl in red shoes being taken away by a person who is of mixed race. Perhaps they are going to a picnic. The problem I have with this word is that there were so few children of mixed marriages when this song was written--ages ago--that it makes it difficult to believe this word choice is deliberate.
Which leaves us to assume the little girl was taken away by a barbarian or a great person--a very different outcome for the girl, presumably. Poor thing.
Here's a different story.
I recently had the opportunity to visit the Alps. This, of course reminded me of a children's clapping game I grew up playing--something similar to Miss Mary Mack. (Google it.) The song goes like this:
Alps, 10,000 jaku
Let's dance the Alpine dance
On top of a baby goat
Jaku is an old Japanese measuring unit for some distance. I don't know what the distance is as it's no longer used.
I grew up playing this clapping game thoroughly confused why anyone would dance on top of a baby goat (how cruel, really) but perhaps this is something people in the Alps do when they dance? Baby goats aren't important? They're sacrificed as a part of a cultural tradition? My childhood imagination ran wild with images of dead baby goats being trampled upon.
As I drove up the Alps I posted a note on Facebook changing the words of the song as I announced my trip the world all while trying to be nicer to baby goats. A comment made by a friend to this post made me feel much better about the Austrians or Swiss or Germans or whomever and their treatment of goats.
"The song is about the Japanese Alps because the Alps in Europe are higher than 10,000 jaku and the Japanese Alps is about the right height."
You actually did the math? (I didn't write that.) Instead I accused him of not knowing the song.
"I do know the song," he said, "and I've actually been to Koyagi which is where they do the Alpine dance."
Dear man, clearly you are confused. The word koyagi means baby goat. Why people dance upon them is a mystery shrouded in cruelty but you don't go to a baby goat--as in, you don't go to Koyagi. It's so sweet you think that, though. Really.
He sent photos.
"This is the big rock at Koyagi on one of the peaks of the Japanese Alps, elevation 10,000 jaku, and this is where you're supposed to do the Alpine dance." His response was kind.
Ah. So, Koyagi is a place, not a baby goat. Yes. That's much better. Much less cruelty and death.
Two songs I sang as a child come back to me with very different meanings now that I'm an adult. So it is in life.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
The Man I Didn't Punch
Japan finally decided to make possession of child pornography a crime.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Read that again.
Until a few weeks ago, it was okay to own images of naked children, and/or children forced to take part in sexual acts. I say "forced" because children don't have the capacity to consent.
I've not posted anything here for the past several weeks because I've been angry. Usually this wouldn't keep me quiet, but I found my latest anger difficult to articulate without sounding like I was screaming. Not one who is shy about expressing my opinion, my decision to remain silent has been an emotional drain. Which is why when a man took a photo of my breasts yesterday I almost punched him.
How women are treated here in Japan has long been a problem for me. I'm largely exempt from the blatant and less obvious forms of discrimination based on sex as: a). I'm American, and b). I'm Caucasian. My personality also plays into part. I don't come across as someone easily intimidated. Nor am I someone seemingly okay with sexism. Men usually think twice before picking a fight or pushing my buttons. As an American I'm given leeway women from other countries, especially those from Asia are not. As a "white woman" I'm seen as strong and opinionated. These attributes and assumptions usually make me less of a target, and thus I'm free to do my thing.
The old man yesterday evidently didn't get the memo. A man in glasses, a hat, and carrying a camera in his hand walked towards me yesterday in Ikebukuro. I saw the fingers press down on the button, and I saw the shutter close quickly several times as he passed me. The lens was pointed at my chest. He took photos of my breasts.
I am not someone who displays cleavage. Nor do I wear skin tight clothing. I don't wear outfits shaped like a potato sack, but I am deliberate in my dress. I am careful. Which is why this man shooting my breasts in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in downtown Tokyo sent me reeling.
It's amazing what information our mind processes. I stopped, turned around, and made the decision not to confront. He would deny it. I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't yank the camera out of his hands or punch him. He would yell. Police would arrive, and it would be his word against mine. Here, I would lose. I'm the one who actually assaulted him. There would be witnesses. I would be arrested. All this went through my brain in seconds.
So, I just stared at his back as he walked away.
And then he turned around. I glared at him and we locked eyes. I forced myself to walk away, knowing my anger was at a dangerous level. I kept walking, trying not to cry and forcing myself to breathe.
What was he thinking? Next thing I know he walks past me. The same man who snuck a photo of my breasts has turned around and is passing me. Dear sweet man. That was a mistake.
I follow him. I'm headed to a university to give a speech and he's going in the same direction I'm walking--my next appointment. That this man who suffers from pent up sexual angst, the one whose camera contains several photos of my breasts is walking in front of me? I can't help that. I'm also early, so I have time to walk. I follow him. I continue to follow him for some distance. He does not turn around. I have no idea if he knows I'm behind him. After many blocks I must turn the corner. He's walking away from my university. I leave. With deep and intense regret, I leave.
At the university I talk about women in Japan. I share with the students the fact Japan ranks 105 out of 136 countries on the gender equality index published by the World Economic Forum. I tell them Japan treats its women more like North Koreans treat their women (North Korea is ranked 111) and tell them the following statistics:
the Philippines is ranked 5th; Nicaragua 10th; Cuba 15th; USA 23rd; Sri Lanka 55th; Thailand 65th; Bangladesh 75th; Botswana 85th; Indonesia 95th; India 101st.
These are countries where there is general consensus women are treated poorly. These are not countries (except for the USA possibly and India, especially after recent gang rapes of women) speak openly and publicly, show anger, and demand justice and equality. Japan ranks behind all.
I look up into the crowd of students and my eyes land on one woman. A lone tear runs down her cheek and somehow that tear is profound. I've clearly upset her. Good. Maybe she'll work towards finding ways women are treated better in Japan for her generation and her children's generation.
My anger over the mistreatment of children in Japan as seen in the fact it's 2014 when the government sees fit to pass a law criminalizing possession of crimes against children, and the general and pervasive antiquated ideas about the role of women has reached its limit. The man yesterday brought it all to the surface. I'm sorry I didn't punch that man. And, I'm also not sorry. Had I allowed my anger to boil over I wouldn't have been able to speak to the students, instead spending the hot afternoon at the police station fighting my accuser and explaining the injustice of my arrest to unsympathetic detectives.
But, oh how good it would have felt to smash that camera.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Mary's Skunk and PTSD
Once upon a time, Mary may indeed have had a little lamb. I'm sure it was a cute, fluffy thing. Several months back, the animal belonging to Mary was a skunk. Which she gave to me, she said, because it matched my outfit and because I reminded her of Liza Minnelli. Okay.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Mary's skunk was about 50cm long, a cute and fluffy stuffed animal. I said, "thank you" when she gave it to me because when people give you a skunk, or any other stuffed animal for that matter, it's just polite to express gratitude.
I named the skunk Liza. Seemed fitting.
I took Liza to one of the preschools in Rikuzentakata where I decided to put it to good use. To my knowledge, there are no skunks in Japan. (Correct me if I'm wrong.) Would the kids know what animal this is? They did. Cue my cloak-and-dagger way of introducing the topic of feelings. Liza would help.
"Do you know what skunks do when they get scared or angry?"
Several hands shoot up and there is general consensus.
"It farts," the kids say, and we alternate between giggling and guffawing.
"Right," I say. "When a skunk gets scared it farts. What do you do when you get scared?" Before anyone can answer, I add, "Do you fart?"
More giggles.
"Nooooo. We don't fart," one girl says.
"I don't either," I say. "What do you do then?"
Silence.
Slowly, hands go up.
"I go to my mommy," another girl says. I nod.
More silence.
"What about when you get angry? What do you do then?"
A boy says, "I hit. Especially if it's my brother." I want to laugh but don't.
This is good. We're talking about feelings--a topic not usually discussed--today Liza's presence makes this seem normal.
"What about when you're sad?" I say. "Do you cry?"
Almost all of the children nod.
"It's okay to cry," I say. "Did you know that?" Some heads nod.
In a culture where open displays of emotion are a no-no (especially of raw anger and deep sadness) even talking about how we express our feelings is not the norm. There are exceptions, certainly. Exceptions, by definition, are not the norm. The foreign auntie is allowed to use tools to begin this dialogue. I don't abuse this position, choosing carefully what to do when, what to talk about with whom. For children living in an environment where the abnormal is now normal, I stand by my belief they need the vocabulary to talk about feelings.
If we don't talk about the collective trauma experienced by a disaster--any disaster--the simple fact is we internalize. People of varying skills (some lacking altogether) have come up to Tohoku offering PTSD "counseling" over the past three years. Aside from the fact few are qualified to counsel, the emphasis on PTSD--in particular, the "P"--is disturbing.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder contains the word "post". As in, "in the past". As in, "we're not traumatized now." This is misleading. It's wrong. Never mind the qualifications (for now) of those who mean well. The first fact that needs acknowledging is this: it's not PTSD if you're still going through trauma.
Focus on the today's trauma. Focus on the fact life is painful still today. Let's not rush into telling anyone they're suffering from PTSD when in fact trauma is a part of daily life. It's not past tense. It's TSD. Not PTSD.
Which is why Liza the skunk is necessary. Not one to superimpose my beliefs on others, here I take exception. I see no good coming out of maintaining the belief internalizing pain is good or brave. At the very least, allow the kids to express.
Kick, hit, cry, laugh.
It's time.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Why I Hate Japan's Rainy Season
It should go without saying I am not a nature girl. When people ask, "Do you want to go for a walk?" I secretly wonder if their version of walking is actually hiking. I don't go to the beach. I don't camp. Sweating I abhor. Summer is my least favorite month, especially in Japan. I've already established all these facts in my previous posts.
The rainy season in Japan, officially announced here in Tokyo yesterday, is my second least favorite season. Not because it frizzes my hair (I don't have enough, and really, my hair could stand a bit more bounce). I hate the rainy season because I'm convinced it brings out the roaches.
Let's establish this now. I'm not the world's best housekeeper. Organized piles of books, magazines, and papers are stacked throughout my apartment. Some people call this clutter. I prefer to refer to them as stacks of reading material. When I do cook, my garbage goes in a smaller bag which gets tied in a knot, and this goes into a larger bag which I take outside to the trash container. Raw garbage is picked up on Mondays and Fridays in my ward. I take mine out whatever day of the week it is. It can sit outside. I don't care. There's no reason I should have to hold onto this garbage because it's not Friday or Monday.
My organized piles do not include garbage, and this is why I argue there is no reason my apartment should become a haven for roaches. It must be the rain which makes them crawl out from their holes, buried deep in the basement, away from sunshine and happiness. Evil creatures these.
Which is why when I entered my apartment, climbed the stairs to the landing and promptly faced a roach, a mini-roach actually, a baby perhaps, I came to a full stop. This is usually when I call out to my husband--resident bug-killer--but he is not here. Alas. I hate, I mean I really hate the crunching sound bugs make when stepped on or squished under my thickest cookbook. Usually I end up pushing them out the window with a paper towel, not, mind you because I'm some roach activist--they should die, these roaches--but it's the crunching that creeps me out. May I just go on record and state even if I were an animal rights activist I would make an exception for roaches. I need no justification. Roach killing is entirely acceptable.
To avoid the impending sound killing this roach would surely make I first soft-crunched it, pushing down on it with a tissue I found in my purse. Now on it's back, I peer down at it to see if I had successfully terminated its life.
Then it jumped. I mean, this thing sprang up at least 30cm, did a back-flip and landed on its feet. In the floor exercises of Roach Olympics, this thing just won a gold. No, it broke the record for the most elegant and spontaneous flip.
I shrieked. Okay, I screamed and then immediately wondered whether my neighbors would called the police. I grabbed the nearest book--thank God I read--and smashed it down onto the Olympic medalist, "ewww"ing at the, this time, final crunch.
The rainy season in Japan, depending on where you live, lasts anywhere from four to six weeks. To think I may have to battle roaches this entire time does not make me happy and that's a generous understatement. Hot and humid summer will follow this rainy season, and today I don't know which is worse--oozing sweat or war with a bug. Winter cannot come soon enough.
The rainy season in Japan, officially announced here in Tokyo yesterday, is my second least favorite season. Not because it frizzes my hair (I don't have enough, and really, my hair could stand a bit more bounce). I hate the rainy season because I'm convinced it brings out the roaches.
Let's establish this now. I'm not the world's best housekeeper. Organized piles of books, magazines, and papers are stacked throughout my apartment. Some people call this clutter. I prefer to refer to them as stacks of reading material. When I do cook, my garbage goes in a smaller bag which gets tied in a knot, and this goes into a larger bag which I take outside to the trash container. Raw garbage is picked up on Mondays and Fridays in my ward. I take mine out whatever day of the week it is. It can sit outside. I don't care. There's no reason I should have to hold onto this garbage because it's not Friday or Monday.
My organized piles do not include garbage, and this is why I argue there is no reason my apartment should become a haven for roaches. It must be the rain which makes them crawl out from their holes, buried deep in the basement, away from sunshine and happiness. Evil creatures these.
Which is why when I entered my apartment, climbed the stairs to the landing and promptly faced a roach, a mini-roach actually, a baby perhaps, I came to a full stop. This is usually when I call out to my husband--resident bug-killer--but he is not here. Alas. I hate, I mean I really hate the crunching sound bugs make when stepped on or squished under my thickest cookbook. Usually I end up pushing them out the window with a paper towel, not, mind you because I'm some roach activist--they should die, these roaches--but it's the crunching that creeps me out. May I just go on record and state even if I were an animal rights activist I would make an exception for roaches. I need no justification. Roach killing is entirely acceptable.
To avoid the impending sound killing this roach would surely make I first soft-crunched it, pushing down on it with a tissue I found in my purse. Now on it's back, I peer down at it to see if I had successfully terminated its life.
Then it jumped. I mean, this thing sprang up at least 30cm, did a back-flip and landed on its feet. In the floor exercises of Roach Olympics, this thing just won a gold. No, it broke the record for the most elegant and spontaneous flip.
I shrieked. Okay, I screamed and then immediately wondered whether my neighbors would called the police. I grabbed the nearest book--thank God I read--and smashed it down onto the Olympic medalist, "ewww"ing at the, this time, final crunch.
The rainy season in Japan, depending on where you live, lasts anywhere from four to six weeks. To think I may have to battle roaches this entire time does not make me happy and that's a generous understatement. Hot and humid summer will follow this rainy season, and today I don't know which is worse--oozing sweat or war with a bug. Winter cannot come soon enough.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
A Weighty Topic
It's funny but it's not. Everywhere I go in Japan, my weight becomes a subject of much discussion and debate. I'm big. I'm tall. I've lost weight. I've gotten fat. I have a small face. I have "impressive" breasts. I'm well proportioned. How nice it must be to be me.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
The commentators are not all men. Just yesterday, I received a detailed commentary on my size from a 93-year old woman who analyzed my body in front of me, concluding with the following: I looked good for my age, I'm lucky I have a small face, my breasts-waist-hip ratio works for my body-type. These are compliments, I'm told. The fact this analysis took place in front of me, hands reaching out towards my body but not touching, her finger resting on her lips as she looked me up and down is not the point. Evidently I should have taken notes, suitably grateful to be assigned the lead.
Why the obsession with my weight? Why do Japanese feel the need to comment on my weight and size? Why the interest?
I am not alone. Tall foreign men receive comments about their height, the conclusion they are impressive specimens. Men with a gut are told point blank "you have a gut" as if they were in denial, unaware of their girth. Women slender and with fewer protruding bumps are asked why they have "no butt" and/or if their ethnicity is to blame for the missing cleavage.
It's funny because the Japanese, often seen as reserved and polite do not project themselves as a whole where such bluntness would be forthcoming, especially about a topic of such sensitivity. It's ironic. Funny, sort of, but more ironic. Where does this politeness disappear to when it comes to matters of size?
The same comments I received yesterday, had I heard them from a 93-year old American woman would have been met with a snappy comeback showing my displeasure. Those standing around her would have attempted to shut grandma down, saying, "Grandma! That's not polite!" There would have been an open reprimand. Grandma needs to be excused. I would have received a private "I'm sorry she said that" later as the embarrassed daughter pulled me aside.
Yesterday, the two women with the 93-year old nodded as I received the analysis of my body. This was a study. This was a necessary critique of the only foreigner in the room. Was it inappropriate for the matriarch to make these comments? The two women did not think so. Nay. Nay nay nay. It was an honor to have been the recipient of such detailed observation. I was a flower, an elegant tree, a mountain painted with graceful brushstrokes. I was a work of art.
Which is, of course, crap. The comments about my size are entirely acceptable as it means I'm the focus. This, too, is crap. When "you got fat" is the observation made the at-least-you're-being-discussed line doesn't work. Not for this American.
Let me be more specific. The conclusion of this obviously very important analysis was that I was round. This is the exact word used. Now, being called "round" in English is not a good thing. "You're so round" is code for "you're fat" which is when we get to assume the speaker is begging for a fist to meet a cheek. In some cases, at least. Yesterday I was not allowed to hit (not that I would). Indeed, my "roundness" was evidently something these three women coveted. Huh. So, round is good? Rather, fat is good?
I have no print-worthy conclusion to offer. I will surely continue to be the recipient of what I'd be okay with as private thoughts. Maybe we just all spend the rest of the day telling ourselves round is good and those who offer up these words really do mean well.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
A New Approach to Letting it Go (Let it Go)
It's been some time since I watched a Disney movie. With my son now a grown man I've not had the pleasure. Or need. Or, frankly, the desire. But, because I am not one who follows convention but rather my own mind I pick and choose. While Disney has long ago left the category I search to decide what to watch today, the latest blockbuster has caught my eye. "Frozen" or "Anna and the Queen of Snow" as it's called in Japan and its theme song has brought me a whole new kind of joy.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
"Let it Go" celebrates courage, strength, and fearlessness. Good stuff, yes. Surrounded by narcissistic men and others who can only be called misogynists I appreciate the breath of fresh air offered by this song reminding me being a woman is fun. It's on me to pass along this joy to the girls around me. I welcome this task. I will not disappoint.
Back to Disney. Certainly there's truth to the the fact "Let it Go" in Japan today is significant only because it's a hit song from a hit movie. It's hipness makes it the new "it" song to sing, but here's where this hit gets interesting. Girls of all ages are singing. Dressed in their favorite princess dress, tiara balanced on their heads, trying to stand straight in mama's high heels, girls are singing this song in English.
This is a big deal. When five-year old girls stand in their living rooms belting out "let it go!" with no shame, no embarrassment, no hesitation this breeds strength and courage. It's a brave act in Japan for young girls to put themselves out there, especially in rural Tohoku where daughters are still less of a prize than sons.
Try to have a conversation with a girl of any age in rural Japan, the response will not be a strong and clear reply but rather a series of giggles hidden behind the hand. This attitude "I can't possibly speak English" cloaked as humility actually destroys confidence. It's code for "if I giggle I will be more appealing than if I'm vocal." Modest women are more attractive than strong ones. Knowing our place means we are not bold like Anna.
Which is why it's a big and amazing deal that these girls taught and raised as "the weaker sex" belt out songs in English--a language otherwise "you can't possibly speak" with no fear. Over the weekend I sang this song repeatedly, I as queen, the girls as princesses. Never was there any hesitation. Nowhere did they show a lack of confidence. Of course they could carry a tune. Oh, it's in English? So? They liked the song, it was popular, end of story. We would sing. We did sing.
In a perfect world it wouldn't take a hit Disney song to make these girls want to believe they can speak and sing in English. In the less than perfect world we live in, I'll take this courage any way it comes. Sing on, girls. Let it go. Really. Let it go.
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