Awhile back I commented on a blog post by a foreign woman in Japan. She was openly criticizing the availability of child pornography online here in Japan. After I posted my thoughts I proceeded to get my teeth kick in (verbally) by two foreign men who had lived in Japan for over forty years. The prevailing sentiment, according to these two men, seemed to be "you've not lived in Japan for forty years so our words overrule yours." I should mention here I knew neither of these men. When one of them criticized my parenting skills because I didn't agree with him I blocked him from the list of those who could comment. Such is life.
I bring this up to say I've not lived in Japan for forty years (twenty-three or so) so perhaps this small number in comparison is why I've not ever heard of this anniversary. Then again, perhaps it's a sign of the times--Japan's right wing flexing its muscles more and more--a revelation in the making.
The online discussion groups I follow and certainly my Facebook page has been peppered with the announcement of the fact today marks the anniversary of when Japan entered the war. As in World War II.
The word used is anniversary.
I argue this: We may not want to use the word "anniversary" to mark an occasion that is anything but happy. Memorable, yes. Happy, no. The posts I'm reading about the starting-of-the-war anniversary have a hawkish slant: Japanese war criminals were wrongly executed, the US tricked Japan into war, etc. I am not here to preach politics. I am here to challenge us in redefining how we use the word "anniversary" and to find a more suitable word to mark the beginning of what was surely hell for millions.
Several years back I was asked to write an article for a newspaper in Japan about the memorial of the tsunami from March 2011. I deliberately used the word "memorial" and the newspaper editor came back with the word "anniversary". I objected: Anniversaries are happy occasions, and the disaster was anything but. We argued over word choice. He won. Anniversaries are not, he says, always a positive event. It marks time.
True. But, here perception trumps a dictionary definition. Happy Anniversary! Another successful year accomplished in marriage or work. Anniversaries are celebrated. Memorials are reflective. Why aren't we talking about the passage of time as an exercise in reflection, especially when it marks the beginning of a war or a devastating natural disaster? If we use the word "anniversary" to denote the day a war began, are we or are we not offering the suggestion, the hint there's a celebratory tone to the day?
I offer this up as food for thought.
Monday, December 8, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
A New Meaning to the Statue of Liberty
I have no idea who came up with this translation. Someone should look into it and get back to me.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
The Statue of Liberty located in the United States is known in Japan as The Goddess of Freedom. I think this is brilliant.
One of my adopted mothers in Japan (of whom I have many) told me the other day she and a group of her friends--all women of retirement age--get together twice a month when their pension checks come in. They sit over tea and cake and decide how to spend their checks. They call themselves The Goddesses of Freedom, aka the Statue of Liberty. I think this is brilliant, too.
Some days a story is so simple and elegant it requires no embellishment.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Small Faces, Russians, Redefining Fun, Kyushu Folk, and the Truth About Kimonos
The verse in the Bible, "one cannot serve two masters" does not apply in this context. Here's why. I juggle two bosses just fine. I have a boss-boss who allows me legal status here in Japan by serving as my work sponsor, giving enough money to pay my rent and bills. I also have my mayor-boss whom I report to in Rikuzentakata. I'm a libra. Balance is my middle name. This arrangement works for all.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
I'm not dumb. When my boss-boss tells me to fly down to Kyushu to ride around on motorcycles for several days of business meetings (meetings on motorcycles, truly the best way to conduct business) I do not say "no". That he rides with some of the best American bikers is a plus if I'm prepared to go fast and hang on for dear life. I don't actually drive those beasts. I ride on the back.
I've known my boss-boss for over three years. I like him. I trust him. I appreciate him. This week it all clicked. Why it took me so long to put my realization into words is beyond me, but let's just focus on the fact the dots have connected.
My boss-boss works hard and plays hard. As in, works really hard and plays really hard. This is my new mantra. It's taken me over three years of volunteering in Tohoku to realize I work hard. I work-my-ass-off hard. But, and here it is, folks. I don't play. In fact, I almost don't play at all. This must stop.
Why? It all became obvious when I spent two whole days flying through the hills taking turns at unheard of speeds, motorcycles leaning at precarious angles to the road which defy the laws of nature but obviously not physics. Jerry is an excellent rider. I trusted him completely. His wife, Lynn, in no uncertain terms told me to "hang on" and trusted me to ride with him. Hugging her husband around the waist, my legs clamping down on his thighs, my chest against his back--motorcycle riding is an intimate act. She trusted me, I trusted him. I find a unique beauty in this arrangement.
We flew through mountains and winding narrow streets lined with golden green rice paddies. We climbed and descended. The air, speed, trees, and the intimacy of trust combined with a new kind of touch left me high. I haven't felt this alive since I arrived in Japan to volunteer in March 2011. The good news is I've seen the light. The bad news is it's taken way too long. I haven't been this happy in years and all it took was playing hard. My body was tingling from two days of riding and yet I couldn't have been more calm.
I decided this is why the comments about my weight from my friends in Kyushu did not immediately catapult me into battle, my usual modes of passive-aggressive and sometimes outright aggressive and snappy comebacks strangely silent. I was in a good mood. It wasn't the just fresh, mountain air that relaxed me. (Iwate has mountains, too.) I was exhilarated. I was in a good zone.
I walked into the hot springs resort tucked away in the hills and am met by the local 82-year old maestro who always has something to say. Violently opinionated, small bits of spittle fly out of his mouth whenever he lectures me on why Japan is doomed. Today he's all smiles.
"I've arranged for you to wear a kimono," he says.
What? I just got here.
"A kimono?"
And, there it is. After all these years in Japan, I've never actually worn a kimono.
Is that right? Is that possible? Yes.
"Mrs. T is upstairs waiting for you. Room 210."
I'm not being given a choice. Let's be clear.
Mrs. T is 93-years old and has more spunk in her left thumb than I do in my entire body. I want to be just like her at that age. To call her small is like saying I have several pairs of shoes. She's a full head shorter than me, and her body weight is easily half of mine. I enter room 210 and say hello. She shows me a kimono in a rich and deep purple. "This is for you," she says. I'm confused. This is for me to wear or she's giving it to me?
"Thank you," I say hoping I'm suitably vague and appropriately appreciative.
"Take your clothes off," she instructs.
I look up at the 82-year old maestro. I have to change. You have to leave. This isn't clear?
He looks back.
"You need to leave," I say, the words sharp but my tone playful.
"Oh, you mean I can't stay?"
I laugh.
"No, you can't stay."
"Fine, I'll go," he says.
Mrs. T tugs on white silk undergarments resembling a slip and the upper half of a bathrobe.
"It doesn't fit," she says, "but it will have to do." And then, "Hmmm. You're fat," and there's another tug. I laugh.
"Funny you're so fat here," she says, pointing at my chest. "Your face is so small."
I feel like a sausage. I'm wrapped, stuffed, and bound, tied in with multiple strands of silk. I can't breathe. How am I supposed to eat? Sit down? Walk?
And there it is. I'm not. Is it possible Japanese women have remained thin and ended up walking five steps behind their men for centuries because they couldn't eat bound in these wrappings, and because there's no way to take big steps in a kimono? Have I just solved a cultural mystery? I want to focus on this new possible anthropological discovery but I really can't breathe. Mrs. T is circling around me, tying and pulling. Soon she's done.
"There," she says. "Go look at yourself in the mirror. You look like an eggplant with a small face."
Wait. What? That's a compliment. Right?
Small faces are a big deal here in Japan. When a face is small other body parts that might not be small are forgiven. Massages and facial contraptions are available in Japan to shrink faces. I've not tried either (they sound painful) and evidently, my face is small so I don't need it. Or so I'm told. That I evidently have a small face is less the point. It's when my face was compared to Mr. K's that the subject took a new turn.
Mr. K owns a local business in this small village in Kyushu. He is my height and weighs twice as much. His face is a moon, a perfectly sized large ball. The paint color eggshell might describe its hue. He is not a small man, neither in his face nor in his girth. During my stay there Mr. K and I were told his face is twice the size of mine. We both nod, Mr. K proud of his size, and me grateful the focus is now on his weight and not mine.
Mr. K is 1/32 Russian. As is Mr. T, another big guy here. They're both from the small village I stayed in during my let's-do-business-on-motorcycles trip. Both Mr. K and Mr. T do not hide this fact, this Russian blood.
I find this fascinating. In Tohoku the lightness of the eyes and vaguely foreign features of some of my friends is collectively not discussed. Any hint of foreign blood is denied vehemently. Why do these men in Kyushu embrace their Russian heritage when those in Tohoku won't? I ask this out loud.
A discussion ensues.
"Here in Kyushu we're not particularly introspective. We speak our minds," I'm told. "In Tohoku I bet they don't tell you what they're thinking, do they?"
Do they? Do my friends in Tohoku reveal their inner most thoughts? I contemplate this and find myself stuck. Certainly some do. But, collectively?
The one sharing this Kyushu folk mentality continues.
"If there was a disaster here like the one that hit Tohoku we'd be complaining about it. We'd talk about how unfair it was, how hard life is. We wouldn't hold it in."
I look up and am about to speak, but he's still talking.
"I'll bet Tohoku folk cleaned up their own homes, didn't they? They didn't ask for help. Neighbor didn't help neighbor. Am I right?"
Holy shit. He is. I open my mouth. He holds up his hand. I stop.
"We'd get our neighbors together and help one house after another. You clean my house, I'll clean yours. We wouldn't suffer in silence."
Suffering in silence. How often have I said those exact words to describe the Tohoku mentality? This sentence could go on a poster. Tohoku: Proud to Suffer in Silence.
Two completely distinct cultures lie within the regions of Kyushu and Tohoku, and I find that fascinating. I knew this, of course, that there are different cultures within Japan, but that was on an intellectual level. "There are multiple distinct subcultures within Japan," I hear myself say sounding professorial and grand. Here are specific and tangible differences I can point to: what to do with the foreign blood running through family trees, and regional definitions on what's considered acceptable. Then there's the whole small face issue, but that seems to be a thing throughout Japan.
What I really learned over the past five days is that I need to play a lot more and a lot harder than I have. You may hear from me less as I redefine fun and make it stick. Let the excitement continue.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Compliments, Sumo, My Latest Crush, and Xenophobia
It's been awhile. Hi.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
I have several stories to share with you.
I returned to Japan on Thursday after five weeks in the US. During this time I missed twelve of fifteen days of sumo, the Japanese art of wrestling. Calling me a sumo fan is like saying I have a mild fondness for chocolate. My teenage heart-throbs were sumo wrestlers. I've always liked big and tall men (my husband is one; a big and tall man, not a sumo wrestler). Somewhere in my mind I knew or guessed this was around the time for the September bout of sumo to take place, but it took me awhile to look up the latest stats online while I was in the States. When I did I only checked the status of my then crush, Kisenosato. He was doing okay. So so. Nowhere on the sumo web site was there any indication of the drama taking place about the latest star. Only upon returning to my apartment and fighting jet lag, forcing myself to stay awake and watch sumo did I realize there was a massive story unfolding.
And, massive is indeed the right word. The man at the center of the story is a 21-year old Mongolian who was on a winning streak like no one's business. Ichinojo is shy when interviewed, his voice much higher than what what one expects would come out of this 192cm, 200kg body. His first time competing in the professional ranks, this giant was blowing through the list of his sempai (older and more experienced wrestlers). The new unstoppable force was a sensation not seen in the industry for decades. Commentators and announcers could not get enough of this man who had grown up on the plains of Mongolia.
Let's be clear, however. Sumo is a good representation of Japan, a country and a world where compliments are not thrown around freely. One of the frequent commentators, a stable master and the uncle of a friend who runs a restaurant in my neighborhood will not mince words as he critiques the wrestlers. Let's not say anything nice. No. The wrestlers always need more training, miss cues, lose because of stupid mistakes. This stable master is old school. He will never compliment. He's mean.
In my first job out of university I worked for two Japanese corporate vice presidents. One day, after getting a rather brutal verbal beating from one, the other pulled me aside and said, "We will never compliment you. Unless you screw up, we aren't going to give you feedback." Considering his comments followed the highest form of criticism I had received to date I figured I needed to take this seriously. Don't screw up. Otherwise you're fine but we'll never tell you so.
I've become accustomed to the lack of compliments. I get it. It's fine. It's not, but this is Japan.
During my Sunday morning brunch today I discuss my latest crush, the man dubbed The Mongolian Monster (which I find a cruel and unkind description). My two friends agree this is a hopeless middle age crush, Ichinojo being younger than my son and all. Asked what my husband thinks of this crush I tell them he's used to it and that he rolls his eyes at the latest in a long line of sumo wrestlers I drone on and on about. They agree he's pretty special, my husband. I agree. So. There you have it. I have a new heart-throb, not a teenage crush but a full-blown middle age crush over a 21-year old. Let us all be clear I have just announced to the world I'm in love. Again. Life is good.
On Day 15 of the bout, today, the grand champion is to be crowned. One of the yokozuna, the highest rank attainable went up against my boy crush Ichinojo yesterday, both coming in at 12 wins one loss. If Ichinojo won it would have been the first time in 100 years the newest kid on the block had a chance of winning the tournament. He would need to win again tonight, but surely. Surely he would. If the yokozuna won, he would compete against another yokozuna today during the finals. Ichinojo lost last night against Hakuho. The yokozuna confessed the win didn't come easily. The monster was a tough fight. A good opponent.
Allow me to interject here a key fact: all three yokozunas are Mongolian. In other words, they're all foreign. There is no Japanese yokozuna at the moment.
Two Mongolian yokozunas, Kakuryu and Hakuho went head-to-head today. If Hakuho won, this would be his 31st championship win, coming in second overall. As in, over all of sumo history. The only other yokozuna who has more championship wins came in at 32 wins. His name was Taiho. More on him in a minute.
If Kakuryu won, Hakuho and Ichinojo (the newbie giant) would go head-to-head. If Ichinojo won, this day would go down in history, the first time in 100 years a guy fresh off the ranks of mediocrity beat a yokozuna for the coveted status of grand champion. Only good things could happen today, regardless of who won. It was a good day for sumo.
Except there's a catch. Rough math shows about a third of the wrestlers competing these days are foreign. There's open and hidden hostility regarding this fact. Sumo is steeped in deep tradition. It's a spiritual Japanese art and sport. Foreigners could and should never "get it", our collective foreignness implying no one could or would ever fully understand or appreciate its intricacies. What to do then with the foreigners who have risen through the ranks? How could Japan ever accept a foreigner into the highest rank of yokozuna? The simple answer would seem to be "just say no" but because very little is simple in Japan this does not suffice.
Enter Taiho. Forty years ago he was a true warrior, a wrestler of incredible skill and technique, he personified all that was great about sumo. Until it became known he was half Russian. He certainly didn't look it. His features didn't indicate any mixing of blood. He was the first (as I understand) not-truly-Japanese wrestler to make it to yokozuna, and then proceeded to win 32 grand championships. Hakuho, one of the current Mongolian yokozuna is now at 31 championship wins. Where are the Japanese wrestlers? What's wrong with them that they can't beat out these foreigners? Ask my friend's uncle, the mean commentator. "Not enough practice," and "Not enough spirit." Shame.
The sometimes covert and other times overt anti-foreign sentiment against these wrestlers is not new. Nor is the tendency to find fault with foreigners en masse. Xenophobia in Japan is alive and well and it pops up in places that catch us off guard.
Prime Minister Abe just reshuffled his cabinet, appointing five women to the posts of minister. This was big news several weeks back. Women in power, minister being the ultimate, is good news and I want to believe change is in the air. Gone are the days women are quiet and demure. Yes?
Then came the news four of the five women ministers have political views not favorable towards foreigners. How do we know this? Get photographed with a known (Japanese) Nazi leader and have that photo show up in the press. Associate yourself with a group that is openly anti-Korean (North and South). Or both.
Xenophobia in Japan is old news. When in doubt, blame the foreigners. I don't say this lightly, but there are simply too many instances throughout history when foreigners have become convenient targets of blame.
I wish my new crush success and strength. He will need thick skin literally and figuratively to survive the onslaught of beatings he will take. I wonder how his mother feels, knowing her giant of a son entered a world of harsh training, media and fan scrutiny, all in a country where foreigners are not always treated well. Perhaps she's a giant in her own right, sending her son out into a world of glory and pain. Be well, Ichinojo.
Monday, August 25, 2014
PTSD and Me
Evidently doctors hate it. Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed. "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes. Do I do this, too? Yes. Watch me. I'm going to right here.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this. Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms. I might be a candidate for treatment. When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder. Do I have PTSD?
I've been on vacation for a week. I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day. My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza. We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17. We've done so for years. The servers know us by what we eat. There's comfort in this routine.
Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine. In with the new. It's delicious.
It took us a week to get here, to Emma's. We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19. There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server. We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple. Alas.
My husband and I chat. We look at the other customers. I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night. We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday. Then I hear it. My head jerks towards the big window. My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.
A man on a Harley Davidson rides by. The low rumble was his motorcycle. I know that now. Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to. Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit? To be warned? So we can prepare?
No. There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming. We can't stop it. The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake. We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.
I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake. My body, however, does not operate with the same speed. I cringe. I begin to shake. I walk through airports with the same discomfort. The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.
Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings. The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake. My mind, however, did not register safety. Quite the opposite. I braced myself for the impending earthquake.
Is this PTSD? I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering. Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge. I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.
I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern. Is there a solution? Will I grow out of this? Move on? Get over it? I don't know.
I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative. So it is.
Monday, August 11, 2014
I Am Not Depressed
I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another. Elements of a culture may be beautiful. More beautiful than others. Elements of a culture may be cruel. How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine. Yours may differ. Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way. Some days this is just fine. Other days it's anything but.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Robin Williams is dead. According to news sources, he took his own life. According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression. We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.
What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams? In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas. I will now renege. I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism: Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.
I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years. To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement. I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain. Sadness is normal. Grief is constant. Getting help? Seeing a therapist? Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief? Not a chance.
Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman. Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain". Men drink away their frustration. Women keep going. These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false. In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman. Here, people really don't complain. I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.
On a good day gaman can mean strength.
"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."
Yes. All that.
Until none stay true.
To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.
Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human? As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things? Good food makes us happy. Laughter is the best medicine. We love sex. Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.
We dislike the same things. Betrayal hurts. Death of a loved one causes pain. Rotten food doesn't taste good. Abandonment we fear.
If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture? I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired. Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.
So, let me say this. I am not depressed.
But, last week I had several moments that shook me up. I was tired. Incredibly tired. Too tired. Not-good tired.
Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up? Wouldn't that feel good?"
Let me repeat: I am not depressed. I am not suicidal. I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.
Why am I writing this? Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain. I don't know what happened with Robin Williams. I remember crying he made me laugh so hard. I will miss that. I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting. But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.
Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster. Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.
Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life. Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness. Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.
And me? I'm going on vacation. I will do nothing productive other than rest. For two weeks. If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job. I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Opinions That Matter Not
Awhile back a friend introduced me to his high school buddy. This man becomes my accountant. This man then introduced me to his mistress who becomes my "older sister". She runs a small pub in my neighborhood so I go there every now and then when I crave potato salad. (She makes the best potato salad in Tokyo.)
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
At her pub I met a famous Japanese musician from several decades back from a group considered the "Japanese Beatles". Great guy and very charming. I now have a small defacto family near my neighborhood.
Craving potato salad, I call my accountant to let him know I'd like to visit the pub ("always clear it with him first" my friend told me although the reason was never clear). Japanese Beatle-man is there and we laugh and cut up and he tells me I look like Liza Minnelli and that he went to her concert in Japan and wouldn't it have been funny if I had gone, too, a "mother-daughter" reunion. We laugh again.
Then the phone rings. My accountant's mistress/My "older sister" who was once a bit of a celebrity in her own right is now expecting her manager from decades back--a surprise visit--all clear from the phone call. She quickly wipes down the counter, makes sure there's plenty of ice in the cooler and checks her make up. I find this sweet.
The former manager enters with two other people and they quickly proceed to get drunk. About an hour later when my "older sister" finally introduces her former manager to the former "Beatle" they beam and there is a flurry of "I thought that was you" and "may I shake your hand" and a whole series of other compliments flying past me. Beatle-man leaves and my accountant and I are introduced to the three. She says I work up north in the disaster area, blah blah blah, and the drunk former manager says, "I've been up there shooting a movie."
"Oh," I say. "That's nice. Thanks for visiting and for making a film."
"That belt conveyor you now have," he says, "it completely covers up the Miracle Pine."
This is true. There is now a giant conveyor belt system in Rikuzentakata that hauls dirt from one side of the river to another so the mountain containing the earth can be leveled for residents waiting to rebuilt their homes. The same earth is hauled into what was downtown where the city will raise the land by 11 meters for businesses to rebuild. Evidently, (so sorry) this conveyor system "covers up the Miracle Pine", something the drunk manager at the end of the bar doesn't appreciate. The horror.
"You can still see it up close, though. There's a path leading right up to it," I say, trying not to sound defensive.
Now the other drunk man, a member of the former manager's entourage says, "You should have cut down that tree."
I smile. I do not nod. I call him a name I don't dare say out loud.
He goes on to talk about how the preservation of the Miracle Pine is "stupid" and "a waste of money" and "you could have spent that money on something else". I now sort of smile but still don't nod.
Inwardly, I say, "But, (insert foul name here) we're not fixing up the city for you. The needs of the city trump any (curse) project you might have. I'm sorry you couldn't shoot the Miracle Pine the way you (curse) wanted but since reconstruction has nothing to do with you (foul name again) we don't care whether our projects get in the way of your (curse) movie."
Had he said this on a day I felt gentle and soft, fluffy forgiveness a given I would not have had the violent internal reaction I did not say out loud. His audacity floored me. Yes, you're drunk, you little (foul name). I get that. But, you're complaining about a conveyor system that hauls earth so people can have land to build upon getting in the way of your (curse) movie? Who says this? Who actually thinks prioritizing a (curse) movie makes sense? Why would we prioritize the needs of a movie studio over our residents? Seriously.
This sentiment can be heard more and more these days. Crass statements about the "obvious" ineptitude of small town bureaucrats ("my colleagues you mean, you (foul name)") are thrown out at with far too much ease usually accompanied by alcohol. Those of my colleagues who do openly dare to push back are now getting banned from further interviews with that station.
Recovery is about the residents. More specifically, it's for the children. I don't give a (curse elaborately) about how inconvenient it might be for you trying to shoot a movie even if you are trying to tell our story. Your needs are really very irrelevant. Deal with it.
I tell my accountant I'm leaving as I don't want to say anything that will hurt my "older sister" in her relationship with her manager, even if he is from several decades back. "I don't trust myself not to snap back," I tell him.
"Yeah, sorry," he says.
"It's not your fault," I say. "And, they're drunk, I know. It's just wrong and they don't know what they're talking about. It's offensive."
"Sorry," he says again.
I take my leave and decide if I ever see this director or his posse in town trying to film another movie I will make sure there's a mud puddle nearby that I, "oh, I'm so sorry" drive through accidentally. Asshole.
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