This blog has been about the past four months of my life. I went to Ofunato and Rikuzentakata, scared out of my wits, not knowing what faced me. I saw a quiet hell. I lived among people who showed incredible strength as well as real vulnerability. I struggled to find the words to describe what I saw and felt. I failed. I succeeded. I came home. I went back. I tackled my personal demons. I came home again a new person.
Throughout this process, you have been there with me. You let me throw my pain out to you even though I don't know many of you. You let me rant. You let me complain. You supported and comforted me.
It was hard. It was very, very hard but I would do this all over again without hesitation, although I would do things very differently. I have no regrets in going. I'm a better person for having gone.
I will continue to work towards reconstruction, renewal and healing in Tohoku. This is my life. I'm very, very convinced I will live happily ever after, and I will do everything I know how to make even one person's life better so they can say the same.
Thank you for taking this journey with me.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
And more...
Hello, Latvian friends! It gives me great pleasure to add you to the list of people who have found this blog. Thank you so much!
Saturday, July 16, 2011
It's all about you!
It's not fair that I am the only who gets enjoyment out of knowing who all is reading these postings. I don't know who you are individually but I can see through my blog site where you're from. I want to share this with you because in many cases the fact so many of you have found me is due to you spreading the word. I didn't do this. You did. For that, I want you to know how grateful I am and to have as much fun as I've had knowing how far this blog has reached.
Here are the countries where this blog has gone: Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Belarus, Estonia, China, Japan, South Korea, USA, Canada, France, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Hungary, Poland, United Kingdom, Ecuador, Argentina, Viet Nam, Malaysia, Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore, Mauritius, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and India.
In half of these countries, I know no one. You some how found me. You spread the word. You have been the key element in keeping the stories of Ofunato and Rikuzentakata alive.
Although we will likely never meet, please know what a pleasure it has been to have you along with me.
Here are the countries where this blog has gone: Australia, New Zealand, Russia, Belarus, Estonia, China, Japan, South Korea, USA, Canada, France, Denmark, Germany, Italy, Hungary, Poland, United Kingdom, Ecuador, Argentina, Viet Nam, Malaysia, Philippines, Indonesia, Singapore, Mauritius, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and India.
In half of these countries, I know no one. You some how found me. You spread the word. You have been the key element in keeping the stories of Ofunato and Rikuzentakata alive.
Although we will likely never meet, please know what a pleasure it has been to have you along with me.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wrapping up
It has been almost four months since I started writing. I am a changed person. I liked the me from before but the new me is like a new shoe; it will take a few blisters for me to get used to the new look. I can live with that.
I feel a very strong need, a pull, a calling to do something more tangible with the experiences I've had over the past four months. For this, I've come up with two ideas. I will be returning to Japan again in September, this time for three months. Part of what I will do there involves continuing volunteer work, this time with many different organizations. I'm not done with Tohoku. I'm not done with Japan. Second, I have decided to take the postings from this blog and the other (now defunct) blog to George Clooney and compile them into a book. There are stories I didn't get around to writing. These, too, need to be told.
The international media has all but forgotten about what happened on March 11th. Certainly, much has happened since then. What the world doesn't realize, and I understand why this is the case, is how widely the events on March 11th will continue to affect us. All of us. For this, and for many other reasons, I find it inexcusable that the media coverage has dried up. I cannot single-handedly keep the focus on Japan. I can, however, do my part. It is with this in mind that I plan to publish my postings.
Neither of these projects will be completed quickly. I am dedicated, though, if nothing else and once I commit, I'm in for the long haul.
So, today I write with gratitude and sincere humility for those of you who have followed this blog and for those who were active in spreading the word. I am beginning the process of wrapping up the blog transferring my time and energy onto projects that I hope will continue to reach a wide audience.
Thank you for your friendship, words of encouragement and most of all, for your support.
I feel a very strong need, a pull, a calling to do something more tangible with the experiences I've had over the past four months. For this, I've come up with two ideas. I will be returning to Japan again in September, this time for three months. Part of what I will do there involves continuing volunteer work, this time with many different organizations. I'm not done with Tohoku. I'm not done with Japan. Second, I have decided to take the postings from this blog and the other (now defunct) blog to George Clooney and compile them into a book. There are stories I didn't get around to writing. These, too, need to be told.
The international media has all but forgotten about what happened on March 11th. Certainly, much has happened since then. What the world doesn't realize, and I understand why this is the case, is how widely the events on March 11th will continue to affect us. All of us. For this, and for many other reasons, I find it inexcusable that the media coverage has dried up. I cannot single-handedly keep the focus on Japan. I can, however, do my part. It is with this in mind that I plan to publish my postings.
Neither of these projects will be completed quickly. I am dedicated, though, if nothing else and once I commit, I'm in for the long haul.
So, today I write with gratitude and sincere humility for those of you who have followed this blog and for those who were active in spreading the word. I am beginning the process of wrapping up the blog transferring my time and energy onto projects that I hope will continue to reach a wide audience.
Thank you for your friendship, words of encouragement and most of all, for your support.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
"You look so....."
Having just come back from cursing at the ocean, I am all smiles. Cliches are cliches for a reason, yes? That's my excuse for interjecting one here: I feel so much lighter. Having said what I came to say to an ocean that doesn't care I honestly feel lighter. Maybe it's that weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders-being-lifted feeling. Maybe it's the overwhelming grief I couldn't express that's some how gone through me and is no longer stagnant inside. It's almost frightening, this change in me. I can feel the difference. If I were 10, I would giggle. Being, let's just say not 10, I grin instead. A lot.
I make the rounds of the people I came to see in Ofunato. I take gifts to people. I show up unannounced and am warmly received. I stop in and see Mr. S who runs one of the evacuation centers in town. He put up a poster once which a included a call for locals to volunteer with the "group of foreigners." This poster contained a sketch of a foreigner, large nose and all, which I later learned was me. I chided Mr. S for weeks begging him to "do something about that nose" as I refused to be the poster child (literally, mind you) of all foreigners with big noses.
Mr. S was one of many people in Ofunato I saw over the next several days who commented on how I look. This is good, you know. I certainly don't mind comments about my looks, so long as they're compliments, of course. What I heard from people over he net several days, compliments technically, made me realize how much of a transformation I must have gone through since having gone home and having just come from cursing at the ocean.
"You look so.....different," Mr. S says, and I rescue him from having to find he right words by quickly saying, "It's the make up. You've never seen me with make up before."
"No," he replies. "You look good."
Here, I laugh, which I shouldn't have but did. He turns red.
"I'm sorry," he says and now I feel bad.
"It's okay. I must have looked really bad before."
"You were," pause again, "tired, I think. Right?"
"Oh, yes. Most definitely."
"Well, you don't look tired now."
"Thank you. I'm better. I'm really okay."
"Good," he nods. "It shows."
As I said, compliments are good. I don't think much about this conversation other than to accept the fact evidently a). I looked pretty bad before, and b). I don't now. I move on through town from shelter to shelter, group to group, person to person. In a matter of a few hours, I realize this chat with Mr. S is not one person's opinion.
At the base, I run into Mrs. W who runs the office for the Ofunato Commerce Center. We bow. We say hello and exchange pleasantries. I thank her profusely for letting us use the place, comment on how nice it looks, apologize for the mess we all made. She nods and doesn't actually refute the last statement so now I know there was a lot of cleaning up to do when the volunteer group moved out. We're silent for awhile and I wonder what to say next.
"You look nice," she says and catches me off guard. I was looking at the boxes of relief supplies in the front office.
"What? Oh, thank you." I quickly throw in, "You've never seen me with make up on." Never accept a compliment. Give credit elsewhere even if it's to a giant cosmetics company. Done.
"No, it's not that. You look different."
Okay. So, a few minutes ago it was "you look nice" and now that's "you look different" which means, again, I evidently didn't look so nice while I was here back in March, April and May.
"I'm relaxed," I say.
"You must be," and we let the conversation move onto other subjects.
I run into Mrs. W again later on in the afternoon along with Mrs. K who does the cooking for the volunteers. I say hello to Mrs. K, kick myself for not bringing her a gift, and we stand and talk about life.
"You look so......" she starts, actually takes a step back and does the once over as if she's really checking me out, "different."
"Make up," I say on cue. I remember my lines well, thank you.
"No," and her response is quite adamant.
"It's not the make up."
"It's her breasts," Mrs. W says, with a look of total seriousness and I actually guffaw. This is a first.
"What? What does that mean?" I can't wait to hear her response.
"You look healthy," is what I get. What am I? A cow? Mrs. W is actually talking to my breasts. This is seriously awkward.
"Oh, stop," Mrs. K looks at Mrs. W. "She always looked healthy. You've just never seen her in a t-shirt. She was always wearing a jacket before. She just looks..." and here she turns to me and says, "Well, maybe it's your skin.....or, well, you just look really good. Happy. Yes, happy. You look happy."
"Refreshed," Mrs. W says.
"Yes. Refreshed," Mrs. K agrees.
Okay. My skin looks better, I look refreshed and I look different than before. I continue to hear comments throughout my time in Ofunato about the before-and-after comparison and the general consensus is before = bad, after = good. I accept the compliments as graciously as I can, making sure to give proper credit to the power of make up which of course, everyone deflects away. The good news is, evidently I look more relaxed. The bad news is, evidently I looked pretty bad for about seven weeks. I suppose this shouldn't surprise me. I make a conscious decision to look at the bright side. These repeated reminders about the difference in how I look means I've come through the worst of it. The fact I clearly couldn't/didn't cover up my stress during the time I spent in Ofunato is very potent and painful. I'm glad the transformation I've just gone through is visible and positive even if that means I get compared to a cow in the process.
I make the rounds of the people I came to see in Ofunato. I take gifts to people. I show up unannounced and am warmly received. I stop in and see Mr. S who runs one of the evacuation centers in town. He put up a poster once which a included a call for locals to volunteer with the "group of foreigners." This poster contained a sketch of a foreigner, large nose and all, which I later learned was me. I chided Mr. S for weeks begging him to "do something about that nose" as I refused to be the poster child (literally, mind you) of all foreigners with big noses.
Mr. S was one of many people in Ofunato I saw over the next several days who commented on how I look. This is good, you know. I certainly don't mind comments about my looks, so long as they're compliments, of course. What I heard from people over he net several days, compliments technically, made me realize how much of a transformation I must have gone through since having gone home and having just come from cursing at the ocean.
"You look so.....different," Mr. S says, and I rescue him from having to find he right words by quickly saying, "It's the make up. You've never seen me with make up before."
"No," he replies. "You look good."
Here, I laugh, which I shouldn't have but did. He turns red.
"I'm sorry," he says and now I feel bad.
"It's okay. I must have looked really bad before."
"You were," pause again, "tired, I think. Right?"
"Oh, yes. Most definitely."
"Well, you don't look tired now."
"Thank you. I'm better. I'm really okay."
"Good," he nods. "It shows."
As I said, compliments are good. I don't think much about this conversation other than to accept the fact evidently a). I looked pretty bad before, and b). I don't now. I move on through town from shelter to shelter, group to group, person to person. In a matter of a few hours, I realize this chat with Mr. S is not one person's opinion.
At the base, I run into Mrs. W who runs the office for the Ofunato Commerce Center. We bow. We say hello and exchange pleasantries. I thank her profusely for letting us use the place, comment on how nice it looks, apologize for the mess we all made. She nods and doesn't actually refute the last statement so now I know there was a lot of cleaning up to do when the volunteer group moved out. We're silent for awhile and I wonder what to say next.
"You look nice," she says and catches me off guard. I was looking at the boxes of relief supplies in the front office.
"What? Oh, thank you." I quickly throw in, "You've never seen me with make up on." Never accept a compliment. Give credit elsewhere even if it's to a giant cosmetics company. Done.
"No, it's not that. You look different."
Okay. So, a few minutes ago it was "you look nice" and now that's "you look different" which means, again, I evidently didn't look so nice while I was here back in March, April and May.
"I'm relaxed," I say.
"You must be," and we let the conversation move onto other subjects.
I run into Mrs. W again later on in the afternoon along with Mrs. K who does the cooking for the volunteers. I say hello to Mrs. K, kick myself for not bringing her a gift, and we stand and talk about life.
"You look so......" she starts, actually takes a step back and does the once over as if she's really checking me out, "different."
"Make up," I say on cue. I remember my lines well, thank you.
"No," and her response is quite adamant.
"It's not the make up."
"It's her breasts," Mrs. W says, with a look of total seriousness and I actually guffaw. This is a first.
"What? What does that mean?" I can't wait to hear her response.
"You look healthy," is what I get. What am I? A cow? Mrs. W is actually talking to my breasts. This is seriously awkward.
"Oh, stop," Mrs. K looks at Mrs. W. "She always looked healthy. You've just never seen her in a t-shirt. She was always wearing a jacket before. She just looks..." and here she turns to me and says, "Well, maybe it's your skin.....or, well, you just look really good. Happy. Yes, happy. You look happy."
"Refreshed," Mrs. W says.
"Yes. Refreshed," Mrs. K agrees.
Okay. My skin looks better, I look refreshed and I look different than before. I continue to hear comments throughout my time in Ofunato about the before-and-after comparison and the general consensus is before = bad, after = good. I accept the compliments as graciously as I can, making sure to give proper credit to the power of make up which of course, everyone deflects away. The good news is, evidently I look more relaxed. The bad news is, evidently I looked pretty bad for about seven weeks. I suppose this shouldn't surprise me. I make a conscious decision to look at the bright side. These repeated reminders about the difference in how I look means I've come through the worst of it. The fact I clearly couldn't/didn't cover up my stress during the time I spent in Ofunato is very potent and painful. I'm glad the transformation I've just gone through is visible and positive even if that means I get compared to a cow in the process.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Blaming and cursing
I spent an afternoon on the beach in Ofunato getting drenched by the rain. The ocean in front of me is the same ocean that blew giant waves onto the shores all along over 200 miles of coastline. I'm angry at it. I know the ocean doesn't care. I know being angry at an ocean isn't a reasonable response but it's also very real. I need to blame something. I need to project my anger at some thing and right now, that thing is the ocean in front of me.
When the waves recede, it washes over small, black stones. These waves, the ones that never stop, make the stones sound as if they're clapping. This, too, makes me angry. What are you applauding? What did you do that deserves applause? You, ocean, of all things don't deserve praise right now.
I see a large wooden door floating in the waves. I look at it and assume it wants to come onto shore and rest. The waves taunt it, pushing it forward towards the shore and then pull it back out. The ocean is cruel this way. Let the door be. Let the door settle on these black pebbles that make this horrid clapping sound and let it rest on solid ground away from and out of the water. No. The ocean teases the door and the entire time I'm on the beach, it moves back and forth, to and from land.
The tsunami wall that was supposed to keep giant waves from crashing onto land did nothing. One portion of the wall, a 8-inch thick concrete section, 6-feet by 6-feet rests near the edge of the water. The waves moved it here and left it for us to see. "See what I can do?" Yes, I do. You did this. You want credit? I'll give it to you in the form of blame. This is your fault.
I see another larger section of the wall in the water, laying on the sand and rocks. This one is larger, maybe 10-feet by 10-feet. The waves tore this off the wall and brought it here for us to know just how much power it has. I get it, ocean. You're powerful. You're so powerful you washed away walls, homes, bulldozers, people, trucks, boats and toys. You feel no guilt because you can't. That's simply not good enough.
I pick up several of the larger black stones at my feet and throw them into the water as far as I can. They plop. I feel ridiculous. I didn't hurt the ocean. I didn't cause it pain. I want to, of course, but I can't. It doesn't work that way.
I can't stop crying. This is good, I know, but I feel stupid for being angry at something that on postcards is so beautiful. I tell myself the water here is not blue, green or turquoise. It's not pretty. I don't need to feel stupid for crying. My emotions, the ones I pushed down so deep for so long come out and my make up is ruined.
I curse at the ocean. I call it names. I tell it, "you did this" knowing it feels nothing. I turn my back to it, making sure I intentionally snub it and walk away from it saying "I'll never feel the same way about you again." It doesn't hear me, I know but I am blown away by how much better I feel.
This is what I needed. This is the closure I came here for. I feel different. I'm soaked, having stood out in the rain for so long but am not bothered by how wet my shoes are or how messy I look. I feel cleansed. Between blaming something that can't accept fault, cursing at something that can't hear me and feeling a different sort of water wash me clean, I feel like myself again for the first time in a very, very long time.
I'm back. The old me is back. Not only that, this time I'm better than before.
When the waves recede, it washes over small, black stones. These waves, the ones that never stop, make the stones sound as if they're clapping. This, too, makes me angry. What are you applauding? What did you do that deserves applause? You, ocean, of all things don't deserve praise right now.
I see a large wooden door floating in the waves. I look at it and assume it wants to come onto shore and rest. The waves taunt it, pushing it forward towards the shore and then pull it back out. The ocean is cruel this way. Let the door be. Let the door settle on these black pebbles that make this horrid clapping sound and let it rest on solid ground away from and out of the water. No. The ocean teases the door and the entire time I'm on the beach, it moves back and forth, to and from land.
The tsunami wall that was supposed to keep giant waves from crashing onto land did nothing. One portion of the wall, a 8-inch thick concrete section, 6-feet by 6-feet rests near the edge of the water. The waves moved it here and left it for us to see. "See what I can do?" Yes, I do. You did this. You want credit? I'll give it to you in the form of blame. This is your fault.
I see another larger section of the wall in the water, laying on the sand and rocks. This one is larger, maybe 10-feet by 10-feet. The waves tore this off the wall and brought it here for us to know just how much power it has. I get it, ocean. You're powerful. You're so powerful you washed away walls, homes, bulldozers, people, trucks, boats and toys. You feel no guilt because you can't. That's simply not good enough.
I pick up several of the larger black stones at my feet and throw them into the water as far as I can. They plop. I feel ridiculous. I didn't hurt the ocean. I didn't cause it pain. I want to, of course, but I can't. It doesn't work that way.
I can't stop crying. This is good, I know, but I feel stupid for being angry at something that on postcards is so beautiful. I tell myself the water here is not blue, green or turquoise. It's not pretty. I don't need to feel stupid for crying. My emotions, the ones I pushed down so deep for so long come out and my make up is ruined.
I curse at the ocean. I call it names. I tell it, "you did this" knowing it feels nothing. I turn my back to it, making sure I intentionally snub it and walk away from it saying "I'll never feel the same way about you again." It doesn't hear me, I know but I am blown away by how much better I feel.
This is what I needed. This is the closure I came here for. I feel different. I'm soaked, having stood out in the rain for so long but am not bothered by how wet my shoes are or how messy I look. I feel cleansed. Between blaming something that can't accept fault, cursing at something that can't hear me and feeling a different sort of water wash me clean, I feel like myself again for the first time in a very, very long time.
I'm back. The old me is back. Not only that, this time I'm better than before.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The last four days: Part 5, No room at the inn(s)
When scheduling my trip to Ofunato, I asked some friends to help me find a hotel. I wanted privacy. I wanted to be alone. I was willing to pay to get this.
Then came the answer. There were no rooms available anywhere in Ofunato. How is this possible? I have no way of explaining this phenomenon. I don't understand this but I'm also faced with the realization I have to find a place to stay. I contact the volunteer organization I worked with previously and asked for a spot on the floor. They agreed. Then comes another realization. I have no sleeping bag, no mat to sleep on and, of course, I forget my pajamas in Tokyo so I now have to decide whether I'll sleep in my clothes on the floor, alongside other volunteers (some of whom I know, others whom I don't) or come up with Plan B.
There's always another way, albeit this time my thinking-outside-the-box ability failed me. The suggestion came in the form of a carefully worded question from a friend: "Would you be willing to stay in a love hotel?"
A love hotel, for those of you who don't know, is, let's just say, a place where couples go to get some "privacy" which, of course is code for a hidden spot to have an affair, or a place for a quickie. In other words, people don't stay in a love hotel alone. Rooms are rented by the hour, for several hours, or by the night and different rates apply for differing lengths of stay.
I ponder this suggestion. I laugh. I can sleep on the floor in my clothes or I can sleep in a bed in a room reserved for sex. Swallowing my pride and definitely recognizing the humor in what I'm about to do, I find my way to a love hotel, and stay the night. By myself. Only me. I watch television, looking around at the room, and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
I wanted unique experiences? I'm certainly getting them.
Then came the answer. There were no rooms available anywhere in Ofunato. How is this possible? I have no way of explaining this phenomenon. I don't understand this but I'm also faced with the realization I have to find a place to stay. I contact the volunteer organization I worked with previously and asked for a spot on the floor. They agreed. Then comes another realization. I have no sleeping bag, no mat to sleep on and, of course, I forget my pajamas in Tokyo so I now have to decide whether I'll sleep in my clothes on the floor, alongside other volunteers (some of whom I know, others whom I don't) or come up with Plan B.
There's always another way, albeit this time my thinking-outside-the-box ability failed me. The suggestion came in the form of a carefully worded question from a friend: "Would you be willing to stay in a love hotel?"
A love hotel, for those of you who don't know, is, let's just say, a place where couples go to get some "privacy" which, of course is code for a hidden spot to have an affair, or a place for a quickie. In other words, people don't stay in a love hotel alone. Rooms are rented by the hour, for several hours, or by the night and different rates apply for differing lengths of stay.
I ponder this suggestion. I laugh. I can sleep on the floor in my clothes or I can sleep in a bed in a room reserved for sex. Swallowing my pride and definitely recognizing the humor in what I'm about to do, I find my way to a love hotel, and stay the night. By myself. Only me. I watch television, looking around at the room, and laugh at the absurdity of it all.
I wanted unique experiences? I'm certainly getting them.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
The last four days: Part 4, Seiji in love
We're out to dinner again. The hodge-podge gang of Ofunato residents who sometimes help at the relief supplies depot who also double as volunteers are my people. This is the same group I had dinner with back in May when through drunken whispers I was told it was Seiji's birthday. This is the same group who wanted me to channel Marilyn Monroe as I sang "Happy Birthday" to Seiji.
Everyone in this group lost something or someone. Seiji, now 26, lost his mother. Everyone knows Seiji so this means everyone knows someone who lost someone. Everyone in the group lost someone else close to them. One woman, Miki-san, lost her business (washed away by the tsunami) and thus is now out of a job. Another, Kimura-san, lost his car. The list goes on and on.
What I love about them is their fierce loyalty and dedication. They make each other laugh. They truly enjoy each other's company. It's beautiful to watch. I find myself envious and at the same time I'm flattered they've let me into their inner circle.
Seiji looks well. We sit across from each other.
"How are you?" I ask. Before he can answer, Kimura-san, a man with closely cropped hair sitting next to him leans over, beaming and says, "Seiji's in love! Again!"
"Really?!" I say. "Do tell. Who is she?" Seiji turns beat red. I melt.
"Should I tell her?" he asks Sato-san, a young woman with pigtails sitting on the other side of Kimura-san.
"Of course you should tell me!" I say with as much mock indignation as I can muster up. He turns red again. I love this man.
"It's Lily," Kimura-san says.
"Lily? Who's Lily?" I'm now confused. "What happened to Beth?"
"See?" Kimura-san says. "That's why I said 'again'. He's in love with someone else. Beth? Old news. Keep up with us, girl." I laugh.
I turn to T, the Hip-Hop Buddha sitting next to me and say "do I know Lily?"
"I don't think so," he replies. "She came after you left." Ah. Okay.
"So," I say, turning back to Seiji. "Tell me about Lily." Here Miki-san, the woman who lost her business sitting on the other side of me leans in and says to Seiji, "are you talking about Lily again?"
"Lily?!" Kazu-san, clear at the other end of the table yells. "Seiji! Lily? Again?" Everyone laughs.
"Will someone please tell me who Lily is!" I squeal.
"Okay," Seiji's nod is determined. "But you have to help me."
"Help you? How?"
"You need to give me some phrases. You need to tell me how American women think."
"Tell me first and I'll see what I can do," I tease.
Seiji goes into excruciating detail of how they met, how many times they've gone out ("in a group" he says, shaking his head), where they've gone, how there's always someone sitting between him and her. On and on and on I hear this young man pour out his soul to me about his love for Lily. It's really just simply completely cute. I grin as he tells me all this.
Kimura-san says again, "I swear. All this guy talks about is Lily." Everyone laughs again.
Taro-san, now completely drunk says, "He even picked out clothes for her the other day."
"Oh, now see," I say. "That's just too cute."
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait. I did not pick out clothes for her!" Seiji's objection makes this whole conversation that much more animated.
"You did!" Taro-san barks back. "You were holding up this dress and saying 'do you think Lily would like this?' and then you pulled out this skirt and put it up against your waist and flipped it over and you were totally checking it out to see whether it would fit Lily."
"Wait," Seiji says again. "That's not..." at which point Taro-san says, "Unless you were checking to see whether or not the skirt fit you!" More laughter. Guffawing, in fact. Kimura-san starts crying he's laughing so hard.
"It's okay," I say, leaning over to Seiji. "I think that's nice." I'm mocking just only the slightest bit.
"I wasn't trying it on," he says.
"Of course you weren't."
"I picked it out of the bag--relief supplies, see--and I just happened to hold it up to my stomach to look down at it and then I flipped it over to see if there were any spots on it."
"Perfect," I say.
"But you were looking to see whether or not it would fit Lily, right?" Miki-san asks.
"Was not."
"Was!" Taro-san yells.
"I really wasn't," Seiji says to me.
"I believe you," I say grinning.
"See," Seiji reaches behind his chair and picks up his bag. There's a kangaroo head sticking out from the top zipper.
"I picked this up, too." Granted, the stuffed animal is cute. The head sticking out from the bag makes it cuter. American women, however, are not going to be particularly fond of a 26-year old man who like stuffed animals. How to break the news.....think, think, think.
"Oh, and this box of curry," Seiji says quickly, as if to make sure I don't think he picks out just stuffed animals.
"You have to tell her you're allowed to take things from relief supplies," Kimura-san says, noticing my silence.
"Oh, right. I'm allowed to take things from relief supplies." I wasn't thinking about this at all.
"I'm sure. No, that's fine. You guys know more about this than I do." I pause.
"Seiji," I say, and now suddenly everyone's listening. Crap. I was hoping to be more subtle in telling him to cute little kangaroos popping out of bags won't fly with Lily.
"Never mind," I laugh. Hoping to not make what I was about to say seem so interesting.
"No, no, no," Seiji says. "You were going to say something important. I can tell." Good grief. Think fast, girl. I decide to come out with it.
"So, see," I start. "That stuffed animal..." and before I can finish, Kazu-san says, "He can't carry that thing around, right?" And then turning to Seiji, he mock-scolds, "I told you Lily will think you're a freak if you walk around with that kangaroo head sticking out of your bag."
"How did this whole conversation become about Lily?" Kimura-san cocks his head to one side with a look of faux confusion.
"Lily, Lily, Lily," Sato-san says. "I wish someone would love me as much as he loves Lily." Here, all the men pat around her on the shoulder and others at the other end of the table chime in and they all mutter at once that yes someday she'll find a good man, and sweetie you just has to be patient, and she doesn't want Seiji anyway, and he'll never succeed with Lily at which point Seiji yells, "Hey! I might!" and everyone laughs again.
This continued for three hours. Side conversations between two people here and three people there all seemed to converge back to Seiji and his love for Lily. When someone would say Lily's name either to Seiji or as a part of the conversation, someone from four or five seats away would inevitably stop what they were saying and lean deep into the table, put on their best fake frown and say, "Lily? Again? Seriously?"
"It's good you're in love," I say to Seiji as I hope no one overhears what I'm saying.
"Yeah," he says and grins. Then he looks up at me and says again, "Yeah, it's good." Immediately I feel tears. Here's a man who lost his mother three months ago and is now in love, albeit again. I quickly smile and say, hoping my voice won't crack "You're going to be okay." He's quiet for a minute and then say, "I know."
Sato-san, the woman with pigtails has been listening. She says to me, "Seiji can't tell Lily he loves her quite yet."
"Oh? Why not."
"I'm taking the exam to be a cop," Seiji says.
"Are you?" I beam. "Good for you! You'll make a great cop!" This is clearly too much of a compliment, so in true Japanese form Seiji has to deflect it by saying, "I haven't passed yet."
"He can't tell Lily until he takes the exam," Sato-san explains. "It's bad luck." Okay. I don't challenge this way of thinking.
"You will though. You'll pass," I say and then stop. "Oh. I've got it." I pull out my small notebook from my purse. "What?" Sato-san says, grinning and curious. I look up at Seiji.
"You need to tell Lily about this exam." Seiji's grin is possibly the most beautiful sight I've seen all evening.
"Right," he says. "I do."
"You really do," I say, "and here's why." I pause for dramatic affect and say, "You want to know what American women like?" Suddenly everyone's listening again. Of course they are. The timing of when they delve into their own conversations versus when they listen in to mine, it's simply uncanny.
"I won't speak for all American women," I say.
"I understand, I understand," Seiji says and everyone now stops everything they were doing, chopsticks raised half way, glasses of beer in hand. Good grief. A bit of privacy, people! Please!
"See, American women, rather a lot of American women," and I pause again, "like men in uniforms." The whole table buzzes at once as everyone starts comparing theories on whether or not this will increase Seiji's chances of hooking up with Lily.
"Really?" Seiji looks at me.
"Really," I say. "I do. I think men in uniforms are hot." I add for good measure, the recent newspaper article citing how a poll taken after the earthquake (why anyone actually took this poll is beyond me) showing Japanese women think cops and Self Defense Force guys are the hottest, most manly men in Japan.
"That's gooood," Taro-san says. "This boy needs all the help he can get."
For the life of me, I can't tell you what the rest of the evening was spent discussing. I can tell you Seiji now knows how to say in English "I'm taking an exam to become a police officer" and "This is my uniform" and other sentences that he can use on Lily to hopefully woo her affections. My notebook was filled with short English phrases and words Seiji can use with Lily. I lost a lot of pages out that night and Seiji went home with a stack of folded over sheets of paper. He would put them in one pocket and then mutter, "No, I'll forget it if I put it there," and then slide them into a more obvious spot, patting the zipped pocket as if to make sure the papers stay there. A most beautiful sight to behold. I try not to choke up.
Good luck, dear man. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.
Everyone in this group lost something or someone. Seiji, now 26, lost his mother. Everyone knows Seiji so this means everyone knows someone who lost someone. Everyone in the group lost someone else close to them. One woman, Miki-san, lost her business (washed away by the tsunami) and thus is now out of a job. Another, Kimura-san, lost his car. The list goes on and on.
What I love about them is their fierce loyalty and dedication. They make each other laugh. They truly enjoy each other's company. It's beautiful to watch. I find myself envious and at the same time I'm flattered they've let me into their inner circle.
Seiji looks well. We sit across from each other.
"How are you?" I ask. Before he can answer, Kimura-san, a man with closely cropped hair sitting next to him leans over, beaming and says, "Seiji's in love! Again!"
"Really?!" I say. "Do tell. Who is she?" Seiji turns beat red. I melt.
"Should I tell her?" he asks Sato-san, a young woman with pigtails sitting on the other side of Kimura-san.
"Of course you should tell me!" I say with as much mock indignation as I can muster up. He turns red again. I love this man.
"It's Lily," Kimura-san says.
"Lily? Who's Lily?" I'm now confused. "What happened to Beth?"
"See?" Kimura-san says. "That's why I said 'again'. He's in love with someone else. Beth? Old news. Keep up with us, girl." I laugh.
I turn to T, the Hip-Hop Buddha sitting next to me and say "do I know Lily?"
"I don't think so," he replies. "She came after you left." Ah. Okay.
"So," I say, turning back to Seiji. "Tell me about Lily." Here Miki-san, the woman who lost her business sitting on the other side of me leans in and says to Seiji, "are you talking about Lily again?"
"Lily?!" Kazu-san, clear at the other end of the table yells. "Seiji! Lily? Again?" Everyone laughs.
"Will someone please tell me who Lily is!" I squeal.
"Okay," Seiji's nod is determined. "But you have to help me."
"Help you? How?"
"You need to give me some phrases. You need to tell me how American women think."
"Tell me first and I'll see what I can do," I tease.
Seiji goes into excruciating detail of how they met, how many times they've gone out ("in a group" he says, shaking his head), where they've gone, how there's always someone sitting between him and her. On and on and on I hear this young man pour out his soul to me about his love for Lily. It's really just simply completely cute. I grin as he tells me all this.
Kimura-san says again, "I swear. All this guy talks about is Lily." Everyone laughs again.
Taro-san, now completely drunk says, "He even picked out clothes for her the other day."
"Oh, now see," I say. "That's just too cute."
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait. I did not pick out clothes for her!" Seiji's objection makes this whole conversation that much more animated.
"You did!" Taro-san barks back. "You were holding up this dress and saying 'do you think Lily would like this?' and then you pulled out this skirt and put it up against your waist and flipped it over and you were totally checking it out to see whether it would fit Lily."
"Wait," Seiji says again. "That's not..." at which point Taro-san says, "Unless you were checking to see whether or not the skirt fit you!" More laughter. Guffawing, in fact. Kimura-san starts crying he's laughing so hard.
"It's okay," I say, leaning over to Seiji. "I think that's nice." I'm mocking just only the slightest bit.
"I wasn't trying it on," he says.
"Of course you weren't."
"I picked it out of the bag--relief supplies, see--and I just happened to hold it up to my stomach to look down at it and then I flipped it over to see if there were any spots on it."
"Perfect," I say.
"But you were looking to see whether or not it would fit Lily, right?" Miki-san asks.
"Was not."
"Was!" Taro-san yells.
"I really wasn't," Seiji says to me.
"I believe you," I say grinning.
"See," Seiji reaches behind his chair and picks up his bag. There's a kangaroo head sticking out from the top zipper.
"I picked this up, too." Granted, the stuffed animal is cute. The head sticking out from the bag makes it cuter. American women, however, are not going to be particularly fond of a 26-year old man who like stuffed animals. How to break the news.....think, think, think.
"Oh, and this box of curry," Seiji says quickly, as if to make sure I don't think he picks out just stuffed animals.
"You have to tell her you're allowed to take things from relief supplies," Kimura-san says, noticing my silence.
"Oh, right. I'm allowed to take things from relief supplies." I wasn't thinking about this at all.
"I'm sure. No, that's fine. You guys know more about this than I do." I pause.
"Seiji," I say, and now suddenly everyone's listening. Crap. I was hoping to be more subtle in telling him to cute little kangaroos popping out of bags won't fly with Lily.
"Never mind," I laugh. Hoping to not make what I was about to say seem so interesting.
"No, no, no," Seiji says. "You were going to say something important. I can tell." Good grief. Think fast, girl. I decide to come out with it.
"So, see," I start. "That stuffed animal..." and before I can finish, Kazu-san says, "He can't carry that thing around, right?" And then turning to Seiji, he mock-scolds, "I told you Lily will think you're a freak if you walk around with that kangaroo head sticking out of your bag."
"How did this whole conversation become about Lily?" Kimura-san cocks his head to one side with a look of faux confusion.
"Lily, Lily, Lily," Sato-san says. "I wish someone would love me as much as he loves Lily." Here, all the men pat around her on the shoulder and others at the other end of the table chime in and they all mutter at once that yes someday she'll find a good man, and sweetie you just has to be patient, and she doesn't want Seiji anyway, and he'll never succeed with Lily at which point Seiji yells, "Hey! I might!" and everyone laughs again.
This continued for three hours. Side conversations between two people here and three people there all seemed to converge back to Seiji and his love for Lily. When someone would say Lily's name either to Seiji or as a part of the conversation, someone from four or five seats away would inevitably stop what they were saying and lean deep into the table, put on their best fake frown and say, "Lily? Again? Seriously?"
"It's good you're in love," I say to Seiji as I hope no one overhears what I'm saying.
"Yeah," he says and grins. Then he looks up at me and says again, "Yeah, it's good." Immediately I feel tears. Here's a man who lost his mother three months ago and is now in love, albeit again. I quickly smile and say, hoping my voice won't crack "You're going to be okay." He's quiet for a minute and then say, "I know."
Sato-san, the woman with pigtails has been listening. She says to me, "Seiji can't tell Lily he loves her quite yet."
"Oh? Why not."
"I'm taking the exam to be a cop," Seiji says.
"Are you?" I beam. "Good for you! You'll make a great cop!" This is clearly too much of a compliment, so in true Japanese form Seiji has to deflect it by saying, "I haven't passed yet."
"He can't tell Lily until he takes the exam," Sato-san explains. "It's bad luck." Okay. I don't challenge this way of thinking.
"You will though. You'll pass," I say and then stop. "Oh. I've got it." I pull out my small notebook from my purse. "What?" Sato-san says, grinning and curious. I look up at Seiji.
"You need to tell Lily about this exam." Seiji's grin is possibly the most beautiful sight I've seen all evening.
"Right," he says. "I do."
"You really do," I say, "and here's why." I pause for dramatic affect and say, "You want to know what American women like?" Suddenly everyone's listening again. Of course they are. The timing of when they delve into their own conversations versus when they listen in to mine, it's simply uncanny.
"I won't speak for all American women," I say.
"I understand, I understand," Seiji says and everyone now stops everything they were doing, chopsticks raised half way, glasses of beer in hand. Good grief. A bit of privacy, people! Please!
"See, American women, rather a lot of American women," and I pause again, "like men in uniforms." The whole table buzzes at once as everyone starts comparing theories on whether or not this will increase Seiji's chances of hooking up with Lily.
"Really?" Seiji looks at me.
"Really," I say. "I do. I think men in uniforms are hot." I add for good measure, the recent newspaper article citing how a poll taken after the earthquake (why anyone actually took this poll is beyond me) showing Japanese women think cops and Self Defense Force guys are the hottest, most manly men in Japan.
"That's gooood," Taro-san says. "This boy needs all the help he can get."
For the life of me, I can't tell you what the rest of the evening was spent discussing. I can tell you Seiji now knows how to say in English "I'm taking an exam to become a police officer" and "This is my uniform" and other sentences that he can use on Lily to hopefully woo her affections. My notebook was filled with short English phrases and words Seiji can use with Lily. I lost a lot of pages out that night and Seiji went home with a stack of folded over sheets of paper. He would put them in one pocket and then mutter, "No, I'll forget it if I put it there," and then slide them into a more obvious spot, patting the zipped pocket as if to make sure the papers stay there. A most beautiful sight to behold. I try not to choke up.
Good luck, dear man. I wish you all the happiness you deserve.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The last four days: Part 3, Ofunato-bound
I left for Ofunato with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I wanted peace of mind. On the other hand, I wasn't sure how I would react to seeing torn up buildings again. I wanted to be around certain people. I wanted to avoid others. I wanted to continue listening. I knew some of what I would hear would tear open wounds that had only recently begun to heal.
The answers lie in Ofunato. Closure (a much overused word in my opinion) wouldn't come until I dealt with what I left behind. Knowing this is one thing. Actually dealing with it head on is entirely another matter. But...not being one to avoid conflict (albeit one deeply rooted in my psyche) I woke myself up at 4:30 to catch a 6:15am bullet train.
My recipe for happiness = excitement - dread; healing + tears; sound sleep > dreams; commitment + people/places/causes I love. Not sharing a love of numbers or numerical symbols, I don't know how to express this last one "mathematically" so I will resort to my forte, words. Very little else in life would make me happier than to see Tohoku at peace with itself, its past and its future.
The answers lie in Ofunato. Closure (a much overused word in my opinion) wouldn't come until I dealt with what I left behind. Knowing this is one thing. Actually dealing with it head on is entirely another matter. But...not being one to avoid conflict (albeit one deeply rooted in my psyche) I woke myself up at 4:30 to catch a 6:15am bullet train.
My recipe for happiness = excitement - dread; healing + tears; sound sleep > dreams; commitment + people/places/causes I love. Not sharing a love of numbers or numerical symbols, I don't know how to express this last one "mathematically" so I will resort to my forte, words. Very little else in life would make me happier than to see Tohoku at peace with itself, its past and its future.
The last four days: Part 2, Tokyo Girl
The first 24 hours in Tokyo did wonders for my soul. The view from the 27th floor balcony (the building where I'm staying) pans out into skyscrapers, office buildings, embassies and Tokyo Tower so close I feel I can touch it. Red lights on rooftops blink as far as I can see. This is a key ingredient for my recipe of happiness. I can already sense myself healing.
I've already cried. My first night here was my first night without a dream in over a month. I feel more like myself than I have in months. Life is good.
I've already cried. My first night here was my first night without a dream in over a month. I feel more like myself than I have in months. Life is good.
The last four days: Part 1, Setsuden
The pilot gives an update before we land in Tokyo. We hear about wind direction and speed, arrival time and gate but it's the temperature I want to hear. Then it comes.
"It's 30 degrees Celsius." Ouch. When I left Boston it was a cool sixty-something. In Tokyo it's tsuyu--the rainy season. That means 30 degrees C (around 87 degrees F) contains a muggy, sweaty, rainy, humid mix to the higher-than-I'm-used-to temperature. Let's just say I'm a fall and winter girl. I melt in the heat. My usual love for adventure and "bring it on" mentality is less attractive all of a sudden. At least it's not August. At least I came in June.
I don't really melt in the heat. I get cranky but I mask that well. Most of the time, at least. What I'm dreading is the previously announced government policy towards the use of electricity. Rather the lack thereof. With the Fukushima Nuclear Plant disaster still very much on everyone's minds, there's an awareness this summer will be hotter than usual if for no other reason the use of electricity is to be limited.
Setsuden is the Japanese word, catchall word/phrase/abbreviation for saving electricity. There are signs all over Tokyo proclaiming this is the summer for all of us to turn off our fans, use the air conditioner less often and not turn every light on in the house. The conductors on subways and trains tell us every few stops that fewer lights are on in the trains and stations and not all cars are using air conditioning. This is followed with a request for everyone's understanding and cooperation. The stations and underground mazes smell not of body odor but of stale and stagnant air. There is a distinct odor everywhere not of stinky bodies but of damp and heavy air that has not had a chance to circulate. The heat emanating from bodies is palpable as we pass each other on the street, stand next to each other in the trains and move from place to place.
But, no one complains. I've seen salarymen in short sleeves fanning themselves with round fans they picked up at strip clubs. Women carry cloth umbrellas to block the sun. I have to work hard not to look at a woman's make up (especially her foundation) as it starts to flake with her sweat. Small hand towels regularly wipe off sweat from the nape of the neck and the brow. Everyone is hot. Everyone knows it's going to get hotter. I have yet to hear anyone complain. I have yet to see anyone snap.
Stations post signage saying fewer trains are running. Building entrances have similar postings stating the air conditioner is turned off. These same signs apologize for the inconvenience. Fewer trains run because there's less electricity to go around. Skyscrapers and department stores no longer give off that strong blast of cool air immediately upon entry. There's less electricity available because the nuclear power plants that provide this area (and beyond) are inactive. Short of going through scheduled brown outs this summer, everyone knows setsuden is now a way of life. Complaining about it does no good. It is what it is.
It's going to be a long summer.
"It's 30 degrees Celsius." Ouch. When I left Boston it was a cool sixty-something. In Tokyo it's tsuyu--the rainy season. That means 30 degrees C (around 87 degrees F) contains a muggy, sweaty, rainy, humid mix to the higher-than-I'm-used-to temperature. Let's just say I'm a fall and winter girl. I melt in the heat. My usual love for adventure and "bring it on" mentality is less attractive all of a sudden. At least it's not August. At least I came in June.
I don't really melt in the heat. I get cranky but I mask that well. Most of the time, at least. What I'm dreading is the previously announced government policy towards the use of electricity. Rather the lack thereof. With the Fukushima Nuclear Plant disaster still very much on everyone's minds, there's an awareness this summer will be hotter than usual if for no other reason the use of electricity is to be limited.
Setsuden is the Japanese word, catchall word/phrase/abbreviation for saving electricity. There are signs all over Tokyo proclaiming this is the summer for all of us to turn off our fans, use the air conditioner less often and not turn every light on in the house. The conductors on subways and trains tell us every few stops that fewer lights are on in the trains and stations and not all cars are using air conditioning. This is followed with a request for everyone's understanding and cooperation. The stations and underground mazes smell not of body odor but of stale and stagnant air. There is a distinct odor everywhere not of stinky bodies but of damp and heavy air that has not had a chance to circulate. The heat emanating from bodies is palpable as we pass each other on the street, stand next to each other in the trains and move from place to place.
But, no one complains. I've seen salarymen in short sleeves fanning themselves with round fans they picked up at strip clubs. Women carry cloth umbrellas to block the sun. I have to work hard not to look at a woman's make up (especially her foundation) as it starts to flake with her sweat. Small hand towels regularly wipe off sweat from the nape of the neck and the brow. Everyone is hot. Everyone knows it's going to get hotter. I have yet to hear anyone complain. I have yet to see anyone snap.
Stations post signage saying fewer trains are running. Building entrances have similar postings stating the air conditioner is turned off. These same signs apologize for the inconvenience. Fewer trains run because there's less electricity to go around. Skyscrapers and department stores no longer give off that strong blast of cool air immediately upon entry. There's less electricity available because the nuclear power plants that provide this area (and beyond) are inactive. Short of going through scheduled brown outs this summer, everyone knows setsuden is now a way of life. Complaining about it does no good. It is what it is.
It's going to be a long summer.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Our love of words
My love of words runs in my genes. I remember clearly seeing my grandmother in her recliner reading Gloria Steinem's autobiography. I also remember the combination of shock and pride I felt knowing no other woman in her circle of friends would dare read such a book. My mother is a poet and a writer. Our family's love of poetry skipped a generation (e.g. me) and went straight to my son. I much prefer long, drawn out stories (so long as they're interesting) as opposed to the cryptic musings of Emily Dickenson and Homer.
My work has been about words. I take pride in being able to repeat the words of others in the way they were intended. That's my interpretation of my interpreting skills, but I stand by it. I like knowing I convey the speaker's meaning as well as his or her words. This is what largely plays into my frustration in not having been able to find the right words to express what I saw and experienced in Iwate.
But, this post is not about that. This post is about my husband. While in Japan, I bought the CD Songs for Japan, a compilation of many artists' songs. I just started listening to the two CDs over the past several days. One of the songs is by Queen. I'm not much of a Queen fan but this song has hit a nerve.
Teo Toriatte, or Let Us Cling Together is simply beautiful. The lyrics speak to me and for my love for my husband. That part of the lyrics are in Japanese, a simple, elegant and accurate translation of the English poetry only adds to the depth of feeling the song conveys.
I said several weeks ago that my husband does not "let" me do things. We don't operate that way. The long leash we have given each other is a gift we give to the other. This time, however, I leave for Japan with a sense he is truly "letting me go." It was he who said even while I was still in Japan last month that I clearly needed to go back, and soon.
I go back to Japan with a profound sense of responsibility to take the words of others I've been given and come home at peace with this gift. I will do everything I can to find the words, channeling my mother and son if I have to, to write strong, honest posts about who I have become as a result of my experiences. All this while I'm doing this, I will sing Let Us Cling Together in my head and think of my husband.
My work has been about words. I take pride in being able to repeat the words of others in the way they were intended. That's my interpretation of my interpreting skills, but I stand by it. I like knowing I convey the speaker's meaning as well as his or her words. This is what largely plays into my frustration in not having been able to find the right words to express what I saw and experienced in Iwate.
But, this post is not about that. This post is about my husband. While in Japan, I bought the CD Songs for Japan, a compilation of many artists' songs. I just started listening to the two CDs over the past several days. One of the songs is by Queen. I'm not much of a Queen fan but this song has hit a nerve.
Teo Toriatte, or Let Us Cling Together is simply beautiful. The lyrics speak to me and for my love for my husband. That part of the lyrics are in Japanese, a simple, elegant and accurate translation of the English poetry only adds to the depth of feeling the song conveys.
I said several weeks ago that my husband does not "let" me do things. We don't operate that way. The long leash we have given each other is a gift we give to the other. This time, however, I leave for Japan with a sense he is truly "letting me go." It was he who said even while I was still in Japan last month that I clearly needed to go back, and soon.
I go back to Japan with a profound sense of responsibility to take the words of others I've been given and come home at peace with this gift. I will do everything I can to find the words, channeling my mother and son if I have to, to write strong, honest posts about who I have become as a result of my experiences. All this while I'm doing this, I will sing Let Us Cling Together in my head and think of my husband.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Facing my anger with dignity
I do believe anger, as an emotion, gets a bad rap. Too often we're told to let it go, not let it consume us. It's considered a "negative" emotion. Anger can eat away and fester within us, I agree. I also believe many of us don't deal with it and push it aside.
I want to face my anger with dignity. My 20-year old son cautions me against making statements like "I'm angry at nature" or "I'm angry at the ocean" saying it makes me sound irrational. I see his point. I also know there is anger within me and I have found myself directing it at, very specifically, the wave that caused so much damage.
When I was five, I stood at the top of the stairs and yelled what was considered a very bad word for a five-year old girl to use. That I directed this word to my mother and her group of women friends was quite an egregious act for any daughter, much less one only five. I believe I was sent to my room for the remainder of the day waiting for my father to come home, knowing there would be some form of punishment. I specifically remember the waiting being much worse than the punishment itself.
The word I yelled down the stairs was "baka." By itself it's not all that bad of a word. It translates as "stupid" but in certain contexts carries more weight. In hindsight, that I was five and had the audacity and terrible manners to use this word to my mother, the ultimate in disrespecting her, was what got me in trouble.
I bring this up to say it is this word "baka" that I plan to yell at the ocean when I go back to Ofunato next week. I mean it in the worst way possible. I mean it with all the venom it can hold. I am angry. I can't simply ignore this emotion. It's deeply rooted within me and I have yet to find a way to let it out. After being home a month and dreaming about Iwate every night, it's clear to me I need to let go of this. I don't know how to without letting the ocean know how much it pained me to see what it did to three hundred miles of coastline, ruining buildings, washing people away and causing so much emotional and physical damage.
Cursing at the ocean, in my book, by my definition, is not an irrational act like the one I committed when I was five. It's a very legitimate way of letting go. For that, I will yell it at the top of my lungs and not worry about the punishment that may follow.
I want to face my anger with dignity. My 20-year old son cautions me against making statements like "I'm angry at nature" or "I'm angry at the ocean" saying it makes me sound irrational. I see his point. I also know there is anger within me and I have found myself directing it at, very specifically, the wave that caused so much damage.
When I was five, I stood at the top of the stairs and yelled what was considered a very bad word for a five-year old girl to use. That I directed this word to my mother and her group of women friends was quite an egregious act for any daughter, much less one only five. I believe I was sent to my room for the remainder of the day waiting for my father to come home, knowing there would be some form of punishment. I specifically remember the waiting being much worse than the punishment itself.
The word I yelled down the stairs was "baka." By itself it's not all that bad of a word. It translates as "stupid" but in certain contexts carries more weight. In hindsight, that I was five and had the audacity and terrible manners to use this word to my mother, the ultimate in disrespecting her, was what got me in trouble.
I bring this up to say it is this word "baka" that I plan to yell at the ocean when I go back to Ofunato next week. I mean it in the worst way possible. I mean it with all the venom it can hold. I am angry. I can't simply ignore this emotion. It's deeply rooted within me and I have yet to find a way to let it out. After being home a month and dreaming about Iwate every night, it's clear to me I need to let go of this. I don't know how to without letting the ocean know how much it pained me to see what it did to three hundred miles of coastline, ruining buildings, washing people away and causing so much emotional and physical damage.
Cursing at the ocean, in my book, by my definition, is not an irrational act like the one I committed when I was five. It's a very legitimate way of letting go. For that, I will yell it at the top of my lungs and not worry about the punishment that may follow.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Wisdom of the elderly
He would not be happy to be called "elderly" which is why I do, of course. He calls me a "tough old broad" and this is my payback. My mentor with whom I had lunch on Monday is a retired cop. I called him to say I needed advice. After twenty-five years on the force I knew he had stories. I've heard many of them. How he got through the difficult cases, of which he had many, was what I wanted to know.
"You're asking the wrong question," my cousin says as I tell him of the upcoming lunch date.
"What do you mean?"
"You asked him how he got through twenty-five years of seeing the worst in people, right?"
"Right," I agree.
"You need to ask him how he got through the first tough case he ever worked on."
If this were a cartoon, this is where you would see a light bulb over my head. My cousin is right. I decide to do just that.
We're sitting over a classic, Italian thin-crust pizza, my mentor and I. I start in with the question my cousin suggested I ask. My mentor swigs his beer and says, "You're going about this the wrong way, sweetheart." I put my fork down.
"No, I'm not," I protest. "This is going to help me. I need to know. The first really bad case you had. How did you deal with it? Did you throw up? Did you get drunk? Did you do something stupid to let out what was inside?"
"You have to remember," he continues, "I was trained before I ever saw my first dead body. I knew what to do before I went looking for the first missing kid. You," and here he points at me with his fork, "didn't. You didn't know what you were getting into."
"But, your first case," I say and he interrupts me.
"No." Just that. "No."
I'm silent for awhile. Why won't he answer my question? I really think this answer will help me. I want answers. I really do. I look up and am about to say something when he gives me a look.
"Listen," my mentor says. "It's not about the first case or the culmination of twenty-five years of seeing bodies dumped in barrels." My pizza doesn't look all that good any more.
"See, in police work there's a bucket. We all get handed this bucket," he makes a box with his hands. "Not a real one," he says, looking at me looking at the empty space in which he just drew an imaginary box.
"Our cases, the shit we see, we spoon this shit into this bucket one teaspoon at a time. It takes a long time for the shit to build up in the bucket. The first case is hard, yeah. But, we have other cops, older cops around us to help us through it. You," and he points at me again, "didn't. You were all alone. You practically filled the bucket with one job. What you saw and did was really that hard. You saw the same shit day in and day out. Our dead bodies go to the morgue. We don't see them any more after we find them. You had all this going on all around you and you couldn't get away. It's different, sweetheart. Do you get that?"
I do. I get it. I did fill my bucket too fast. I was unprepared but I also couldn't possibly have been prepared.
"And, for whatever it's worth, the dead bodies in the barrels were the ones that bothered me." I don't say anything. "You've got to remember," he says, "cops are supposed to close cases. We're doing this for the families. For closure. You don't get to do that. There's no closure here for you. You get to come home, yeah, but that's not closure. It's like you've got a hundred open cases you can't do anything about. No wonder you feel like shit."
I ponder his words. They're true. My mentor did not give me the answer I wanted but he showed me another way to look at why I'm having difficulty sleeping and am still dreaming. I'm grateful for this. It makes me feel less like a basket case and more like someone who went through a tough time. I'm accustomed to thinking of myself as a strong and capable woman. I still am. I just happened to have gone through something intense beyond words. His words make me feel better. I look up to him and say, "thanks."
"Any time, kiddo."
Oh, and if he weren't someone I think so highly of, he would never get away with calling me "sweetheart" but he does. I really do like him that much.
"You're asking the wrong question," my cousin says as I tell him of the upcoming lunch date.
"What do you mean?"
"You asked him how he got through twenty-five years of seeing the worst in people, right?"
"Right," I agree.
"You need to ask him how he got through the first tough case he ever worked on."
If this were a cartoon, this is where you would see a light bulb over my head. My cousin is right. I decide to do just that.
We're sitting over a classic, Italian thin-crust pizza, my mentor and I. I start in with the question my cousin suggested I ask. My mentor swigs his beer and says, "You're going about this the wrong way, sweetheart." I put my fork down.
"No, I'm not," I protest. "This is going to help me. I need to know. The first really bad case you had. How did you deal with it? Did you throw up? Did you get drunk? Did you do something stupid to let out what was inside?"
"You have to remember," he continues, "I was trained before I ever saw my first dead body. I knew what to do before I went looking for the first missing kid. You," and here he points at me with his fork, "didn't. You didn't know what you were getting into."
"But, your first case," I say and he interrupts me.
"No." Just that. "No."
I'm silent for awhile. Why won't he answer my question? I really think this answer will help me. I want answers. I really do. I look up and am about to say something when he gives me a look.
"Listen," my mentor says. "It's not about the first case or the culmination of twenty-five years of seeing bodies dumped in barrels." My pizza doesn't look all that good any more.
"See, in police work there's a bucket. We all get handed this bucket," he makes a box with his hands. "Not a real one," he says, looking at me looking at the empty space in which he just drew an imaginary box.
"Our cases, the shit we see, we spoon this shit into this bucket one teaspoon at a time. It takes a long time for the shit to build up in the bucket. The first case is hard, yeah. But, we have other cops, older cops around us to help us through it. You," and he points at me again, "didn't. You were all alone. You practically filled the bucket with one job. What you saw and did was really that hard. You saw the same shit day in and day out. Our dead bodies go to the morgue. We don't see them any more after we find them. You had all this going on all around you and you couldn't get away. It's different, sweetheart. Do you get that?"
I do. I get it. I did fill my bucket too fast. I was unprepared but I also couldn't possibly have been prepared.
"And, for whatever it's worth, the dead bodies in the barrels were the ones that bothered me." I don't say anything. "You've got to remember," he says, "cops are supposed to close cases. We're doing this for the families. For closure. You don't get to do that. There's no closure here for you. You get to come home, yeah, but that's not closure. It's like you've got a hundred open cases you can't do anything about. No wonder you feel like shit."
I ponder his words. They're true. My mentor did not give me the answer I wanted but he showed me another way to look at why I'm having difficulty sleeping and am still dreaming. I'm grateful for this. It makes me feel less like a basket case and more like someone who went through a tough time. I'm accustomed to thinking of myself as a strong and capable woman. I still am. I just happened to have gone through something intense beyond words. His words make me feel better. I look up to him and say, "thanks."
"Any time, kiddo."
Oh, and if he weren't someone I think so highly of, he would never get away with calling me "sweetheart" but he does. I really do like him that much.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The importance of safe people
In describing how and why I bottled everything inside of me, I said to a friend, "I didn't have safe people in Iwate. Rather, it took me forever to find them."
"What do you mean by 'safe'?" I was asked as I sat on the front porch taking in the street noises outside.
"'Safe' as in 'I can cry in front of them.' 'Safe' as in 'I can be myself around them,'" I replied.
"Okay. That makes sense." And then we both pause. She goes her way in her mind, wondering what's coming for her as she prepares to make her way to Japan to volunteer. I go my way in my mind, remembering back to how long it took me to find people to whom I could truly open up.
I am now surrounded by safety. I'm home. I sleep in my bed at night with my husband next to me. All around me are familiar sights, smells, places, and people. I can finally be myself again.
As someone who is not accustomed to or very good at keeping opinions inside, I swallowed my words daily as I interpreted, feeling sandwiched between cultures and people who didn't understand the other. Add to this the suppression of emotions I'm encountering from the scenery and stories, it's no wonder I was off my game, not myself and thus now plugged.
Before I left for Japan, I called in every favor I had to gather relief supplies to take along. That was a 'want'--something I 'wanted' to do for others. I now have a 'need'--I'm asking people to give me the luxury of tears, honesty and reflection. The distinction between 'want' and 'need' is explicitly clear to me. I'm being selfish and I claim it. I put everyone else first for seven weeks. I get to be a bit selfish for awhile.
The tears are coming. As I recounted the lunch I had with a dear mentor on Monday and tea I had with a friend today, I told my husband how bit by bit, the words of others are helping me piece together what I couldn't articulate before. Then came the tears. My husband, being the safest person of all, sat there, leaning over my chair listening as I told him how I'm starting to experience clarity. I inhale and hold. More tears come. I make myself exhale.
"I'm crying," I say as I look over to him. He grins.
"Yes, you are."
"This is good," is the best I can come up with.
"Yes, it is," he says again grinning.
"What?" I say with mock annoyance.
"Your lower lip is trembling," he tells me.
"It is?" I reach up and touch my lip. It is.
"It's cute," my husband tells me. I roll my eyes. He laughs. I smile.
I don't know if these tears are the mist before the downpour, if this is the crack in the dam that will eventually burst or if this is the beginning of my own personal rainy season. I do know I'm surrounded by safe people and this is good.
"What do you mean by 'safe'?" I was asked as I sat on the front porch taking in the street noises outside.
"'Safe' as in 'I can cry in front of them.' 'Safe' as in 'I can be myself around them,'" I replied.
"Okay. That makes sense." And then we both pause. She goes her way in her mind, wondering what's coming for her as she prepares to make her way to Japan to volunteer. I go my way in my mind, remembering back to how long it took me to find people to whom I could truly open up.
I am now surrounded by safety. I'm home. I sleep in my bed at night with my husband next to me. All around me are familiar sights, smells, places, and people. I can finally be myself again.
As someone who is not accustomed to or very good at keeping opinions inside, I swallowed my words daily as I interpreted, feeling sandwiched between cultures and people who didn't understand the other. Add to this the suppression of emotions I'm encountering from the scenery and stories, it's no wonder I was off my game, not myself and thus now plugged.
Before I left for Japan, I called in every favor I had to gather relief supplies to take along. That was a 'want'--something I 'wanted' to do for others. I now have a 'need'--I'm asking people to give me the luxury of tears, honesty and reflection. The distinction between 'want' and 'need' is explicitly clear to me. I'm being selfish and I claim it. I put everyone else first for seven weeks. I get to be a bit selfish for awhile.
The tears are coming. As I recounted the lunch I had with a dear mentor on Monday and tea I had with a friend today, I told my husband how bit by bit, the words of others are helping me piece together what I couldn't articulate before. Then came the tears. My husband, being the safest person of all, sat there, leaning over my chair listening as I told him how I'm starting to experience clarity. I inhale and hold. More tears come. I make myself exhale.
"I'm crying," I say as I look over to him. He grins.
"Yes, you are."
"This is good," is the best I can come up with.
"Yes, it is," he says again grinning.
"What?" I say with mock annoyance.
"Your lower lip is trembling," he tells me.
"It is?" I reach up and touch my lip. It is.
"It's cute," my husband tells me. I roll my eyes. He laughs. I smile.
I don't know if these tears are the mist before the downpour, if this is the crack in the dam that will eventually burst or if this is the beginning of my own personal rainy season. I do know I'm surrounded by safe people and this is good.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
岩手物語
二ヶ月以上英語で自分の気持ちをこのブログを通して世界に投げかけてきました。「今頃日本語で書き始めても遅い」と思われている方もいらっしゃるかもしれません。確かにその通りです。反省しています。これから母国語の一つである日本語を使わせて頂きまして何回かブログに今の気持ちを書き上げていきたいと思います。
帰国して三週間たしました。毎晩岩手の夢を見ています。寝れません。夫の横にある目覚まし時計を見ては二時、三時になるのを見て何時になったら眠れるのか待っているのが毎晩のパターンになってしまいました。岩手の思い出、経験してきた事がここまで深く私の中にたまっている事のを実感しています。
今になって振り返ってみますと帰国する前の考え方があまかったのに反省しています。家に戻り、夫と息子に会い、数日間涙を流したら普通の生活の戻れる物だとてっきり勘違いしていました。そんな簡単に岩手での経験が頭から離れていく訳がありません。大船渡市と陸前高田市で見てきた風景、現地の皆様から授かってきたお話などが涙を流しただけで心から消えていく訳がないのです。
友達に言われてなんだかの形で自分の心の癒しになる事をしなくてはいけないと考え始めました。そこで思いついたのが仏教のお経とミサの賛美歌です。賛美歌はラテン語なので何て言っているのかわかりません。お経が何語なのかもわかりません。でも、お坊さんとカトリックの神父さん方が歌っているのを聞いて涙が出始めたのは確かです。もっと早く思いつけばよかったのですが、今からでも遅くはないと思いながら一人で聞いています。
来週日本に戻ります。岩手にもまた行ってきます。岩手の海岸に行き、海に向かって「ばかやろー」と言ってくるつもりです。大人が取る行動ではないかもしれませんが、これも心の癒しにもなるのではないかと思っています。
自分を慰めてなぐさめていきながらも、これから岩手の方々と接触していきたい気持ちでいっぱいです。どのような形になるかはまだ私にも分かりません。経験してきた事が大変だったからここであきらめるようなわたしではありません。これからが勝負です。負けず嫌いの私ですので岩手で聞いてきた事が世界の人々に忘れられないように作戦をねっている最中です。
これからもお経と賛美歌を聞きながら書き続けるつもりです。今まで応援してくださった皆様のご期待にこたえられるようにこれからも頑張ります。会ってもいない多くの人が今までこのブログを読んでくださってきた事には感謝しています。心からお礼を申し上げます。
これからも応援してください。宜しくお願い致します。
アミア
帰国して三週間たしました。毎晩岩手の夢を見ています。寝れません。夫の横にある目覚まし時計を見ては二時、三時になるのを見て何時になったら眠れるのか待っているのが毎晩のパターンになってしまいました。岩手の思い出、経験してきた事がここまで深く私の中にたまっている事のを実感しています。
今になって振り返ってみますと帰国する前の考え方があまかったのに反省しています。家に戻り、夫と息子に会い、数日間涙を流したら普通の生活の戻れる物だとてっきり勘違いしていました。そんな簡単に岩手での経験が頭から離れていく訳がありません。大船渡市と陸前高田市で見てきた風景、現地の皆様から授かってきたお話などが涙を流しただけで心から消えていく訳がないのです。
友達に言われてなんだかの形で自分の心の癒しになる事をしなくてはいけないと考え始めました。そこで思いついたのが仏教のお経とミサの賛美歌です。賛美歌はラテン語なので何て言っているのかわかりません。お経が何語なのかもわかりません。でも、お坊さんとカトリックの神父さん方が歌っているのを聞いて涙が出始めたのは確かです。もっと早く思いつけばよかったのですが、今からでも遅くはないと思いながら一人で聞いています。
来週日本に戻ります。岩手にもまた行ってきます。岩手の海岸に行き、海に向かって「ばかやろー」と言ってくるつもりです。大人が取る行動ではないかもしれませんが、これも心の癒しにもなるのではないかと思っています。
自分を慰めてなぐさめていきながらも、これから岩手の方々と接触していきたい気持ちでいっぱいです。どのような形になるかはまだ私にも分かりません。経験してきた事が大変だったからここであきらめるようなわたしではありません。これからが勝負です。負けず嫌いの私ですので岩手で聞いてきた事が世界の人々に忘れられないように作戦をねっている最中です。
これからもお経と賛美歌を聞きながら書き続けるつもりです。今まで応援してくださった皆様のご期待にこたえられるようにこれからも頑張ります。会ってもいない多くの人が今までこのブログを読んでくださってきた事には感謝しています。心からお礼を申し上げます。
これからも応援してください。宜しくお願い致します。
アミア
Monday, June 13, 2011
Emotionally neutral: "Have you lost your temper yet?"
I suppose it would not be inaccurate to say I am very clear about the status of my emotions. If that's a bit too cryptic for you, let me rephrase that by saying I express my feelings well. And, clearly. And, immediately. Let's just say, I'm "expressive." Don't confuse this with drama-queen or diva-ish. That, I am not. I'm simply clear in how I'm feeling and letting those around me know what that might be.
Which is why this whole emotional constipation is such a unique (safe word, there) phenomenon for me. I've never had this problem before. To be plugged and stuck and unable to articulate much of what's going on inside of me has me annoyed and flabbergasted.
This is why I decided to switch my thinking from saying "I'm emotionally" stuck to "I'm emotionally neutral." It's crap, of course. No, sorry. This is spin. I'm trying to make this phase less negative and more soft. Emotionally neutral has a bit of a ring to it, don't you think? At least it's not as bad as being stuck.
I was talking about this with two dear friends the other day. I was testing the whole "emotionally neutral" concept on them knowing they would give me frank feedback, even if it was the form of a raised "did you really just say that?" eyebrow. I will admit, there was a slight pause after I cautiously used the word "emotionally neutral" which I decided to take as a natural break in the conversation to sip my tea. I hoped they would follow cue.
"Let me ask you this," S said.
"Okay."
"Have you lost your temper since you've been home?"
I had to think a moment. Has anything made me really angry? The answer was, "No."
There are two things wrong here. One is that I had to think back to whether or not I had lost my temper. I know the answers to all the other emotions. Had I been happy? Yes. Sad? Yes. Confused? Ditto. Amazed? Check. Shocked? Yes again. Why couldn't I recall whether or not I had lost my temper? The second thing to note is that the one of the main emotions I kept at bay in Japan is the one which I have yet to encounter here. A true mystery here.
Then I changed my answer.
"I have been angry," I said.
"Okay, at whom?"
"Not 'at whom' as much as 'at what'."
"Go on."
"I've lost my temper at Boston drivers." They rolled their eyes and started talking at once.
"That doesn't count," F said.
"Right. No go," S said, too.
"I know, right? But, I've yelled at plenty of them since I've been home."
How interesting is it that I still compartmentalize my emotions, giving credence to some and not to others. That losing my temper to my fellow drivers doesn't truly count as a legitimate emotional outburst (and I would agree it doesn't if for no other reason it happens all the time and is most definitely deserved) is truly a self-serving way of looking at my ability to express my emotions.
So, I'm putting "emotionally neutral" to rest for awhile and going back to plugged and stuck. It seems to fit much more appropriately, spin or no spin.
Which is why this whole emotional constipation is such a unique (safe word, there) phenomenon for me. I've never had this problem before. To be plugged and stuck and unable to articulate much of what's going on inside of me has me annoyed and flabbergasted.
This is why I decided to switch my thinking from saying "I'm emotionally" stuck to "I'm emotionally neutral." It's crap, of course. No, sorry. This is spin. I'm trying to make this phase less negative and more soft. Emotionally neutral has a bit of a ring to it, don't you think? At least it's not as bad as being stuck.
I was talking about this with two dear friends the other day. I was testing the whole "emotionally neutral" concept on them knowing they would give me frank feedback, even if it was the form of a raised "did you really just say that?" eyebrow. I will admit, there was a slight pause after I cautiously used the word "emotionally neutral" which I decided to take as a natural break in the conversation to sip my tea. I hoped they would follow cue.
"Let me ask you this," S said.
"Okay."
"Have you lost your temper since you've been home?"
I had to think a moment. Has anything made me really angry? The answer was, "No."
There are two things wrong here. One is that I had to think back to whether or not I had lost my temper. I know the answers to all the other emotions. Had I been happy? Yes. Sad? Yes. Confused? Ditto. Amazed? Check. Shocked? Yes again. Why couldn't I recall whether or not I had lost my temper? The second thing to note is that the one of the main emotions I kept at bay in Japan is the one which I have yet to encounter here. A true mystery here.
Then I changed my answer.
"I have been angry," I said.
"Okay, at whom?"
"Not 'at whom' as much as 'at what'."
"Go on."
"I've lost my temper at Boston drivers." They rolled their eyes and started talking at once.
"That doesn't count," F said.
"Right. No go," S said, too.
"I know, right? But, I've yelled at plenty of them since I've been home."
How interesting is it that I still compartmentalize my emotions, giving credence to some and not to others. That losing my temper to my fellow drivers doesn't truly count as a legitimate emotional outburst (and I would agree it doesn't if for no other reason it happens all the time and is most definitely deserved) is truly a self-serving way of looking at my ability to express my emotions.
So, I'm putting "emotionally neutral" to rest for awhile and going back to plugged and stuck. It seems to fit much more appropriately, spin or no spin.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Ode to my husband
People say I'm lucky. I am. My husband of over twenty years is still my best friend. After returning from a friend's wedding today I am reminded of this over and over again.
I've been told in leaving home for seven weeks and then again for another three, I am "leaving him behind." This isn't quite accurate. Neither is the sentiment that he "lets" me go. We have long ago given each other a lot of freedom. It's with this in mind that today I write this celebrating him, what he's done for me, who he is and what he continues to mean to me. I would not have been able to go to Iwate without his complete understanding and neither would I be returning without his total support. For the freedom he gives to me and more, I am humbled. This is why he deserves to be recognized here.
Dear husband,
You are my port to my ship. I sail away but know always where home is. You provide consistency, a home, a port to which I bop in and out of. I know where my port is. I know you are always there.
You are my Jimmy Page to my Robert Plant. Quiet and unassuming, you let me dance around on stage (figuratively speaking, of course) and do my thing. We make good music together. You are very good at what you do, and your skills compliment mine. You are always present with me as we go from city to city, experiencing the old and new.
You are the produce section in my supermarket. I never know what to expect but there is always a most interesting selection from which to choose. Some of what you provide is sweet; you mix this in with other flavors and always keep me guessing and hoping.
You are the boulder to my weather. I am the fickle weather, sometimes sunny, other times pouring rain. You let me be the wind and snow and are always present through the myriad of my weather patterns. You are constant. You are my rock.
You are the engine to my car. You provide me with the power to run. So long as I provide the fuel, you provide the energy to keep me going. Without you, I'm a shell made up of various parts. As my engine you give me the source from which to use these parts.
Partnership with harmony, individuality within a duo, and the long leash with which you let me run all make us a unique pair. There is no one quite like you and for that, for you, for us, I am truly, truly grateful.
I've been told in leaving home for seven weeks and then again for another three, I am "leaving him behind." This isn't quite accurate. Neither is the sentiment that he "lets" me go. We have long ago given each other a lot of freedom. It's with this in mind that today I write this celebrating him, what he's done for me, who he is and what he continues to mean to me. I would not have been able to go to Iwate without his complete understanding and neither would I be returning without his total support. For the freedom he gives to me and more, I am humbled. This is why he deserves to be recognized here.
Dear husband,
You are my port to my ship. I sail away but know always where home is. You provide consistency, a home, a port to which I bop in and out of. I know where my port is. I know you are always there.
You are my Jimmy Page to my Robert Plant. Quiet and unassuming, you let me dance around on stage (figuratively speaking, of course) and do my thing. We make good music together. You are very good at what you do, and your skills compliment mine. You are always present with me as we go from city to city, experiencing the old and new.
You are the produce section in my supermarket. I never know what to expect but there is always a most interesting selection from which to choose. Some of what you provide is sweet; you mix this in with other flavors and always keep me guessing and hoping.
You are the boulder to my weather. I am the fickle weather, sometimes sunny, other times pouring rain. You let me be the wind and snow and are always present through the myriad of my weather patterns. You are constant. You are my rock.
You are the engine to my car. You provide me with the power to run. So long as I provide the fuel, you provide the energy to keep me going. Without you, I'm a shell made up of various parts. As my engine you give me the source from which to use these parts.
Partnership with harmony, individuality within a duo, and the long leash with which you let me run all make us a unique pair. There is no one quite like you and for that, for you, for us, I am truly, truly grateful.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Unsolicited advice
This post is for the volunteers who have put their lives on hold to go up to the Tohoku region to help with the recovery effort. It's for those who have been there and returned home, those who are there now and those who are about to embark on this journey.
I should confess I'm not one who takes unsolicited advice well. This is especially true if I don't agree with the advice given or if I'm not particularly fond of the advice-giver offering their opinion without an invitation. You're welcome to take it or leave it. I'm writing this because I wish I had known this before going. I wish someone had offered this advice to me, even if it had been unsolicited.
For volunteers who have "been there, done that": unless you are emotionally dead, can honestly say what you saw and experienced has done nothing to you that requires processing I'm guessing the memories of your time have stayed somewhere in you. Some of these memories may be causing you grief, pain, sorrow, or confusion. Not doing anything with what's inside, and take it from me, is unhealthy. I'm not in a position to tell you what to do (I don't know for myself yet what that is), but I speak from experience when I say you must do something. Keeping the visual images, memories and emotions pushed down deep inside is simply and surely not healthy. Get it out. Let them out. Do something.
For volunteers who are there now: find a "safe person" now. You showed up likely knowing no one. If so, you had no real support network. You may have made friends, met people whom you like and trust. If so, talk to them. What you see, what you have seen, these experiences and images have done a number on your psyche. We aren't meant to shut down and go into robot-mode. We are human. Even if you have seen the aftermath of a natural disaster somewhere else, what you're seeing in Tohoku is on an entirely different scale. You can't keep yourself plugged up and expect to go on living your life as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
If there is no "safe person" there, get out on your own. Find time for yourself as hard as that might be. Cry. Take a walk. Sing a song. Pray. It's best if you can find a way to connect with someone who will let you sob, listen, comfort and touch you physically and emotionally. You're going through a traumatic experience whether you know it. If you can't connect with a "safe person" find a pay phone. Spring for that expensive call so you can talk to someone who will let you be you.
For volunteers who will go in the future: ditto on what I just said above. As amazing of a person as you are, you are not Wonder Woman or Superman. What you see will do a number on you. Find a way to let it out in whatever way you see fit. Take it from me: not doing this will come back to bite you. It's painful to be bitten.
The day before I traveled up north, I asked one of the staff members who had worked in disaster zones in the past how he coped with seeing all this devastation and hopelessness.
"You shut down," was his answer. I didn't like it. That wasn't good enough. It felt cold. Then I got there and found myself numb within two days of driving through Rikuzentakata. I knew I was shutting down. I knew I had to but I felt like I was somehow caring less about what I saw and the people with whom I was interacting.
As time went on and I continued to work, still numb, still shut down, it became harder and harder to keep the emotions inside. I would move my hand down my face, head to chin signaling to myself I had to control my facial expressions as I would say in my head "control, control, control" and this new mantra and ritual I created became my worst enemy. It helped me function, yes. It also kept me from feeling. It's only now that I don't have to "control, control" that I find how deep I buried those feelings.
All this to say, don't do what I did. I would go back again. No questions asked. I would, however, do things very differently. I would speak up more. I would chastise people for being culturally insensitive. I would tell them "I'm not going to say that" as opposed to editing their words to make them sound less hostile, clueless and American.
I can appreciate the fact unsolicited advice is not always welcome. I'm a walking billboard for this mentality. Take it or leave it.
Now, go slice some onions. That should get the ball rolling.
I should confess I'm not one who takes unsolicited advice well. This is especially true if I don't agree with the advice given or if I'm not particularly fond of the advice-giver offering their opinion without an invitation. You're welcome to take it or leave it. I'm writing this because I wish I had known this before going. I wish someone had offered this advice to me, even if it had been unsolicited.
For volunteers who have "been there, done that": unless you are emotionally dead, can honestly say what you saw and experienced has done nothing to you that requires processing I'm guessing the memories of your time have stayed somewhere in you. Some of these memories may be causing you grief, pain, sorrow, or confusion. Not doing anything with what's inside, and take it from me, is unhealthy. I'm not in a position to tell you what to do (I don't know for myself yet what that is), but I speak from experience when I say you must do something. Keeping the visual images, memories and emotions pushed down deep inside is simply and surely not healthy. Get it out. Let them out. Do something.
For volunteers who are there now: find a "safe person" now. You showed up likely knowing no one. If so, you had no real support network. You may have made friends, met people whom you like and trust. If so, talk to them. What you see, what you have seen, these experiences and images have done a number on your psyche. We aren't meant to shut down and go into robot-mode. We are human. Even if you have seen the aftermath of a natural disaster somewhere else, what you're seeing in Tohoku is on an entirely different scale. You can't keep yourself plugged up and expect to go on living your life as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
If there is no "safe person" there, get out on your own. Find time for yourself as hard as that might be. Cry. Take a walk. Sing a song. Pray. It's best if you can find a way to connect with someone who will let you sob, listen, comfort and touch you physically and emotionally. You're going through a traumatic experience whether you know it. If you can't connect with a "safe person" find a pay phone. Spring for that expensive call so you can talk to someone who will let you be you.
For volunteers who will go in the future: ditto on what I just said above. As amazing of a person as you are, you are not Wonder Woman or Superman. What you see will do a number on you. Find a way to let it out in whatever way you see fit. Take it from me: not doing this will come back to bite you. It's painful to be bitten.
The day before I traveled up north, I asked one of the staff members who had worked in disaster zones in the past how he coped with seeing all this devastation and hopelessness.
"You shut down," was his answer. I didn't like it. That wasn't good enough. It felt cold. Then I got there and found myself numb within two days of driving through Rikuzentakata. I knew I was shutting down. I knew I had to but I felt like I was somehow caring less about what I saw and the people with whom I was interacting.
As time went on and I continued to work, still numb, still shut down, it became harder and harder to keep the emotions inside. I would move my hand down my face, head to chin signaling to myself I had to control my facial expressions as I would say in my head "control, control, control" and this new mantra and ritual I created became my worst enemy. It helped me function, yes. It also kept me from feeling. It's only now that I don't have to "control, control" that I find how deep I buried those feelings.
All this to say, don't do what I did. I would go back again. No questions asked. I would, however, do things very differently. I would speak up more. I would chastise people for being culturally insensitive. I would tell them "I'm not going to say that" as opposed to editing their words to make them sound less hostile, clueless and American.
I can appreciate the fact unsolicited advice is not always welcome. I'm a walking billboard for this mentality. Take it or leave it.
Now, go slice some onions. That should get the ball rolling.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sacrificing cheese for a meltdown
This is what happened during my first break from volunteering as I traveled down to Tokyo. This little meltdown is what I've been waiting for since my return. This is what eludes me. I would gladly sacrifice cheese to have another one of these moments.
***
***
I took the overnight bus to Tokyo. This is the first day of my official “time off” which is code for “mental health break” or “get-out-of-town-and-clear-your-head-before-you-have-a-major-meltdown.” I’ll take it. I need it. I really need it.
The curtains were pulled tight in the bus so I didn’t realize it was morning until the PA system announced we were in Tokyo. Sleepy people started pulling back the shades and immediately squinted at the first-bright-light-in-the-morning sensation. Everyone blinked and tried to avoid staring at the daylight and tall buildings outside. Everyone except me. Bring me that light. Bring me these tall buildings. This is what I came here for.
I get off the bus at Tokyo Station and walk over to the taxi stand. I’m spending a few days with a friend who is graciously putting me up in his apartment. He promised me a key so I can come and go as I please. I couldn’t be happier.
I find a taxi and hop in, give the address and sit back. I haven’t been this relaxed in a month. I look outside watching the people and buildings go by. Then they come. The tears I’ve been pushing back start to flow. I quickly wipe them away and do my “control, control” speech in my head. There’s to be no crying here. Not in a taxi. Not yet.
We drive through familiar streets. I know exactly where I am. I get to the apartment and ring my friend through the intercom.
“Come on up!” I hear and I stand in front of the elevator and look at my reflection. I look terrible. The tears come again. This time I don’t stop them. I can’t. It’s like my eyes are peeing. By the time I get to the 27th floor I’m openly bawling. I’m embarrassed of course but also don’t care. This is the first “safe” person I’ve seen since going to Iwate. In front of him I can cry. It’s okay.
I get off the elevator and see him walking towards me. I don’t bother holding back my sobs and let it all out as he gives me a big hug.
“Shhhh. You’re alright.” I don’t say anything. I can’t.
“Inside,” he says. “I have cheese.” At this I laugh because this is the one thing I asked him to get me. God, how I’ve missed cheese. He walks me inside, takes my bags to my room as I sit on the sofa and look for a box of Kleenex.
“In here,” he calls from somewhere in his giant apartment and I walk towards where I think he is.
“Take your pick,” he says and I see an array of cheeses spread out on the counter. I don’t even bother to see what kinds he bought for me. I dive in. I am so grateful for safe people who let me cry and buy me cheese.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Restless nights continue
This morning it was a dream I woke myself out of at around 6:00am. Not a nightmare but not a pleasant dream either. It needed to end and the only way I know to do this is to tell myself in my dream to get up. It works so I do it.
It's been suggested I have PTSD. Doctors I'm told hate it when patients self-diagnose. I can appreciate that. I've decided to un-self-diagnose (work with me here) and have decided I don't have PTSD. I'm just stuck.
"You're emotionally constipated," a friend said to me today. Between verbal constipation in not being able to find the words to express myself and emotional constipation in not being to let out said stuck emotions there's a running theme here. Not a pleasant one at that.
I keep telling myself a good cry is all I need. This elusive "good cry" is yet to come. There are moments where I choke up but as far as I'm concerned these aren't proper meltdowns. A proper meltdown, according to the medical/psychological definition of Amya (dictionary to be sold soon) includes a good proper outpouring of tears. No tears, no meltdown. No meltdown, emotional constipation and vivid and disturbing dreams.
How to solve this? Inquiring minds are asking. (Is "inquiring minds want to know?" copyrighted? Just in case it is, I'm using different words. To quote Thai taxi drivers, "Same, same.")
When I return to Iwate, I plan to sit by myself in front of the ocean, curse at it, call it names, blame it for death and destruction, throw rocks into it and then walk away and ignore its beauty. I hope I can cry as I do this. Three weeks and counting and the ocean will get a very proper scolding. Next stop cursing nature.
It's been suggested I have PTSD. Doctors I'm told hate it when patients self-diagnose. I can appreciate that. I've decided to un-self-diagnose (work with me here) and have decided I don't have PTSD. I'm just stuck.
"You're emotionally constipated," a friend said to me today. Between verbal constipation in not being able to find the words to express myself and emotional constipation in not being to let out said stuck emotions there's a running theme here. Not a pleasant one at that.
I keep telling myself a good cry is all I need. This elusive "good cry" is yet to come. There are moments where I choke up but as far as I'm concerned these aren't proper meltdowns. A proper meltdown, according to the medical/psychological definition of Amya (dictionary to be sold soon) includes a good proper outpouring of tears. No tears, no meltdown. No meltdown, emotional constipation and vivid and disturbing dreams.
How to solve this? Inquiring minds are asking. (Is "inquiring minds want to know?" copyrighted? Just in case it is, I'm using different words. To quote Thai taxi drivers, "Same, same.")
When I return to Iwate, I plan to sit by myself in front of the ocean, curse at it, call it names, blame it for death and destruction, throw rocks into it and then walk away and ignore its beauty. I hope I can cry as I do this. Three weeks and counting and the ocean will get a very proper scolding. Next stop cursing nature.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Going back to Japan: Self-induced therapy
I wasn't entirely being honest when I said to date there has been no tears since returning from Japan. Let me explain.
My first day home I treated myself to a hair cut (much needed after two months) and a happy day with my favorite manicurist. Both my hair maestro and my manicurist asked me how I was.
"Fine." It was the easiest answer to give, considering I had just returned and didn't know which side was up. Then came the questions. I quickly found myself choked up.
"I can't talk about it," was what I managed to get out before the tears came. I actually had to leave the manicure table to go outside to cry (I really don't cry in front of others) and my old Italian hair man quickly said in his most accented voice, "So sorry, sweetheart. We can talk when you're ready."
I bring this up for two reasons. I was relaying this story to a client tonight over dinner and found myself getting choked up again, embarrassingly so, and had to excuse myself again before the floodgates opened in public. I was also having a conversation with a dear friend on the way home from dinner, who, in her infinite wisdom said, "You managed to push those feelings way down while you were in Japan. No wonder they're stuck."
Stuck is the operative word. My feelings are stuck. I'm stuck. Not one to do nothing, I am taking action. I will next embark on what I call a journey of self-induced therapy. My husband is on board. Hands down, this man walks on water. Convincing my son is a different story. He is reluctant to let me go down this road. Why? Self-induced therapy means I go back to Japan. Clearly I have unfinished business there and I am convinced only there can I process what I went through for seven weeks.
This time around I will not spend my entire time in Iwate, although I will make a trip up there. I consider this a pilgrimage of sorts. I need to let the restless spirits within me rest. I will find a time and space to cry (alone, hopefully) and I will leave behind my grief, pain and sadness. I will bring home with me memories, renewed energy and the strength that comes with this to move forward. I will unleash my demons so I can actually sleep through the night, not tossing and turning with my vivid dreams and stealing covers from my husband.
I will be me again when I come back, albeit a new, better and much improved version of me. This, I can do. This, I look forward to.
My first day home I treated myself to a hair cut (much needed after two months) and a happy day with my favorite manicurist. Both my hair maestro and my manicurist asked me how I was.
"Fine." It was the easiest answer to give, considering I had just returned and didn't know which side was up. Then came the questions. I quickly found myself choked up.
"I can't talk about it," was what I managed to get out before the tears came. I actually had to leave the manicure table to go outside to cry (I really don't cry in front of others) and my old Italian hair man quickly said in his most accented voice, "So sorry, sweetheart. We can talk when you're ready."
I bring this up for two reasons. I was relaying this story to a client tonight over dinner and found myself getting choked up again, embarrassingly so, and had to excuse myself again before the floodgates opened in public. I was also having a conversation with a dear friend on the way home from dinner, who, in her infinite wisdom said, "You managed to push those feelings way down while you were in Japan. No wonder they're stuck."
Stuck is the operative word. My feelings are stuck. I'm stuck. Not one to do nothing, I am taking action. I will next embark on what I call a journey of self-induced therapy. My husband is on board. Hands down, this man walks on water. Convincing my son is a different story. He is reluctant to let me go down this road. Why? Self-induced therapy means I go back to Japan. Clearly I have unfinished business there and I am convinced only there can I process what I went through for seven weeks.
This time around I will not spend my entire time in Iwate, although I will make a trip up there. I consider this a pilgrimage of sorts. I need to let the restless spirits within me rest. I will find a time and space to cry (alone, hopefully) and I will leave behind my grief, pain and sadness. I will bring home with me memories, renewed energy and the strength that comes with this to move forward. I will unleash my demons so I can actually sleep through the night, not tossing and turning with my vivid dreams and stealing covers from my husband.
I will be me again when I come back, albeit a new, better and much improved version of me. This, I can do. This, I look forward to.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Facing death
I was twice chastised by my graduate school professors for asking this question. One said I was being melodramatic and the other said I had the luxury of pondering this question because I was a "person of privilege." Utter horseshit. I could not disagree with them more. It's an important question and I stand by it. We should all ask ourselves this: would you knowingly go to your death to save someone important to you?
The two of us sat overlooking the Tokyo skyline. I asked him where he was when the tsunami hit. We had worked together for seven weeks but I had yet to bring this up. It's not an easy question to put out into the open. I'm asking him to recount a potentially traumatic memory.
"I was home. First came the earthquake, right? After the shaking stopped I went out to check out the house. I didn't see any damage so I decided to ride around on my bike and check on friends in the area." He stops here to take a drag on his cigarette. I don't say anything. He gets to set the pace here. Not me.
"I got to the bridge. I've never seen traffic like that. The roads were jammed with cars in every direction. People were barely moving." He pauses again.
"I ran into a friend of mine on the bridge. He told me there was a tsunami warning on the PA system from City Hall but neither of us really thought much of it. They weren't saying a tsunami was 'imminent' or anything like that. Just that there was a tsunami warning out there." He swigs his beer.
"In hindsight I don't know why they didn't do a better job of warning people. You know? I mean an earthquake that big is bound to cause a whopper of a tsunami, right? Think about it. A good half of the people on that bridge stuck in traffic were driving towards the tsunami." He shakes his head and I can't tell if he's angry at the officials that didn't do a better job of warning people or if he's wondering the same thing I am. Would I knowingly drive into a tsunami?
"Then I saw this friend of mine," he continues. "He was sitting in his car stuck in traffic."
"Did you talk to him?" I finally speak.
"Yeah," he says. "I asked him where he was going. He said he was going home to check on his family." We look at each other.
"Where did he live?" I ask.
"Down by the bay." Neither of us speak for awhile. He lights another cigarette and I sit with him not saying anything.
"He died," he says. "I don't know if he ever found his family or helped them get away. All I know is, he died."
What I really want to know is whether this friend knew he was driving towards his death. This is a question I feel I can't ask. I feel I'm violating his friend's privacy, or encroaching on the moments leading up to his death. I make myself come back to the conversation at hand. I need to speak.
I know "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it. There's really nothing I can say that will make either of us but especially him feel any better.
"Were you close?" I finally ask.
"Not really."
"Oh." Good one. How do I follow up with that? I don't dare say "it's not as bad then" or even worse, "that's good." Like I said, there's really nothing good or right or appropriate to say.
I decide to switch gears.
"Would you do something potentially dangerous to help a loved one if you knew there was a chance you could get hurt," and I pause, "or die?" I ask.
"You mean, would I have driven home knowing a tsunami was on the way?"
"Yeah, I guess that's what I mean."
He pauses. "I think I would," and then asks, "would you?"
"I would, too," I say. "There are people I would die for." At this, he looks up.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You've thought about it?"
"I have."
"Huh." We're silent again.
Whether his friend knew he was driving to his death or even the possibility of death we will obviously never know. I find myself frustrated. I want to know. I have to live with not knowing. And then it hits me: I'm alive. I get to live and if that means I don't get to have the answer to this question, so be it. I'm still alive.
The two of us sat overlooking the Tokyo skyline. I asked him where he was when the tsunami hit. We had worked together for seven weeks but I had yet to bring this up. It's not an easy question to put out into the open. I'm asking him to recount a potentially traumatic memory.
"I was home. First came the earthquake, right? After the shaking stopped I went out to check out the house. I didn't see any damage so I decided to ride around on my bike and check on friends in the area." He stops here to take a drag on his cigarette. I don't say anything. He gets to set the pace here. Not me.
"I got to the bridge. I've never seen traffic like that. The roads were jammed with cars in every direction. People were barely moving." He pauses again.
"I ran into a friend of mine on the bridge. He told me there was a tsunami warning on the PA system from City Hall but neither of us really thought much of it. They weren't saying a tsunami was 'imminent' or anything like that. Just that there was a tsunami warning out there." He swigs his beer.
"In hindsight I don't know why they didn't do a better job of warning people. You know? I mean an earthquake that big is bound to cause a whopper of a tsunami, right? Think about it. A good half of the people on that bridge stuck in traffic were driving towards the tsunami." He shakes his head and I can't tell if he's angry at the officials that didn't do a better job of warning people or if he's wondering the same thing I am. Would I knowingly drive into a tsunami?
"Then I saw this friend of mine," he continues. "He was sitting in his car stuck in traffic."
"Did you talk to him?" I finally speak.
"Yeah," he says. "I asked him where he was going. He said he was going home to check on his family." We look at each other.
"Where did he live?" I ask.
"Down by the bay." Neither of us speak for awhile. He lights another cigarette and I sit with him not saying anything.
"He died," he says. "I don't know if he ever found his family or helped them get away. All I know is, he died."
What I really want to know is whether this friend knew he was driving towards his death. This is a question I feel I can't ask. I feel I'm violating his friend's privacy, or encroaching on the moments leading up to his death. I make myself come back to the conversation at hand. I need to speak.
I know "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it. There's really nothing I can say that will make either of us but especially him feel any better.
"Were you close?" I finally ask.
"Not really."
"Oh." Good one. How do I follow up with that? I don't dare say "it's not as bad then" or even worse, "that's good." Like I said, there's really nothing good or right or appropriate to say.
I decide to switch gears.
"Would you do something potentially dangerous to help a loved one if you knew there was a chance you could get hurt," and I pause, "or die?" I ask.
"You mean, would I have driven home knowing a tsunami was on the way?"
"Yeah, I guess that's what I mean."
He pauses. "I think I would," and then asks, "would you?"
"I would, too," I say. "There are people I would die for." At this, he looks up.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You've thought about it?"
"I have."
"Huh." We're silent again.
Whether his friend knew he was driving to his death or even the possibility of death we will obviously never know. I find myself frustrated. I want to know. I have to live with not knowing. And then it hits me: I'm alive. I get to live and if that means I don't get to have the answer to this question, so be it. I'm still alive.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
It's the volunteers who matter
Any organization is comprised of people. All organizations, companies, academic institutions, hospitals or government entities rely on its people to get things done. Those lower down on the totem pole are often forgotten. Sometimes they are unappreciated (or feel as though they are unappreciated). There are certainly groups that take care of their workers expressing gratitude and support. Others are less skilled at this. This posting is not about insinuating any such rhetoric. It's a post celebrating the volunteers in Ofunato and Rikuzentakata. It's the volunteers there who are doing the day-to-day dirty work whom I'm writing about today. It's the volunteers who matter.
H is a local hip-hop artist. Bald and bearded he resembles Buddha, if Buddha were square and not round. He wears over-sized sweatshirts and cut-off sweatpants with bright pink Crocs and pink and yellow and neon green striped socks. Some days he could pass for being a gangster wannabe. H showed up on the first day and has hit the ground running since. What makes H unique (even more than channeling a hip-hop Buddha-gangster) is his speech. Simply put, I have yet to come across a young Japanese male who speaks with this much politeness and eloquence. His words reflect respect, kindness, gratitude and grace. Looking at him, one expects the opposite. No one would be surprised if his language were coarse, rough and sailor-like. It's not. His words express beauty in their simplicity and sincerity in their humility. It is a joy to listen to this man talk.
J, like many Japanese women, looks 24 and is not. She's closer to my age than to 24. I could go two ways with this: hate her for looking so young and beautiful or love her for defying crow's feet. I chose the latter. She is tireless in her energy. She exemplifies a true love of life through her adventurous spirit, critical thinking and dedication to her people. Her laughter, light and chirpy with a head toss added in for emphasis is honey to the ears. J does what's needed. Showing no fear, she speaks her mind. I love her spirit and all it embodies.
T is Japan's future. I want him to run for office. He personifies dignity, and it is clear he puts thought into everything he says. When he speaks, people listen. There's no grandstanding or ego in his mannerisms or words. I would love for Japan's future politicians to be more like him.
Three people showed up one night on Harley Davidsons. Mr. and Mrs. S and their friend Mr. W said they were touring Hokkaido and heard through a friend there was a group in Iwate looking for volunteers and they "just rode on down." Quiet and unassuming, they came and went. Mr. S said "I don't like to speak in public" when he introduced himself but went onto to say "anything I can do to help." Mrs. S said, "what he said" and Mr. W said "ditto." Beauty in simplicity. As they left Mr. S said, "you came to help Japan, so next time there's a natural disaster in your country I'll be there." Hearing their Harleys roar away every night, I stood in awe and feeling a bit of a crush coming on realized I wanted more people like them in my life.
People matter. Cliches are cliches for a reason. They contain bits of truth. When people help others, when strangers do good deeds for others whom they will never meet again there is beauty in this. I count myself lucky and blessed to have worked along side these heroes and heroines.
H is a local hip-hop artist. Bald and bearded he resembles Buddha, if Buddha were square and not round. He wears over-sized sweatshirts and cut-off sweatpants with bright pink Crocs and pink and yellow and neon green striped socks. Some days he could pass for being a gangster wannabe. H showed up on the first day and has hit the ground running since. What makes H unique (even more than channeling a hip-hop Buddha-gangster) is his speech. Simply put, I have yet to come across a young Japanese male who speaks with this much politeness and eloquence. His words reflect respect, kindness, gratitude and grace. Looking at him, one expects the opposite. No one would be surprised if his language were coarse, rough and sailor-like. It's not. His words express beauty in their simplicity and sincerity in their humility. It is a joy to listen to this man talk.
J, like many Japanese women, looks 24 and is not. She's closer to my age than to 24. I could go two ways with this: hate her for looking so young and beautiful or love her for defying crow's feet. I chose the latter. She is tireless in her energy. She exemplifies a true love of life through her adventurous spirit, critical thinking and dedication to her people. Her laughter, light and chirpy with a head toss added in for emphasis is honey to the ears. J does what's needed. Showing no fear, she speaks her mind. I love her spirit and all it embodies.
T is Japan's future. I want him to run for office. He personifies dignity, and it is clear he puts thought into everything he says. When he speaks, people listen. There's no grandstanding or ego in his mannerisms or words. I would love for Japan's future politicians to be more like him.
Three people showed up one night on Harley Davidsons. Mr. and Mrs. S and their friend Mr. W said they were touring Hokkaido and heard through a friend there was a group in Iwate looking for volunteers and they "just rode on down." Quiet and unassuming, they came and went. Mr. S said "I don't like to speak in public" when he introduced himself but went onto to say "anything I can do to help." Mrs. S said, "what he said" and Mr. W said "ditto." Beauty in simplicity. As they left Mr. S said, "you came to help Japan, so next time there's a natural disaster in your country I'll be there." Hearing their Harleys roar away every night, I stood in awe and feeling a bit of a crush coming on realized I wanted more people like them in my life.
People matter. Cliches are cliches for a reason. They contain bits of truth. When people help others, when strangers do good deeds for others whom they will never meet again there is beauty in this. I count myself lucky and blessed to have worked along side these heroes and heroines.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
In my dreams
Since I returned home over a week ago I have dreamt about Iwate every night. My dreams are vivid, bordering on disturbing. I see the houses I left behind. The people I worked with show up and speak to me. Is this me decompressing?
I expected decompression to involve tears. To date, there have been no bouts of crying, no breakdowns in public, no outbursts of emotion. My dreams, however, wake me up at night. My sleep is not restful. I don't always remember the dreams in the morning but I know what they were about.
Last night's dream is still on my mind. I was riding in a taxi down a road where we worked on multiple homes. To the left is the M household where we tore out drywall. I see the inside of the house through the windows. It's dark outside but the house is lit up. I see flags hanging in colors of rich, dark purple and scarlet. The taxi driver slows down to look at the homes. I see his face. I watch him looking at the houses on both sides of the street. I know he's about to cry but I don't know what to say to him. I don't like where the dream is going and I wake myself up.
Clearly, Iwate is nowhere close to being out of my system. If this is what it takes for me to process what I saw and felt then so be it. Bring it on.
I expected decompression to involve tears. To date, there have been no bouts of crying, no breakdowns in public, no outbursts of emotion. My dreams, however, wake me up at night. My sleep is not restful. I don't always remember the dreams in the morning but I know what they were about.
Last night's dream is still on my mind. I was riding in a taxi down a road where we worked on multiple homes. To the left is the M household where we tore out drywall. I see the inside of the house through the windows. It's dark outside but the house is lit up. I see flags hanging in colors of rich, dark purple and scarlet. The taxi driver slows down to look at the homes. I see his face. I watch him looking at the houses on both sides of the street. I know he's about to cry but I don't know what to say to him. I don't like where the dream is going and I wake myself up.
Clearly, Iwate is nowhere close to being out of my system. If this is what it takes for me to process what I saw and felt then so be it. Bring it on.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Synchronicity and the Five Yen Piece
I'm just a bit proud of myself. After my rant yesterday about not having words to adequately express what I experienced in Japan over the past seven weeks, I have made a break through. I have found suitable equivalents to two words that have played a key role to my time in Japan.
Synchronicity. Call it what you will: God's will, luck, fate, miracles, angel kisses, coincidence. I believe in it. It's real. It exists. Synchronicity is in the moments where logic defies reason. Things happen that shouldn't. There is beauty in this. It's a most perfect combination of peace and fun.
Go-en. Or, more simply, en. I'm allowing myself to translate this as synchronicity. The more literal dictionary translation is luck. It's far more complex though. It's deeper than just plain luck. Go-en is luck with a reason. Go-en is fate as a gift. It's meant to be a blessing to the receiver.
I heard and used the words synchronicity and go-en repeatedly in Japan. It's as if through the earthquake and tsunami and the catastrophic devastation they caused also bestowed the grace and gift of luck, fate, and coincidence to those who were willing to receive it. Time after time things happened that shouldn't have. Good things. I have story after story of how this happened.
I like the idea of being receptive to the unknown. I like embracing the indescribable tidbits of fortune that I encountered. I took every opportunity to use the words synchronicity and go-en. The idea, meaning and definition behind these words make sense in both languages. People get this. Synchronicity and go-en make people smile.
The question inevitably comes up.
"Do you know what go-en means?" This is always asked with a grin, a raised eyebrow, and a sneaky look.
"I do," I always replied and smiled. I then dug into my backpack, pulled out my wallet and showed them the five yen piece I have stored away in a small and special compartment.
"See?"
"Good," was usually their answer, content I had the proper appreciation for fate by carrying around the one coin that symbolized, literally and figuratively, go-en.
Go-en also means "five yen" in Japanese. It's a homonym for "luck" or in my case, synchronicity. It's a good idea to carry around the coin that symbolizes synchronicity. That I knew this and respected the language and meaning behind go-en means I passed this test. That I carry around a special five yen piece is even better.
Synchronicity and go-en. Synchronicity and the five yen piece. These are now a few of my favorite things.
Synchronicity. Call it what you will: God's will, luck, fate, miracles, angel kisses, coincidence. I believe in it. It's real. It exists. Synchronicity is in the moments where logic defies reason. Things happen that shouldn't. There is beauty in this. It's a most perfect combination of peace and fun.
Go-en. Or, more simply, en. I'm allowing myself to translate this as synchronicity. The more literal dictionary translation is luck. It's far more complex though. It's deeper than just plain luck. Go-en is luck with a reason. Go-en is fate as a gift. It's meant to be a blessing to the receiver.
I heard and used the words synchronicity and go-en repeatedly in Japan. It's as if through the earthquake and tsunami and the catastrophic devastation they caused also bestowed the grace and gift of luck, fate, and coincidence to those who were willing to receive it. Time after time things happened that shouldn't have. Good things. I have story after story of how this happened.
I like the idea of being receptive to the unknown. I like embracing the indescribable tidbits of fortune that I encountered. I took every opportunity to use the words synchronicity and go-en. The idea, meaning and definition behind these words make sense in both languages. People get this. Synchronicity and go-en make people smile.
The question inevitably comes up.
"Do you know what go-en means?" This is always asked with a grin, a raised eyebrow, and a sneaky look.
"I do," I always replied and smiled. I then dug into my backpack, pulled out my wallet and showed them the five yen piece I have stored away in a small and special compartment.
"See?"
"Good," was usually their answer, content I had the proper appreciation for fate by carrying around the one coin that symbolized, literally and figuratively, go-en.
Go-en also means "five yen" in Japanese. It's a homonym for "luck" or in my case, synchronicity. It's a good idea to carry around the coin that symbolizes synchronicity. That I knew this and respected the language and meaning behind go-en means I passed this test. That I carry around a special five yen piece is even better.
Synchronicity and go-en. Synchronicity and the five yen piece. These are now a few of my favorite things.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The missing piece
I'm home. I'm the safest I've been in seven weeks. I'm sleeping in my own bed. I've kissed my husband. I've hugged my son. My life is supposed to be normal again. I'm supposed to be myself again. All this should lead to clarity, peace of mind, relaxation and more than anything, finding my voice. Now that I'm home the inability I struggled with--the lack of words, the vocabulary I needed to describe what I felt and saw that I could never seem to find--this was supposed to reappear. I was supposed to be able to write and share this. I'm safe, after all. This is where it was all supposed to come together. To date, none of this is happening. Words still escape me. I've got nothing. Nada. Nothing. I'm blank. I'm not sure I have ever been this frustrated with myself for the same reason for this long of a time.
Picture this. You're a chef. You love to make risotto. You've made it over and over throughout your career. You know exactly how to make it. People say it's good risotto. You're in your kitchen with all of your chef tools and the ingredients to make risotto and you suddenly can't remember how to make it anymore. You know the recipe is somewhere in your mind. You struggle to bring it to the surface and it stays buried. Nothing you do can make you remember.
You're a violinist. You take your violin and place it under your chin. You've done this a million times. You bring your bow up and freeze. You've forgotten how to play.
You're a surgeon. You've performed open heart surgery hundreds of times throughout your career. You know exactly what to do. You stand in front of your patient, all of your surgical tools right next to you and your skills escape you. You no longer remember what to do.
You're an artist. You go to paint and suddenly the oils, brushes, and canvas in front of you mean nothing. You can't conjure up anything. You feel artistically mute.
Coming home was supposed to mean I would find my words again. I would rediscover my vocabulary and everything that was in me for seven weeks was supposed to pour out. It's not. I don't understand this. It is the most profoundly frustrating experience I can remember having. It feels unreal. I don't feel like myself.
I'm staring at puzzle pieces. They're all in front of me. Nothing is missing except my ability to put them together. The missing piece is what? My ability to form words that give justice to what I saw. What does this mean? Linguistic amnesia makes me feel stupid and useless. This too shall pass? Someone please tell me it will.
Picture this. You're a chef. You love to make risotto. You've made it over and over throughout your career. You know exactly how to make it. People say it's good risotto. You're in your kitchen with all of your chef tools and the ingredients to make risotto and you suddenly can't remember how to make it anymore. You know the recipe is somewhere in your mind. You struggle to bring it to the surface and it stays buried. Nothing you do can make you remember.
You're a violinist. You take your violin and place it under your chin. You've done this a million times. You bring your bow up and freeze. You've forgotten how to play.
You're a surgeon. You've performed open heart surgery hundreds of times throughout your career. You know exactly what to do. You stand in front of your patient, all of your surgical tools right next to you and your skills escape you. You no longer remember what to do.
You're an artist. You go to paint and suddenly the oils, brushes, and canvas in front of you mean nothing. You can't conjure up anything. You feel artistically mute.
Coming home was supposed to mean I would find my words again. I would rediscover my vocabulary and everything that was in me for seven weeks was supposed to pour out. It's not. I don't understand this. It is the most profoundly frustrating experience I can remember having. It feels unreal. I don't feel like myself.
I'm staring at puzzle pieces. They're all in front of me. Nothing is missing except my ability to put them together. The missing piece is what? My ability to form words that give justice to what I saw. What does this mean? Linguistic amnesia makes me feel stupid and useless. This too shall pass? Someone please tell me it will.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Happy Birthday, dear Seiji
Seiji was at the same party where I committed the gaffe over the Tohoku dialect. As one of the two youngest people there, he was in charge of the alcohol. The pouring of it, that is. Between the two young men, the party attendees were kept pretty happy.
I first met Seiji at the base where I stayed in Ofunato. The building was also a drop-off point for relief supplies. Trucks would come several times a week and the crew of young volunteers would unload the boxes of supplies and run them up the stairs to the front office. The day I met him, the person running the office told me Seiji lost his mother in the tsunami. She worked at the hospital in Rikuzentakata. Since that day I would often sneak a glance at Seiji wondering how he was holding up. What was his life like at home? Did he have family? Did he cry when he was alone? Was he sleeping at night?
Back at the party, between shots of sake, shochu and bottles of beer, one of the party-goers leans over to me and said in an attempted whisper, "it's Seiji's birthday today." Drunk men don't whisper very well. Soon, people around the table were slapping Seiji on the back, offering him drinks, shouting "sit down, sit down!" as they made their way towards getting this young man as drunk as they were.
The party host looked at me through the commotion and said so very slyly, "you know, someone should sing him happy birthday," and next thing I knew all eyes were on me.
"Me?" I said.
"'Me?'" they mocked. "Yes, you. Of course you. Do your Marilyn routine!"
Marilyn routine?! What Marilyn routine? Do all white women channel Marilyn Monroe? I'm flattered and offended at the same time.
"Wait a minute," I stall. "Do I look like Marilyn?" They laugh.
"No, but I bet you can sing like her," one drunk man says and more people laugh.
"Oh, come on," I stall again. Then it comes.
"Liza Minnelli!" another drunk man says and the laughter turns into howling.
Let me explain. I most definitely do not look like Marilyn Monroe. I do, however, look a lot like Liza Minnelli. My short black hair, more often spiky than not, my nose (resembling Liza's more than I'm comfortable with) and my trademark eyeliner and lipstick has gotten me more comments about being a Liza Minnelli look-alike than I care to admit. Now that the comparison is out there, what am I supposed to do? Offer a rendition of "Happy Birthday" that sounds like "New York, New York"? I attempt to stall some more. Then I see Seiji looking at me. I know right then I can't bow out of this. I won't.
"Fine," I say, and grin. "You want Happy Birthday? I'll give you Happy Birthday." Everyone claps and I silently curse. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I hate karaoke. Singing in public for me is up there with going to the dentist. I most definitely do not do solos. That's the equivalent of a root canal. To say I feel cornered doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling. Then I look at Seiji again. I look at his father whom I'm introduced to for the first time tonight. These men must be in incredible pain. I have to do this. I can. I will. I take a deep breath. I know I'm being watched.
"Okay," I say. "But, not Marilyn. Okay?"
I hear some catcalls followed by several "Ooo-kaaay!"s and I begin. It's a good thing I can sing. It's a good thing I can carry a tune. I sing Happy Birthday to Seiji who looks embarrassed. I get all the way through and everyone hollers, claps, whistles, and pounds the table. Seiji and I look at each other. I smile. He smiles back. This man is young enough to be my son. (So much nicer than saying I'm old enough to be his mother, don't you think?) I silently hope this makes him happy and that this is a memory he'll take with him. Tonight he was the center of attention not as the young man who lost his mother but as the man who has a future ahead of him. Happy Birthday, Seiji. May there be many more.
I first met Seiji at the base where I stayed in Ofunato. The building was also a drop-off point for relief supplies. Trucks would come several times a week and the crew of young volunteers would unload the boxes of supplies and run them up the stairs to the front office. The day I met him, the person running the office told me Seiji lost his mother in the tsunami. She worked at the hospital in Rikuzentakata. Since that day I would often sneak a glance at Seiji wondering how he was holding up. What was his life like at home? Did he have family? Did he cry when he was alone? Was he sleeping at night?
Back at the party, between shots of sake, shochu and bottles of beer, one of the party-goers leans over to me and said in an attempted whisper, "it's Seiji's birthday today." Drunk men don't whisper very well. Soon, people around the table were slapping Seiji on the back, offering him drinks, shouting "sit down, sit down!" as they made their way towards getting this young man as drunk as they were.
The party host looked at me through the commotion and said so very slyly, "you know, someone should sing him happy birthday," and next thing I knew all eyes were on me.
"Me?" I said.
"'Me?'" they mocked. "Yes, you. Of course you. Do your Marilyn routine!"
Marilyn routine?! What Marilyn routine? Do all white women channel Marilyn Monroe? I'm flattered and offended at the same time.
"Wait a minute," I stall. "Do I look like Marilyn?" They laugh.
"No, but I bet you can sing like her," one drunk man says and more people laugh.
"Oh, come on," I stall again. Then it comes.
"Liza Minnelli!" another drunk man says and the laughter turns into howling.
Let me explain. I most definitely do not look like Marilyn Monroe. I do, however, look a lot like Liza Minnelli. My short black hair, more often spiky than not, my nose (resembling Liza's more than I'm comfortable with) and my trademark eyeliner and lipstick has gotten me more comments about being a Liza Minnelli look-alike than I care to admit. Now that the comparison is out there, what am I supposed to do? Offer a rendition of "Happy Birthday" that sounds like "New York, New York"? I attempt to stall some more. Then I see Seiji looking at me. I know right then I can't bow out of this. I won't.
"Fine," I say, and grin. "You want Happy Birthday? I'll give you Happy Birthday." Everyone claps and I silently curse. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I hate karaoke. Singing in public for me is up there with going to the dentist. I most definitely do not do solos. That's the equivalent of a root canal. To say I feel cornered doesn't begin to describe what I'm feeling. Then I look at Seiji again. I look at his father whom I'm introduced to for the first time tonight. These men must be in incredible pain. I have to do this. I can. I will. I take a deep breath. I know I'm being watched.
"Okay," I say. "But, not Marilyn. Okay?"
I hear some catcalls followed by several "Ooo-kaaay!"s and I begin. It's a good thing I can sing. It's a good thing I can carry a tune. I sing Happy Birthday to Seiji who looks embarrassed. I get all the way through and everyone hollers, claps, whistles, and pounds the table. Seiji and I look at each other. I smile. He smiles back. This man is young enough to be my son. (So much nicer than saying I'm old enough to be his mother, don't you think?) I silently hope this makes him happy and that this is a memory he'll take with him. Tonight he was the center of attention not as the young man who lost his mother but as the man who has a future ahead of him. Happy Birthday, Seiji. May there be many more.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Where Iwate Meets Massachusetts
Being my harshest critic and operating with exceptional high standards for myself (sometimes ones I can't possibly live up to) I have tried not to beat myself up in asking how useful I was over the past seven weeks. If I didn't make a difference at all, the entire trip was for naught. I can't live with this. In order to let myself believe I didn't waste seven weeks of my life, in my own way and using my own definitions, I let myself believe I did make a difference. I allow myself to believe I was useful.
But, let's get real. How was I useful? For whom? And, how do I know I was actually helpful? Those are questions I can't answer. Perhaps I will never know. Then comes synchronicity. It hits me. I receive a glimpse of the possibility I did actually do something. This came one night as someone read the poem Amenimo makezu, Kazenimo makezu by Miyazawa Kenji. The synchronicity I encountered in Japan, over and over and over again blessed me this night as well. Hearing this poem brought it full circle. Let me explain.
This poem by Miyazawa was found posthumously in a notebook of his. It's beautiful in its simplicity and sincerity. Miyazawa died young at 37. He was one of my favorite poets/writers in my childhood. The poem which I loosely translate "be not defeated by rain nor wind" always makes me cry. I wish I could write like this. When this poem by Miyazawa, some might say what he is most famous for, was read as a going-away gift I learned for the first time he was from Iwate. I lost it. Of course he would be from Iwate. More synchronicity.
I have favorite lines from within the poem. Realizing certain stanzas speak to me more than others, it brought me back to the collection of writings I have selected over the years. I have gathered many of these tidbits into a notebook. In this notebook is the poem Success incorrectly (evidently) attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. I have favorite lines within Emerson's poem as well. It was this juxtaposition of my favorite parts of two poems written by two men, one from Iwate and the other from Massachusetts (my two adopted homes), both of whom found the words to express their beliefs simply and yet so beautifully--this was how I could define how useful I had been in Japan.
So, with my offerings of profound respect to Miyazawa Kenji and whoever wrote Success and with sincere gratitude, please allow me to borrow from both to create a lyrical offering to myself on how I want to live my life.
Be not defeated neither by rain nor by wind
To laugh often and much
To win the affection of children
If there is a tired mother to the east
I will go there and shoulder her sheaf of rice
If there is someone near death to the south
I will go there and say 'there's no need to be afraid'
If there is a quarrel to the north
I will go and tell them to stop being petty
To know even one life has breathed easier because I have lived.
This is to have succeeded.
This is the person I want to become.
This is my new mantra, a gift I didn't expect to find in going to Japan. This, I can do. This, I hope I have done.
But, let's get real. How was I useful? For whom? And, how do I know I was actually helpful? Those are questions I can't answer. Perhaps I will never know. Then comes synchronicity. It hits me. I receive a glimpse of the possibility I did actually do something. This came one night as someone read the poem Amenimo makezu, Kazenimo makezu by Miyazawa Kenji. The synchronicity I encountered in Japan, over and over and over again blessed me this night as well. Hearing this poem brought it full circle. Let me explain.
This poem by Miyazawa was found posthumously in a notebook of his. It's beautiful in its simplicity and sincerity. Miyazawa died young at 37. He was one of my favorite poets/writers in my childhood. The poem which I loosely translate "be not defeated by rain nor wind" always makes me cry. I wish I could write like this. When this poem by Miyazawa, some might say what he is most famous for, was read as a going-away gift I learned for the first time he was from Iwate. I lost it. Of course he would be from Iwate. More synchronicity.
I have favorite lines from within the poem. Realizing certain stanzas speak to me more than others, it brought me back to the collection of writings I have selected over the years. I have gathered many of these tidbits into a notebook. In this notebook is the poem Success incorrectly (evidently) attributed to Ralph Waldo Emerson. I have favorite lines within Emerson's poem as well. It was this juxtaposition of my favorite parts of two poems written by two men, one from Iwate and the other from Massachusetts (my two adopted homes), both of whom found the words to express their beliefs simply and yet so beautifully--this was how I could define how useful I had been in Japan.
So, with my offerings of profound respect to Miyazawa Kenji and whoever wrote Success and with sincere gratitude, please allow me to borrow from both to create a lyrical offering to myself on how I want to live my life.
Be not defeated neither by rain nor by wind
To laugh often and much
To win the affection of children
If there is a tired mother to the east
I will go there and shoulder her sheaf of rice
If there is someone near death to the south
I will go there and say 'there's no need to be afraid'
If there is a quarrel to the north
I will go and tell them to stop being petty
To know even one life has breathed easier because I have lived.
This is to have succeeded.
This is the person I want to become.
This is my new mantra, a gift I didn't expect to find in going to Japan. This, I can do. This, I hope I have done.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Tohoku accent
I was warned about the Tohoku accent. "You won't understand them," some said. "It sounds like a foreign language," said others. Bah. It can't be that bad, right? Japanese is Japanese. The cocky linguist in me poo-pooed these warnings.
Then it hits me. The first day in Ofunato as I listened to people in a shelter share their stories I found myself listening and then listening harder. I don't understand a lot of what I'm hearing. Can this be happening? The cocky me, the me that thought I could handle a slightly different accent is humbled from day one. The accent here is that different.
The longer I spent in Ofunato and Rikuzentakata the more I got used to it. I came to the point I could understand what I was hearing. I'm still having to listen and listen hard but I get it. The cockiness returns. I think to myself, "See. It's not that bad."
Then it happened. I am knocked down off my pedestal. In public. In front of others. I made a total fool out of myself.
I'm at a make-shift party. I've been here six weeks and I share with those around me I will be leaving soon.
"I'm going to Tokyo first," I say. "I need some time to myself." They all nod. They all know I'm a city girl and that living without hot water or a bath has been tough for me. Then I get the question that erased all cockiness in me.
"Are you going to Izu?" I pause. Izu? Izu is a peninsula southwest of Tokyo. It's a resort area. Do they think I'm going to Izu to relax? I just said I'm going to Tokyo. I'm confused.
"No, I'm not," I say back. Now it's their turn to look confused. Everyone looks at me. I panic. What did I say? Is it an insult not to go to Izu?
"But you're leaving, right?" I'm asked again. I'm confused again.
"Yes, I'm going."
"Are you going to Izu?" Now I'm annoyed. No, I am most definitely not going to Izu. Why do they keep asking this?
Then a young woman sitting across from me bursts out laughing.
"Not, Izu," she says. "Itsu. Not I-zu."
I turn beat red. I get it. The dreaded Tohoku accent I was so sure I understood just turned me into a dufus.
Let me explain. Itsu in Japanese is "when" and Izu is "Izu"--the resort area outside Tokyo. The man asking the question said in Japanese, "Izu ikundesuka?" which translates into "Are you going to Izu?" In the Tohoku dialect, "itsu" (when) sounds like "izu" meaning he was asking when I was leaving and not whether or not I was going to Izu.
I laugh. So does everyone else. I throw away all humility and say "your Tohoku accent is so hard to understand!" which they take as a compliment and laugh with me. No. Not with. I'm being laughed at but this time around the joke is on me. Laugh at me all you will. I deserve that one.
Then it hits me. The first day in Ofunato as I listened to people in a shelter share their stories I found myself listening and then listening harder. I don't understand a lot of what I'm hearing. Can this be happening? The cocky me, the me that thought I could handle a slightly different accent is humbled from day one. The accent here is that different.
The longer I spent in Ofunato and Rikuzentakata the more I got used to it. I came to the point I could understand what I was hearing. I'm still having to listen and listen hard but I get it. The cockiness returns. I think to myself, "See. It's not that bad."
Then it happened. I am knocked down off my pedestal. In public. In front of others. I made a total fool out of myself.
I'm at a make-shift party. I've been here six weeks and I share with those around me I will be leaving soon.
"I'm going to Tokyo first," I say. "I need some time to myself." They all nod. They all know I'm a city girl and that living without hot water or a bath has been tough for me. Then I get the question that erased all cockiness in me.
"Are you going to Izu?" I pause. Izu? Izu is a peninsula southwest of Tokyo. It's a resort area. Do they think I'm going to Izu to relax? I just said I'm going to Tokyo. I'm confused.
"No, I'm not," I say back. Now it's their turn to look confused. Everyone looks at me. I panic. What did I say? Is it an insult not to go to Izu?
"But you're leaving, right?" I'm asked again. I'm confused again.
"Yes, I'm going."
"Are you going to Izu?" Now I'm annoyed. No, I am most definitely not going to Izu. Why do they keep asking this?
Then a young woman sitting across from me bursts out laughing.
"Not, Izu," she says. "Itsu. Not I-zu."
I turn beat red. I get it. The dreaded Tohoku accent I was so sure I understood just turned me into a dufus.
Let me explain. Itsu in Japanese is "when" and Izu is "Izu"--the resort area outside Tokyo. The man asking the question said in Japanese, "Izu ikundesuka?" which translates into "Are you going to Izu?" In the Tohoku dialect, "itsu" (when) sounds like "izu" meaning he was asking when I was leaving and not whether or not I was going to Izu.
I laugh. So does everyone else. I throw away all humility and say "your Tohoku accent is so hard to understand!" which they take as a compliment and laugh with me. No. Not with. I'm being laughed at but this time around the joke is on me. Laugh at me all you will. I deserve that one.
Clarity and Confusion
Grandmother lives in the shelter I pop in and out of. She's a bit confused. Sometimes she doesn't know where she is and wanders around looking for her daughter. Then there are moments where she is incredibly clear. This is a story about both.
I'm at the shelter, having spent the morning volunteering to clean. There are over 70 people here and the volunteer group I'm with sends people in to help with the cleaning and cooking from time to time. On this particular day, I raised my hand to clean. (That this is a minor miracle will be kept for another day. The short version is, I'm not known for my cleaning skills.)
But I digress.....
The cleaning is done for the day and the volunteer shuttle bus is waiting outside to take me back to the base in town. Grandmother is wandering around outside, confused as to the whereabouts of her daughter who is to take her to her doctor's appointment. She comes up to the shuttle driver and asks for a ride into town to the taxi stand. The shuttle driver asks me if this is okay. Of course it is.
Grandmother has short hair, some completely white mixed with strands of jet-black dyed hair. I like it that she still wants to color her hair. Something about it makes me smile. She tries to climb into the bus, up two big steps. The driver and I say together, "careful!" as she starts to topple backwards. I catch her and push her back in all the way and seat myself behind her.
She starts chatting right away. "My daughter is good for nothing. She's always disappearing. I don't know what to do with her. She was supposed to be here." The driver, definitely young enough to be her son chimes in saying, "I'm sure she means well, mother."
"Ha. You clearly like women!"
"Well now, that's not what I meant."
"That's okay. You're a good boy."
"Thank you."
And then it begins. Grandmother is now very, very clear.
"You know, when the tsunami came I ran out of my house with nothing."
The driver turns around. "Really?"
"Really. All my neighbors who went back to get their bank books and cash died."
I look up. This conversation doesn't involve me, but I'm listening, of course. Grandmother continues.
"I don't need money. Or my bank book, for that matter. I just want to live. I'll figure things out. I've got time."
"You're lucky, mother," the shuttle driver says.
"I'm smart," she snaps back and I grin. I love this woman.
"You're taking me to the doctor, right?" She's confused again. Just like that.
The driver looks at me.
"Mother," I say. "Did you want a ride to the taxi stand?"
"Right, right," and she nods. "Take me to the taxi stand. I know how to get to the doctor's from there."
We pull up to the taxi stand and I get up to help her out.
"How much?" she says.
"No, no, mother," I respond. "It's alright. We were coming this way, too."
"Oh, you're cute," she says to me. I blush. I actually blush. I'm mortified. When's the last time I blushed?! Then I blush again because I'm embarrassed that I'm embarrassed.
"Are you okay from here?" I ask.
"Of course!"
Of course she is.
She is clear enough to say she was the smarter one for staying alive. In the same breath she loses track of where she is. This flip-flopping between confusion and clarity must be exhausting. I admire her spunk and sharp tongue. I respect her resolve. I also wish she were mentally present longer to tell me more stories. She is exactly the kind of woman I would love to listen to for hours. For this, I'm happy to have had this ten minute ride and saddened by the fact I will likely not have another. Live on, grandmother.
I'm at the shelter, having spent the morning volunteering to clean. There are over 70 people here and the volunteer group I'm with sends people in to help with the cleaning and cooking from time to time. On this particular day, I raised my hand to clean. (That this is a minor miracle will be kept for another day. The short version is, I'm not known for my cleaning skills.)
But I digress.....
The cleaning is done for the day and the volunteer shuttle bus is waiting outside to take me back to the base in town. Grandmother is wandering around outside, confused as to the whereabouts of her daughter who is to take her to her doctor's appointment. She comes up to the shuttle driver and asks for a ride into town to the taxi stand. The shuttle driver asks me if this is okay. Of course it is.
Grandmother has short hair, some completely white mixed with strands of jet-black dyed hair. I like it that she still wants to color her hair. Something about it makes me smile. She tries to climb into the bus, up two big steps. The driver and I say together, "careful!" as she starts to topple backwards. I catch her and push her back in all the way and seat myself behind her.
She starts chatting right away. "My daughter is good for nothing. She's always disappearing. I don't know what to do with her. She was supposed to be here." The driver, definitely young enough to be her son chimes in saying, "I'm sure she means well, mother."
"Ha. You clearly like women!"
"Well now, that's not what I meant."
"That's okay. You're a good boy."
"Thank you."
And then it begins. Grandmother is now very, very clear.
"You know, when the tsunami came I ran out of my house with nothing."
The driver turns around. "Really?"
"Really. All my neighbors who went back to get their bank books and cash died."
I look up. This conversation doesn't involve me, but I'm listening, of course. Grandmother continues.
"I don't need money. Or my bank book, for that matter. I just want to live. I'll figure things out. I've got time."
"You're lucky, mother," the shuttle driver says.
"I'm smart," she snaps back and I grin. I love this woman.
"You're taking me to the doctor, right?" She's confused again. Just like that.
The driver looks at me.
"Mother," I say. "Did you want a ride to the taxi stand?"
"Right, right," and she nods. "Take me to the taxi stand. I know how to get to the doctor's from there."
We pull up to the taxi stand and I get up to help her out.
"How much?" she says.
"No, no, mother," I respond. "It's alright. We were coming this way, too."
"Oh, you're cute," she says to me. I blush. I actually blush. I'm mortified. When's the last time I blushed?! Then I blush again because I'm embarrassed that I'm embarrassed.
"Are you okay from here?" I ask.
"Of course!"
Of course she is.
She is clear enough to say she was the smarter one for staying alive. In the same breath she loses track of where she is. This flip-flopping between confusion and clarity must be exhausting. I admire her spunk and sharp tongue. I respect her resolve. I also wish she were mentally present longer to tell me more stories. She is exactly the kind of woman I would love to listen to for hours. For this, I'm happy to have had this ten minute ride and saddened by the fact I will likely not have another. Live on, grandmother.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
How yellow is yellow?
Yellow is not one of my favorite colors. It's partly vanity. I can't wear it. It doesn't match my olive skin. It's partly that it's too yellow. This made sense to me when I heard a story once about a man who was born sightless asked people to describe colors. When he had surgery to restore his eyesight he is said to say, "yellow is really very yellow." This makes sense to me. Yellow is really very yellow.
When spring came to Ofunato and Rikuzentakata I felt I was being bombarded by yellow. Daffodils, tulips, freesia are all yellow. Then come the dandelions. I don't know what it is about these flowers and the yellowness of them--it bothered me. I recognize part of my frustration at the color yellow was the fact nature seemed to resurrect itself in the midst of chaos and devastation. This seemed too unfair. The other part of my frustration was how vibrant all this yellowness was. I can't explain this. I felt bombarded by yellow that was very yellow and very real.
I was walking down a sidewalk on the way to visit someone when I walked past this. These two dandelions were growing out of the wall of a drainage pit. One of the flowers reached up through the metal mesh grill. Of course, being dandelions, they are yellow. Very yellow. Of course. Everything that's yellow is very yellow.
This kind of yellow, this kind of "flower" (a weed, really) I like. The ability of this dandelion plant to grow out of a concrete wall from a drainage system--this personifies the unstoppable ability of nature to come back with resolve and stubbornness. This, I like. This kind of yellow is good.
I'm not sure this makes a lot of sense. Having had difficulty expressing myself over the past six weeks I'm grasping at metaphors and symbolism in ways I never have before and perhaps this is all a bit odd to you. It does make sense to me. I want to be like the dandelion that pops out of places nature isn't supposed to be. If I have to wear yellow to do this, bring it on.
When spring came to Ofunato and Rikuzentakata I felt I was being bombarded by yellow. Daffodils, tulips, freesia are all yellow. Then come the dandelions. I don't know what it is about these flowers and the yellowness of them--it bothered me. I recognize part of my frustration at the color yellow was the fact nature seemed to resurrect itself in the midst of chaos and devastation. This seemed too unfair. The other part of my frustration was how vibrant all this yellowness was. I can't explain this. I felt bombarded by yellow that was very yellow and very real.
This kind of yellow, this kind of "flower" (a weed, really) I like. The ability of this dandelion plant to grow out of a concrete wall from a drainage system--this personifies the unstoppable ability of nature to come back with resolve and stubbornness. This, I like. This kind of yellow is good.
I'm not sure this makes a lot of sense. Having had difficulty expressing myself over the past six weeks I'm grasping at metaphors and symbolism in ways I never have before and perhaps this is all a bit odd to you. It does make sense to me. I want to be like the dandelion that pops out of places nature isn't supposed to be. If I have to wear yellow to do this, bring it on.
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