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.
Showing posts with label Ofunato. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ofunato. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Karma and the Number 3
Please excuse me. I've taken some time off for myself and have been absent. I've given myself some time to recover and relax. I needed this. Feeling more like myself again, I now have more to say. More than ever, perhaps. It's with this in mind that I say today's post will be long. It's also important.
May 8th marked the anniversary of the 41st birthday of a woman I never met. It also marked the 5th anniversary, if I can call it that, of her murder. I worked with her family for years as their interpreter as they struggled through the US justice system that found and imprisoned the man that murdered their daughter, niece, cousin and friend. To date, it is still one of the most difficult assignments I've ever worked on. To date, the family still grieves.
As May 8th neared I thought more and more about this woman. What would she be like if she were still alive? What would she be doing? All this was brought full circle as I stood and listened to a mother talk about the work she needed done on her house.
This elderly woman was at home drying her hair when her husband called out to her that he saw black water in front of their home. By then the earthquake had shaken their home but as they were both safe, she went on with her day. They live far enough inland, several kilometers from the Port of Ofunato, that they were among the many who never expected a tsunami to ever come to their neighborhood, street, yard and home.
She ran into the room where her husband lay. He no longer has use of his legs so she propped him up the best she could and ran out of the house, away from the street towards the back of their home thinking she would drive them to safety. Outside she saw two neighbors and they helped her get her husband into the car. They too jumped in. Then they saw the second wave. Their homes are 20 meters away from the river bank. The river runs a good 10 plus meters below the bank. The tsunami pushed up the river several kilometers inland and overflowed down the bank and onto the street. The four people in the car now had two waves to escape from. One wave was in front of their home, and the overflow from the other direction. The two waves collided and all four were soon engulfed in water as they sat in the car. Their car wouldn't start. Other cars nearby without occupants began to float away. The weight of the four in the elder couple's car kept their car in place. They sat there as the car filled with water.
After 30 minutes or so, the waves started to recede. Once the water went down from the floorboard, the elderly woman (whom I keep calling "mother") started the car and drove to high ground. I listen to this thinking how lucky she, her husband and her two neighbors are. Then came the real story.
"We just spent two million yen on this house," she says.
"Oh, really? What did you have done?" I ask, thinking the question is innocent enough to be safe as well as respectfully curious.
"We used to have two stories," mother replies. My gut tells me I have just made a huge error in asking for details.
"We had a fire last August," she continues and chokes up. I curse to myself.
"Our daughter committed suicide and the upstairs caught fire." She's openly crying now. I am silently verbally berating myself every way I know how.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"We spent another one million yen on her funeral." Of course they did.
"I was so looking forward to spring," she says. Of course she was. Her daughter's suicide, the long winter and the spring that follows. Who woulnd't look forward to new buds and rebirth?
"And then this. I just don't believe it." She cries again.
It's at this point I'm reminded of two things simultaneously. One is a Japanese saying "What happens twice, happens three time." I equate it to the saying I've heard in the US, "things happen in threes." There's also another Japanese saying which literally translated goes "the third time makes you honest" which I equate to "third time's a charm."
I'm standing in front of mother looking for the right words. The idea of good and bad happening in threes is tempting to say but one misstep and I could end up implying there's another hardship yet to come.
While I'm trying to think of what to say I'm reminded of something this woman's father (the one who was murdered) said to me once. One night when he had enjoyed his beer, he told me his life story. The short version is, it wasn't pretty. That life dealt him a continual series of blows and nasty surprises is simply insulting in how it understates the facts. As I listen to mother tell me about her life over the past 50 days, moving from shelter to shelter, cleaning things on her own, her aching back, I hear the voice of the father who buried his daughter over and over in my head.
"My ancestors must have done something pretty awful for me to have this kind of a life," he said to me. That night as he drank he repeated those words over and over, sometimes blaming his ancestors, sometimes hoping his life's difficulties were atonement enough. Does mother, this woman here telling me about the two waves colliding into her car, who also buried her daughter, who rebuilt her home only to have it damaged again seven months later, does she believe she's atoning for her ancestors' sins, too?
This day, hearing this story from mother, I cried with her. Enough with keeping up my professional facade. I cried for mother standing in front of me. I cried for her daughter who took her own life. I cried for the woman I never met who was murdered. I cried for her father. I cried for those who are trapped by karma. I cried over stupid Japanese and English sayings about the "power of three", none of which were helpful in alleviating mother's pain. I cried for the fact I simply can no longer seem to find the right words when they are most needed. I can only sincerely hope my tears with mother that day were enough to convey how very, very, very sorry I am for what she had to endure.
May 8th marked the anniversary of the 41st birthday of a woman I never met. It also marked the 5th anniversary, if I can call it that, of her murder. I worked with her family for years as their interpreter as they struggled through the US justice system that found and imprisoned the man that murdered their daughter, niece, cousin and friend. To date, it is still one of the most difficult assignments I've ever worked on. To date, the family still grieves.
As May 8th neared I thought more and more about this woman. What would she be like if she were still alive? What would she be doing? All this was brought full circle as I stood and listened to a mother talk about the work she needed done on her house.
This elderly woman was at home drying her hair when her husband called out to her that he saw black water in front of their home. By then the earthquake had shaken their home but as they were both safe, she went on with her day. They live far enough inland, several kilometers from the Port of Ofunato, that they were among the many who never expected a tsunami to ever come to their neighborhood, street, yard and home.
She ran into the room where her husband lay. He no longer has use of his legs so she propped him up the best she could and ran out of the house, away from the street towards the back of their home thinking she would drive them to safety. Outside she saw two neighbors and they helped her get her husband into the car. They too jumped in. Then they saw the second wave. Their homes are 20 meters away from the river bank. The river runs a good 10 plus meters below the bank. The tsunami pushed up the river several kilometers inland and overflowed down the bank and onto the street. The four people in the car now had two waves to escape from. One wave was in front of their home, and the overflow from the other direction. The two waves collided and all four were soon engulfed in water as they sat in the car. Their car wouldn't start. Other cars nearby without occupants began to float away. The weight of the four in the elder couple's car kept their car in place. They sat there as the car filled with water.
After 30 minutes or so, the waves started to recede. Once the water went down from the floorboard, the elderly woman (whom I keep calling "mother") started the car and drove to high ground. I listen to this thinking how lucky she, her husband and her two neighbors are. Then came the real story.
"We just spent two million yen on this house," she says.
"Oh, really? What did you have done?" I ask, thinking the question is innocent enough to be safe as well as respectfully curious.
"We used to have two stories," mother replies. My gut tells me I have just made a huge error in asking for details.
"We had a fire last August," she continues and chokes up. I curse to myself.
"Our daughter committed suicide and the upstairs caught fire." She's openly crying now. I am silently verbally berating myself every way I know how.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"We spent another one million yen on her funeral." Of course they did.
"I was so looking forward to spring," she says. Of course she was. Her daughter's suicide, the long winter and the spring that follows. Who woulnd't look forward to new buds and rebirth?
"And then this. I just don't believe it." She cries again.
It's at this point I'm reminded of two things simultaneously. One is a Japanese saying "What happens twice, happens three time." I equate it to the saying I've heard in the US, "things happen in threes." There's also another Japanese saying which literally translated goes "the third time makes you honest" which I equate to "third time's a charm."
I'm standing in front of mother looking for the right words. The idea of good and bad happening in threes is tempting to say but one misstep and I could end up implying there's another hardship yet to come.
While I'm trying to think of what to say I'm reminded of something this woman's father (the one who was murdered) said to me once. One night when he had enjoyed his beer, he told me his life story. The short version is, it wasn't pretty. That life dealt him a continual series of blows and nasty surprises is simply insulting in how it understates the facts. As I listen to mother tell me about her life over the past 50 days, moving from shelter to shelter, cleaning things on her own, her aching back, I hear the voice of the father who buried his daughter over and over in my head.
"My ancestors must have done something pretty awful for me to have this kind of a life," he said to me. That night as he drank he repeated those words over and over, sometimes blaming his ancestors, sometimes hoping his life's difficulties were atonement enough. Does mother, this woman here telling me about the two waves colliding into her car, who also buried her daughter, who rebuilt her home only to have it damaged again seven months later, does she believe she's atoning for her ancestors' sins, too?
This day, hearing this story from mother, I cried with her. Enough with keeping up my professional facade. I cried for mother standing in front of me. I cried for her daughter who took her own life. I cried for the woman I never met who was murdered. I cried for her father. I cried for those who are trapped by karma. I cried over stupid Japanese and English sayings about the "power of three", none of which were helpful in alleviating mother's pain. I cried for the fact I simply can no longer seem to find the right words when they are most needed. I can only sincerely hope my tears with mother that day were enough to convey how very, very, very sorry I am for what she had to endure.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
"Your husband is a brave man."
Last night I was invited to the city council official's home for a cookout. I was the token gaijin (foreigner) invited because I can represent the volunteer group here in Ofunato and Rikuzentakata and because I speak Japanese. People kept coming and going all evening and between the food and liquor, everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves in true Japanese style. I was asked questions about the group, my life back home, my company and family. When I pulled out my phone and showed photos of my husband and son, people gathered around practically gawking. Then the questions started.
"How does your husband feel about you being here?"
"Your son has long hair!"
Young women asked if my son was seeing anyone saying, "he's so handsome!" I smiled and said I'm proud to be his mother.
The questions inevitably reverted back to my husband's comfort level with "letting you go" and in general, his comfort level knowing I was away for such a long time and in a volatile earthquake/tsunami/nuclear zone. I said things like "he's very supportive" and "he's used to me being away" and "he's a good man" and "I'm really lucky" and yet the questions didn't stop. The general consensus seemed to be a lack of understanding of how a man would let his wife "disappear" for such a long time especially into a potentially dangerous area. Finally, one man, slightly drunk blurted out "how does he really feel about you being here? I'd never let my wife do that." I paused. I have to answer appropriately. At the risk of stating a gross generalization there's a significant amount of truth to the fact Japanese men would not let their wives take off for two months into an area that has known dangers. I had to give my husband credit without making him sound like a demigod.
"He's a good man," I said. "He said he would let me go to Japan on one condition. I had to go home." With no breaks or pauses, everyone around the table started to talk at once.
"I thought so."
"I knew it."
"That makes sense."
"He put his foot down."
"Of course he'd say 'you have to come home'."
After this collective talking-over-each-other had died down, one man with a beer in his hand piped up and said what seemed to be on everyone's mind. "Your husband is a brave man."
"Yes, he is," I said. "I'm lucky to have such a man for a husband." People nodded, sipped their drinks and we moved on to the next subject content to know I have the proper appreciation for my husband.
"How does your husband feel about you being here?"
"Your son has long hair!"
Young women asked if my son was seeing anyone saying, "he's so handsome!" I smiled and said I'm proud to be his mother.
The questions inevitably reverted back to my husband's comfort level with "letting you go" and in general, his comfort level knowing I was away for such a long time and in a volatile earthquake/tsunami/nuclear zone. I said things like "he's very supportive" and "he's used to me being away" and "he's a good man" and "I'm really lucky" and yet the questions didn't stop. The general consensus seemed to be a lack of understanding of how a man would let his wife "disappear" for such a long time especially into a potentially dangerous area. Finally, one man, slightly drunk blurted out "how does he really feel about you being here? I'd never let my wife do that." I paused. I have to answer appropriately. At the risk of stating a gross generalization there's a significant amount of truth to the fact Japanese men would not let their wives take off for two months into an area that has known dangers. I had to give my husband credit without making him sound like a demigod.
"He's a good man," I said. "He said he would let me go to Japan on one condition. I had to go home." With no breaks or pauses, everyone around the table started to talk at once.
"I thought so."
"I knew it."
"That makes sense."
"He put his foot down."
"Of course he'd say 'you have to come home'."
After this collective talking-over-each-other had died down, one man with a beer in his hand piped up and said what seemed to be on everyone's mind. "Your husband is a brave man."
"Yes, he is," I said. "I'm lucky to have such a man for a husband." People nodded, sipped their drinks and we moved on to the next subject content to know I have the proper appreciation for my husband.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
"I knew this would happen."
Walking to an older woman's house today to schedule a date on when to begin working on her home (no land line, no cell phone) I was on one of my three cell phones and not really paying attention to my surroundings. I'm walking and talking and next thing I know a car pulls up beside me and a man gets out. I don't pay much attention except to notice soon after, I'm being followed. I keep walking, stopping here and there a few minutes at a time, and then continuing on my way hoping this signals to him I know he's there. He pulls back and then follows me again. I'm a bit annoyed, find this all a bit creepy but figure it's day time and I'm safe. I continue talking, and stop in the middle of a side walk. At this point he walks across the street, stops and faces me. Something in me snapped. I don't like this.
"Yes?" I say to him. He responds in English and starts repeating what it is I've been saying. Now I'm really annoyed. I ask the person on the phone to call me back and I decide to hash it out with this man. The guy on the phone laughs, asks if I'm alright and we agree to talk later tonight.
"I'm sorry," the mystery man says. "You were talking about ******" and to this, I say "yes, I was" back to him in English. The only way I describe what came next is to use the word "serious outpouring of guilt." I don't think this man wasn't mentally ill or had any issues that would affect my safety. He saw me, a foreigner in his town which he no longer lives in and must have felt I was the one safe person to tell. This is what I tell myself, at least.
He continues to tell me he knew this tsunami was coming, he knew it would be big, and stops just shy of saying he thinks he may have caused it. I listen, still a bit bothered by all this violation of my privacy but nod which he takes as encouragement to go on.
"I watch CNN. I read TIME. I saw what happened in Sumatra. I knew it was a matter of time," he says. He then says again, "I knew this would happen here." He goes on about how he thought the previous warnings were "people crying wolf" which made them ill-prepared, and discusses in great detail what could have been done better. He makes some good points but the barrage of information coming out of this man's mouth makes me think he has had literally no one to talk to for the past 50 days.
Bottom line, it is a bit creepy. I'm not sure what to make of any of this. We weave in and out between English and Japanese and he thanks me for what I'm doing here. I deflect and tell him I'm only doing what I can. He tells me he's sorry to bother me but thought it would be okay for me to tell me all this. There it is. What I thought earlier has just been confirmed. Somehow being foreign makes me okay to tell all this to. That much I'm okay with. I'm a sounding board that people will stop their cars and come after me for. Weird and odd. It's also very real. At least today it was real.
A most strange encounter.
"Yes?" I say to him. He responds in English and starts repeating what it is I've been saying. Now I'm really annoyed. I ask the person on the phone to call me back and I decide to hash it out with this man. The guy on the phone laughs, asks if I'm alright and we agree to talk later tonight.
"I'm sorry," the mystery man says. "You were talking about ******" and to this, I say "yes, I was" back to him in English. The only way I describe what came next is to use the word "serious outpouring of guilt." I don't think this man wasn't mentally ill or had any issues that would affect my safety. He saw me, a foreigner in his town which he no longer lives in and must have felt I was the one safe person to tell. This is what I tell myself, at least.
He continues to tell me he knew this tsunami was coming, he knew it would be big, and stops just shy of saying he thinks he may have caused it. I listen, still a bit bothered by all this violation of my privacy but nod which he takes as encouragement to go on.
"I watch CNN. I read TIME. I saw what happened in Sumatra. I knew it was a matter of time," he says. He then says again, "I knew this would happen here." He goes on about how he thought the previous warnings were "people crying wolf" which made them ill-prepared, and discusses in great detail what could have been done better. He makes some good points but the barrage of information coming out of this man's mouth makes me think he has had literally no one to talk to for the past 50 days.
Bottom line, it is a bit creepy. I'm not sure what to make of any of this. We weave in and out between English and Japanese and he thanks me for what I'm doing here. I deflect and tell him I'm only doing what I can. He tells me he's sorry to bother me but thought it would be okay for me to tell me all this. There it is. What I thought earlier has just been confirmed. Somehow being foreign makes me okay to tell all this to. That much I'm okay with. I'm a sounding board that people will stop their cars and come after me for. Weird and odd. It's also very real. At least today it was real.
A most strange encounter.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Waiting for Sister
It was a small job. They hadn't gone into their home yet since the tsunami partly out of fear, partly out of dread. They wanted some help in looking through their things--not valuables necessarily. My take on this was they wanted company. They didn't want to be alone when they went back home for the first time.
I stood in the doorway trying to stay out of the way of the younger ones hauling things down the steep and cluttered staircase. I glance at the floor of the genkan (the front entry way) totally covered with muck and gunk except for one pair of shoes. I take a photo just because they seem so out of place. They're polished, clean and placed neatly in the corner as if they're waiting to be worn.
More youngsters go up and down the stairs. More stuff gets taken outside into the road for the family to sort through. I continue to stand in the doorway just sort of watching, making sure I'm not needed, fielding calls on the dreaded "white phone." (More on the white phone in another posting.)
There are three women who are from this house. A youngish woman and her teenage daughter and the mother. Three generations of women. I talk to the young woman making sure we're doing what she wants, who suggests we talk to "mother" and together we talk to the matron of the family to get her input.
Mother sees me, bows, thanks me profusely and we exchange gratitude, compliments and general goodwill. Out of the blue she changes the subject. "See these shoes?" she says. I nod. "They belong to my oldest daughter." She chokes up. I get it now. They're missing a family member.
The younger daughter, the one I'd been speaking to earlier says, "Mother said to put these shoes out for sister. We're waiting for her. These shoes are so she'll know to come home."
What do I say to this? Seriously. What do I say to this? I just looked down, fought back tears (and failed) and then when I finally looked back up, nodded to mother.
I stood in the doorway trying to stay out of the way of the younger ones hauling things down the steep and cluttered staircase. I glance at the floor of the genkan (the front entry way) totally covered with muck and gunk except for one pair of shoes. I take a photo just because they seem so out of place. They're polished, clean and placed neatly in the corner as if they're waiting to be worn.
More youngsters go up and down the stairs. More stuff gets taken outside into the road for the family to sort through. I continue to stand in the doorway just sort of watching, making sure I'm not needed, fielding calls on the dreaded "white phone." (More on the white phone in another posting.)
There are three women who are from this house. A youngish woman and her teenage daughter and the mother. Three generations of women. I talk to the young woman making sure we're doing what she wants, who suggests we talk to "mother" and together we talk to the matron of the family to get her input.
Mother sees me, bows, thanks me profusely and we exchange gratitude, compliments and general goodwill. Out of the blue she changes the subject. "See these shoes?" she says. I nod. "They belong to my oldest daughter." She chokes up. I get it now. They're missing a family member.
The younger daughter, the one I'd been speaking to earlier says, "Mother said to put these shoes out for sister. We're waiting for her. These shoes are so she'll know to come home."
What do I say to this? Seriously. What do I say to this? I just looked down, fought back tears (and failed) and then when I finally looked back up, nodded to mother.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Before and After
I want to give you a tangible example of something we've done here. Myself included, of course. This is a photo (taken by an All Hands staff member) of a home we cleaned out before we started.
This is after. The same house.
This is a bunch of us outside the home having a strategy meeting.
The owner if this building is the man in red. On a different note, the city has come through with heavy machinery and cleared up all of the piles of rubble in front of the houses on both sides of the street. It's slow-going. They go about 10 meters per day. There's that much to remove.
See the house on the right side of the road three down from us? The tannish/brownish house? This is another house that the group worked on. The son of the family, a man in his 30s was in the house when the first wave hit. He ran upstairs and waited for the water to recede and when it did, he ran down and fled to safety, higher ground to the far right of the photo (out of the picture). Imagine being in your home when the wave hit. The man in red, the owner of the home in this photo did the same thing. He waited out the tsunami on the second floor. What must go through someone's mind when faced with a real-life life or death situation like that? For that, I'll muck out houses and interpret stories that make me cry. Bring it on.
This is after. The same house.
This is a bunch of us outside the home having a strategy meeting.
The owner if this building is the man in red. On a different note, the city has come through with heavy machinery and cleared up all of the piles of rubble in front of the houses on both sides of the street. It's slow-going. They go about 10 meters per day. There's that much to remove.
See the house on the right side of the road three down from us? The tannish/brownish house? This is another house that the group worked on. The son of the family, a man in his 30s was in the house when the first wave hit. He ran upstairs and waited for the water to recede and when it did, he ran down and fled to safety, higher ground to the far right of the photo (out of the picture). Imagine being in your home when the wave hit. The man in red, the owner of the home in this photo did the same thing. He waited out the tsunami on the second floor. What must go through someone's mind when faced with a real-life life or death situation like that? For that, I'll muck out houses and interpret stories that make me cry. Bring it on.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Laryngitis: Literally and Figuratively
Well, it's happened. The stress, or perhaps the germs of the twenty-plus others I share a room with every night has caught up with me. I've lost my voice. Laryngitis? Strep throat? Just a bad cold? It really doesn't matter. I'm hoarse and sound like a frog trying to sing. It's really that bad.
Which then got me thinking of the irony of all this. I'm an interpreter. No voice? I don't work. It's that simple. It's on me to recover as quickly as possible and I have no doubt I'll bounce back. I'm not worried about that. Take this idea of an interpreter without a voice one step further. No interpreter (if I were the sole interpreter) means no words. No words means no communication (unless they revert to miming their words to get the point across).
This concept of "no words" has been something I've struggled with from day one here. I'm not someone who struggles with not finding the right words. Words make up my business and have for over twenty years. I know how to make myself clear. I know how to get my point across. Or, so I thought. Since being here, I have found myself with what I'll call "figurative laryngitis." I've lost the ability to find the right words. I have use the same words like "it's intense" or "catastrophic devastation" over and over again. Perhaps I need to start carrying a thesaurus with me? I feel stuck not being able to find the right words to properly describe what I'm seeing, feeling or hearing.
So, as I lay around taking all sorts of medication and hoping for a quick recovery, I'm going to spend the day looking for words to describe what I'm going through. I actually have time today. I can't speak and so I'm really not much good to anyone. Add to this, I'm probably a walking Petri dish of germs, contagious and all, so staying away from people would be a good thing today. This gives me time to reflect, so I will.
Oh. That walk I said I would be taking today? I won't be.
Which then got me thinking of the irony of all this. I'm an interpreter. No voice? I don't work. It's that simple. It's on me to recover as quickly as possible and I have no doubt I'll bounce back. I'm not worried about that. Take this idea of an interpreter without a voice one step further. No interpreter (if I were the sole interpreter) means no words. No words means no communication (unless they revert to miming their words to get the point across).
This concept of "no words" has been something I've struggled with from day one here. I'm not someone who struggles with not finding the right words. Words make up my business and have for over twenty years. I know how to make myself clear. I know how to get my point across. Or, so I thought. Since being here, I have found myself with what I'll call "figurative laryngitis." I've lost the ability to find the right words. I have use the same words like "it's intense" or "catastrophic devastation" over and over again. Perhaps I need to start carrying a thesaurus with me? I feel stuck not being able to find the right words to properly describe what I'm seeing, feeling or hearing.
So, as I lay around taking all sorts of medication and hoping for a quick recovery, I'm going to spend the day looking for words to describe what I'm going through. I actually have time today. I can't speak and so I'm really not much good to anyone. Add to this, I'm probably a walking Petri dish of germs, contagious and all, so staying away from people would be a good thing today. This gives me time to reflect, so I will.
Oh. That walk I said I would be taking today? I won't be.
The power of people
I have the feeling "power to the people" and possibly even "power of the people" is copyrighted so I'm so I'm going with "the power of people." To be more specific, I'm referring to numbers. To be more specific, I'm talking about the number of volunteers. In the past two days, there has been a huge spike in the number of people who are here working. To be precise, there are 70 people here.
Seventy people can do a lot. During the past two days, there have been five teams working all around Ofunato and Rikuzentakata. The teams range from four to twenty people. The largest team is working on one of the campuses of Rikuzentakata High School where there are multiple buildings that needed to be cleaned out. One of the two gyms with a floor covered in an inch and a half of mud and then debris was almost completely cleaned out today. That's good stuff!
Other teams are cleaning out an old traditional inn, a home with a large antique-style vault (a kura), an apartment complex and individual homes that need mucking and gutting. A lot of work, good work at that, is being done. There is absolutely power in numbers and power in how much a large number of people can do.
Tomorrow I'm going to walk around town and pictures of things I want to share with you. It will be another posting but of a different nature. Key word being "nature."
How's that for a teaser line?
Seventy people can do a lot. During the past two days, there have been five teams working all around Ofunato and Rikuzentakata. The teams range from four to twenty people. The largest team is working on one of the campuses of Rikuzentakata High School where there are multiple buildings that needed to be cleaned out. One of the two gyms with a floor covered in an inch and a half of mud and then debris was almost completely cleaned out today. That's good stuff!
Other teams are cleaning out an old traditional inn, a home with a large antique-style vault (a kura), an apartment complex and individual homes that need mucking and gutting. A lot of work, good work at that, is being done. There is absolutely power in numbers and power in how much a large number of people can do.
Tomorrow I'm going to walk around town and pictures of things I want to share with you. It will be another posting but of a different nature. Key word being "nature."
How's that for a teaser line?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Did I fail?
I leave Tokyo today to go back up to Iwate. I was given an extra day here which I spent mostly in the apartment I'm staying in (thanks to dear friends) doing nothing. This is unusual for me--I never do nothing in Tokyo--but this time there was a reason. I had one thing I wanted to do before I left Tokyo. I wanted a meltdown. Barring that, I would settle for a really good cry. Neither had come as of yesterday so I stayed indoors and waited.
It didn't come. I'm not sure what's going on. I've certainly had teary moments. I've certainly cried. I've certainly choked up multiple times. I have not cried, however, enough to feel like I let any of my pent-up emotions out in any real way.
I tried my usual tricks. I have several songs I listen to that always make me cry. I listened to them, and sure enough, tears. But then, they fizzled. (Tears fizzle?) I stopped crying. Nothing else came. I read several other documents I have stored for just such an occasion, of course, which also always make me cry. More tears. Which also eventually fizzle. What's going on? Where's all that emotion I needed to let out? Why won't it come out? Being verbally constipated is one thing. (I'm having serious difficulty finding the words to describe what I see up in Iwate. I blog about this in my other blog: www.whereisgeorgeclooney.com.) I'm now emotionally constipated, too?
Which also scares me a bit because while I don't know how much I have in me that I need to let out (how do I quantify emotions?) I know it's in there, in me. One of my main goals was to release a lot of this stored-up emotional angst, these emotions I couldn't show openly until I was here in Tokyo. My friends here would let me do this. They would let me just sit and cry.
My concern is I'm going to get back up there not having let this out to my satisfaction and there will be a point where I do lose it. Crying here was meant to avoid that. Maybe I'm still running on adrenaline? Maybe I won't really feel like I completely let go until I'm back down for good? Any last minute suggestions? I have a little over four hours until I leave.
It didn't come. I'm not sure what's going on. I've certainly had teary moments. I've certainly cried. I've certainly choked up multiple times. I have not cried, however, enough to feel like I let any of my pent-up emotions out in any real way.
I tried my usual tricks. I have several songs I listen to that always make me cry. I listened to them, and sure enough, tears. But then, they fizzled. (Tears fizzle?) I stopped crying. Nothing else came. I read several other documents I have stored for just such an occasion, of course, which also always make me cry. More tears. Which also eventually fizzle. What's going on? Where's all that emotion I needed to let out? Why won't it come out? Being verbally constipated is one thing. (I'm having serious difficulty finding the words to describe what I see up in Iwate. I blog about this in my other blog: www.whereisgeorgeclooney.com.) I'm now emotionally constipated, too?
Which also scares me a bit because while I don't know how much I have in me that I need to let out (how do I quantify emotions?) I know it's in there, in me. One of my main goals was to release a lot of this stored-up emotional angst, these emotions I couldn't show openly until I was here in Tokyo. My friends here would let me do this. They would let me just sit and cry.
My concern is I'm going to get back up there not having let this out to my satisfaction and there will be a point where I do lose it. Crying here was meant to avoid that. Maybe I'm still running on adrenaline? Maybe I won't really feel like I completely let go until I'm back down for good? Any last minute suggestions? I have a little over four hours until I leave.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Something personal
I'm a bit fried tonight. I'm not exactly sure why but I'm beat. Maybe it's the sleeping-on-concrete that's getting to me. I'm not quite sure.
All this to say, I honestly don't have a story for you tonight from people I've spoken to recently but I do have a story from me. It's not earth-shattering news or anything except to say I'm giving you a heads up.
Tomorrow is my two week mark. I've found I have a pattern in my moods and my tolerance for holding things in. I have four days where I'm fine and then I follow that with a meltdown day. Today is day four. I'm scheduled for a meltdown tomorrow.
I've felt it coming on all day. I've fought back tears multiple times and have been okay not breaking down in public. I'm not sure I can do that tomorrow. My heads up is essentially to say I probably won't be writing much tomorrow--I'll need another night where I walk around and cry--or I'll unload onto all of you in a way I can't predict quite yet.
I do have a story. It's one of those moments I had to hold back and not breakdown. There are three women from the community we've spoken to over the past several days who have offered to help with the cooking. We will have 20 people staying in one of the new bases (which I'll move into tomorrow) and we need someone to help cook dinner. This is meant to be a paid part-time position but these women said they would be willing to volunteer their time. Their exact words were "we're volunteering so you can volunteer." Hold back sob, hold back sob, hold back sob.
Then one of the women asks how we're going to bathe. We say we aren't sure yet (buckets, probably?) as there's no shower facility in the building or hot water. One of the women says she could offer her bath for us five nights a week. I almost lose it. Dirty, smelly volunteers, many of whom are foreign, walking in and out of a stranger's home five nights a week (in shifts, of course)? This is quite an offer. People are good. I'm reminded of that everyday.
All this to say, I honestly don't have a story for you tonight from people I've spoken to recently but I do have a story from me. It's not earth-shattering news or anything except to say I'm giving you a heads up.
Tomorrow is my two week mark. I've found I have a pattern in my moods and my tolerance for holding things in. I have four days where I'm fine and then I follow that with a meltdown day. Today is day four. I'm scheduled for a meltdown tomorrow.
I've felt it coming on all day. I've fought back tears multiple times and have been okay not breaking down in public. I'm not sure I can do that tomorrow. My heads up is essentially to say I probably won't be writing much tomorrow--I'll need another night where I walk around and cry--or I'll unload onto all of you in a way I can't predict quite yet.
I do have a story. It's one of those moments I had to hold back and not breakdown. There are three women from the community we've spoken to over the past several days who have offered to help with the cooking. We will have 20 people staying in one of the new bases (which I'll move into tomorrow) and we need someone to help cook dinner. This is meant to be a paid part-time position but these women said they would be willing to volunteer their time. Their exact words were "we're volunteering so you can volunteer." Hold back sob, hold back sob, hold back sob.
Then one of the women asks how we're going to bathe. We say we aren't sure yet (buckets, probably?) as there's no shower facility in the building or hot water. One of the women says she could offer her bath for us five nights a week. I almost lose it. Dirty, smelly volunteers, many of whom are foreign, walking in and out of a stranger's home five nights a week (in shifts, of course)? This is quite an offer. People are good. I'm reminded of that everyday.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Rikuzentakata, again
We needed to go meet with a city hall official in Rikuzentakata today. We went to City Hall, or rather, the temporary City Hall which is essentially four long trailers made into offices. The original City Hall is damaged beyond repair.
As we were driving back towards our current base in Ofunato, we drove through what remains of Rikuzentakata. Again. I looked out the window to my left and sat it: Kenritsu Rikuzentakata Byoin. The main hospital in Rikuzentakata. It's a four-story structure, white on the outside, rectangular. It looks like a typical hospital. There's nothing special about this hospital except that all the windows on the first three floors are blown out. This is the hospital where the doctors, nurses and able-bodied people ran up to the roof to escape the tsunami. They had to leave behind those who couldn't escape in order to save themselves. They heard those die as they fled up to the fourth floor and onto the roof.
I can only imagine what they must have seen from the roof. It couldn't have been that far to the rising water below. Fear and guilt are two potent emotions to combine. Seeing the building I had read and heard so much about brought it back all over again. This sucks.
There are two other apartment buildings that I look at every time we go to Rikuzentakata. These two five-story apartment buildings stand one in front of the other, the first one being closer to the ocean. All of the windows on both buildings are blown out for first four floors. I can see through the first building to the second one behind. This means the wave was four stories high and powerful enough to blow through windows, a hall way, another apartment on the other side of the hall way, then go into another building and wreak the same damage all over again.
It's a quiet hell. There's no fire, burning bodies, pain, blood, screaming and devil-like creatures as I've seen in artwork in museums and books. This is an entirely different kind of hell. It's quiet. There's no one around. It's mountains of rubble everywhere I look. Pile after pile of cars, splintered wood, and everything you can imagine inside.
Then as I we're driving, I see it. Someone put a statue of a Buddha on the side of the road. This came from someone's home. Artifacts dot the roadside here and there and I'm at a loss for words all over again.
As we were driving back towards our current base in Ofunato, we drove through what remains of Rikuzentakata. Again. I looked out the window to my left and sat it: Kenritsu Rikuzentakata Byoin. The main hospital in Rikuzentakata. It's a four-story structure, white on the outside, rectangular. It looks like a typical hospital. There's nothing special about this hospital except that all the windows on the first three floors are blown out. This is the hospital where the doctors, nurses and able-bodied people ran up to the roof to escape the tsunami. They had to leave behind those who couldn't escape in order to save themselves. They heard those die as they fled up to the fourth floor and onto the roof.
I can only imagine what they must have seen from the roof. It couldn't have been that far to the rising water below. Fear and guilt are two potent emotions to combine. Seeing the building I had read and heard so much about brought it back all over again. This sucks.
There are two other apartment buildings that I look at every time we go to Rikuzentakata. These two five-story apartment buildings stand one in front of the other, the first one being closer to the ocean. All of the windows on both buildings are blown out for first four floors. I can see through the first building to the second one behind. This means the wave was four stories high and powerful enough to blow through windows, a hall way, another apartment on the other side of the hall way, then go into another building and wreak the same damage all over again.
It's a quiet hell. There's no fire, burning bodies, pain, blood, screaming and devil-like creatures as I've seen in artwork in museums and books. This is an entirely different kind of hell. It's quiet. There's no one around. It's mountains of rubble everywhere I look. Pile after pile of cars, splintered wood, and everything you can imagine inside.
Then as I we're driving, I see it. Someone put a statue of a Buddha on the side of the road. This came from someone's home. Artifacts dot the roadside here and there and I'm at a loss for words all over again.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Everywhere I look....
This is what I see everyday. Note the boat. This is over half a mile inland. It just breaks my heart. I didn't let anyone see me take this photo. I meant what I said when I wrote I won't capitalize on their pain.
Friday, April 8, 2011
"You don't get to cry"
Evidently I'm human. Evidently I can't go a whole week shutting out my emotions and being strictly professional. Evidently, all this comes at a price.
If I may digress (already?) just for a moment. The volunteers here are going to be split into two groups. One will work in Ofunato and the other in Rikuzentakata. At the risk of repeating myself, Rikuzentakata essentially doesn't exist anymore. Ofunato still has vibrant business and residential districts that remain. Both are port cities and Ofunato's port was destroyed.
The teams will do different things in the towns. As Rikuzentakata has so much more need the scale of the assignments will be larger. The middle school and high school have been shut down there. One of our proposals is to get into the high school to clean out the entire first floor so kids can go back to school. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
So, we were at our new "base camp" (a campground) in Rikuzentakata yesterday talking things over with the city council member (whose house was destroyed so is now living at the campground which is also operating as a shelter) and the manager of the campground. At the end of our discussion, the camp manager said he wanted to show us something. We drove up to a perch, a lookout of sorts and got out. He asked us a climb up a small hill to another overlook. From here, we could see across the bay into Rikuzentakata. Let me explain. The campground is on a peninsula between Ofunato and Rikuzentakata. Ofunato is north of Rikuzentakata and is a larger town. The peninsula was cut off and made into an island when the tsunami hit Rikuzentakata but the Self Defense Forces built roads and a make-shift bridge to connect the peninsula (now an island) back onto the mainland. It's from the highest point of this peninsula/island that we looked back across the bay into Rikuzentakata.
The manager said, "I stood here and watched the tsunami hit." Just like that I felt the tears coming. I did my "control, control" pep talk in my head but when he said, "when the water that was receding from the bay collided with the incoming tsunami, it created this wall of water that looked 50m high and I saw that crash into the town" I lost it. I turned around and had to walk away. I gave myself a few minutes to regain my composure and came back to repeat what he said.
As we're driving down the hill back down into the campground, the manager says, "I have a something to tell you." The team leader asks what it is and the manager says, "you don't get to cry." He then went onto to explain the people there don't have "room" to deal with their emotions and for us (he meant me, of course) to lose it is not okay. Touche. Note to self: go back to "control, control" and this time make it stick. I'm not exactly sure how that's going to work but I've been given a specific task, at least in front of those at this shelter. No tears. They watched a wave the size of a building wash out their town in six minutes. They're still missing over 1,000 people and a tenth of their population is either dead or missing. For their pain, I get to control my emotions. My to do list just got longer.
If I may digress (already?) just for a moment. The volunteers here are going to be split into two groups. One will work in Ofunato and the other in Rikuzentakata. At the risk of repeating myself, Rikuzentakata essentially doesn't exist anymore. Ofunato still has vibrant business and residential districts that remain. Both are port cities and Ofunato's port was destroyed.
The teams will do different things in the towns. As Rikuzentakata has so much more need the scale of the assignments will be larger. The middle school and high school have been shut down there. One of our proposals is to get into the high school to clean out the entire first floor so kids can go back to school. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
So, we were at our new "base camp" (a campground) in Rikuzentakata yesterday talking things over with the city council member (whose house was destroyed so is now living at the campground which is also operating as a shelter) and the manager of the campground. At the end of our discussion, the camp manager said he wanted to show us something. We drove up to a perch, a lookout of sorts and got out. He asked us a climb up a small hill to another overlook. From here, we could see across the bay into Rikuzentakata. Let me explain. The campground is on a peninsula between Ofunato and Rikuzentakata. Ofunato is north of Rikuzentakata and is a larger town. The peninsula was cut off and made into an island when the tsunami hit Rikuzentakata but the Self Defense Forces built roads and a make-shift bridge to connect the peninsula (now an island) back onto the mainland. It's from the highest point of this peninsula/island that we looked back across the bay into Rikuzentakata.
The manager said, "I stood here and watched the tsunami hit." Just like that I felt the tears coming. I did my "control, control" pep talk in my head but when he said, "when the water that was receding from the bay collided with the incoming tsunami, it created this wall of water that looked 50m high and I saw that crash into the town" I lost it. I turned around and had to walk away. I gave myself a few minutes to regain my composure and came back to repeat what he said.
As we're driving down the hill back down into the campground, the manager says, "I have a something to tell you." The team leader asks what it is and the manager says, "you don't get to cry." He then went onto to explain the people there don't have "room" to deal with their emotions and for us (he meant me, of course) to lose it is not okay. Touche. Note to self: go back to "control, control" and this time make it stick. I'm not exactly sure how that's going to work but I've been given a specific task, at least in front of those at this shelter. No tears. They watched a wave the size of a building wash out their town in six minutes. They're still missing over 1,000 people and a tenth of their population is either dead or missing. For their pain, I get to control my emotions. My to do list just got longer.
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