Calling in Sick
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
July 12, 1990
In Japan, employees who don't want to go to work, often kill their relatives. That is, they excuse themselves from work by calling in and saying that one of their relatives died and they must attend the funeral.
Shattered
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
September 20, 1990
I don't intend to say "the Japanese are weird" or "the American approach is wrong." Simply, there are differences between one culture and another. I've spent two years in Japan learning about the differences and discovering the similarities. Coming into contact with a different way of living, a different way of experiencing the world, a place where all your expectations of everyday life are shattered, makes you rethink your habits.
Money
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
July 25, 1991
A year ago, yen seemed like play money...large, colorful, and lacking the distinctive smell of a greenback, of money. Now dollars seem small and unreal. And dimes! They're miniscule!
Valentine Obligations
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
February 7, 1990
Judging from the shop displays, Valentine's Day is even bigger than Christmas here. All the clerks in Tokiwa departmen store were wearing red sweatshirts with "Valentine" emblazoned across the front. And the chocolates! It's as if 30 Lammes Candy stores had set up shopkeeping in the basement. The price of chocolate was enough to send me into the fish department instead. This is sushi/sashimi season because raw fish keeeps better in the cold.
Valentine's Day is celebrated Sadie Hawkins style with the girls giving the boys chocolate, not the other way around. Apparently the girls are happy with the opportunity to drop the mantle of Japanese femininity and to be able to express the desires of their hearts. All those repressed desires are a potent money-making force for the candy manufacturers.
Of course, every situation in Japan is defined by obligatory gestures. And the candy manufactureres have not let the opportunity to profit slip by lightly. Women are expected to give candy to every male they know. So they give cheaper offerings to the guys they feel obiged not to offend. Then the guys can spend their time guessing whether they received giri choco (obligation chocolate) or a real expression of love.
February 14, 1990
What a wonderful day this has been! First, I bought giri-choco (obligation chocolate) for everyone in the office and surprised their socks off. It was a lot of fun sneaking chocolate on people's desk and having them wonder who it came from. "A-re?" (What's that?)
Then I received a Christmas package from my former office mates in Austin. (Regardless of the address on my mail, about 3/4s of it gets delivered to my office rather than my apartment. I assume that the post office can't read the romaji, and simply deliver all foreign packages to me...the only foreigner.) The box of Russell Stover's chocolates disappeared in a flash.
Importing Racial Stereotypes
Posted by Jeanne Belisle Lombardo.
The essay which follows was added as a postscript to my review of Beloved. When it was published, I received many polite comments from Japanese colleagues, but as I had tried not to choose my words too carefully, and had endeavored to be direct, to this day I still wonder what the Japanese who read it thought of it. Since it was translated by a Japanese colleague of mine into Japanese, I could only hope that the reluctance to offend on the part of the Japanese had not contributed to a dilution of my comments.
Beppu Daigaku Tandai, 1989
The story in Beloved takes place in a past that some may think is just a painful chapter in American history, one that is now closed and best forgotten. Yet, the past is like the Hydra of Greek mythology. It cannot be killed but rears up to torment a society later. It's clear that in the U.S., adopting a policy of slavery set the stage for the tragic social problems and bitter strife which plague the country today, from rural, poor areas to the inner cities. Americans are now confronting the harsh consequences of what was begun over three humdred years ago.
Japan, as an increasingly prominent player in world affairs, is already being scrutinized in the West, and the more powerful Japan becomes economically, the more necessary it is to acquire an understanding of what motivates other peoples. Moreover, Japan is now experiencing its own influx of foreign students and workers in various fields. These people, though seemingly small in importance, act as little ambassadors to Japan, giving an impression of Westerners to the Japanese as well as conveying to their countries images of this society. The far ranging effects of just such a group's impressions can be seen in the controversy generated by the sale of the black Hanna and Sambo dolls last year. At one point, certain black leaders in the U.S. were calling on all blacks to boycott Japanese goods. Thus, it's no longer even just a question of what is morally right, though hopefully many will argue that that is the the most important issue here. It's also a question of good business.
Not long ago I was asked what I thought of the Japanese attidtude towrds blacks. Since I was asked, I will share this "white" woman's views of "black" people in a "yellow" people's land.
Returning to Austin
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
Tuesday May 21, 1991
After two years of solitariness and silence in which I've failed either to lose or find myself, I'm returning. I can no longer write "returning home" for I am home now.
Here I sit on a gloomy cold Spring day sorting out my feelings. I'm unconcerned with issues of coming and going. I am not simply traversing the physical space between here and there. It is instead an exchange of one life for another.
And I'm not simply realizing that this life, as does all life, ends. No I'm staring Death in the face, knowing exactly the moment when those bony fingers will reach out for me. I must say my goodbyes and goodbyes make me sad. I search for consolation in fantasies of the afterlife. And so I construct a paradise where words and ideas flow freely, where there is always a celebration of dance, theater and music...and where the streets are filled with libraries, book stores, familiar foods, and easy conversation.
I begin the dialogue with my selves across the water. At night I cannot sleep because it is your day.
My Japanese Venice
Posted by Jeanne Belisle Lombardo.
There was a time in 1989 when I considered moving from the teacher's housing on Daigaku Dori to a little shack of a place in East Beppu (Higashi Beppu). As its name suggests, this part of town was on the eastern edge of our modest city and boasted the last small train station before one hit the provincial capital of Oita 15 minutes further on. It rested in the shadow of Mount Takiyama where wild monkeys roamed begging for segments of oranges and insulting visitors from the trees. In fact, aside from residents of Higashi Beppu, the only reason to get off there was to visit the mountain park.
I called it a shack but it was really a small detached apartment of sorts rented out by a wizened but cheery couple. It had no bath but was right by a small public bath and at any rate there were the hot springs all around. Part of its appeal lay in the fact that it was right on some sort of canal leading, presumably, to the bay. The Anglo/American contingent called it the "Klong" after the canals of Bangkok. The sound of rushing water was ever present and the whole neighborhood had the feel of something prewar, or at least 1960's. It had been vacated by a young couple moving back to the states to get married and had all the required appliances and dishes, minimal but sufficient. It had the added attraction of having tatami mats in the two roooms, something our westernized teachers' apartments did not have. They were faded and yellowed, but still retained the springy comfort inherent in tatami.
I took the place for a short time and used it when my L.A. boyfriend came out on an ill-fated and unsuccessful attempt to seduce me back into a relationship. His first words when he saw it were, "This is a shithole." Though he returned to California after a mere nine days, I found that my past had stained it somehow and I let it go. But it remains a sweet image in my mind of the simple and uncluttered existence I just might have been able to achieve, naieve as it probably is to believe so.
Bon Odori
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
Friday, August 18, 1989
Attend school this morning from 09:00 to 12:00. This afternoon Tonai-sensei and his wife drive us to Bungo Takada where Tonai-sensei's wife's brother's family lives. (I think their name is Hayashi, but Tonai-sensei only refers to them by relationship and I'm never good at catching someone's name anyway, even in English, unless I see it written down first.)
The live in a large modern house in the middle of a rice field. After a feast of a dinner, they dress me up in a yukata and all of us go to the town square to participate in the bon odori. The entire town must be there. A stage is erected in the center of the square and the crowd circles the platform in dance...the Japanese equivalent of a conga line? Well without the physical contact.
Muddy Rice-Field Volleyball
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
I was fixing broken links and, while researching Oita-ken's Usa District, came across this little gem. Now this is an event I truly regret missing out on when I lived in Beppu-shi.
Muddy Rice-field Volleyball has been a major summer event in Sanko-mura Village since the first year of Heisei. Over 60 teams participate in this event. The quiet rice-field with yellow colored barley becomes a playground for the youth, rice-fields suddenly turn into tourist spots. This event is held on the first Sunday of June every year. The place is packed out with many photographers, gallery, and players in unconventional costumes. Sponsored by Chikuba-kai.
Rainy Days
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
In Texas, rain heralds the end of a hot, dry summer and the beginning of fall. The quality of these warm, rainy days always conjures memories of Japan. Today the rain was light and little more than a mist, just a dampness in the air, really. In Japan, on days like this, I'd open all the sliding doors and all the windows. The old tatami exuded the scent of hay. The paper in the fusuma softened. And I soon learned why Japanese envelopes were not gummed.
In Texas, a rainy day is an anomoly, a special gift from the gods. In Japan, rainy days were the norm. In the winter I sickened of gray, rainy days, of cold creeping into my bones. In the summer, I was maddened by mold and mildew, of clothes hung out to dry that never dried. There was no breath of air to be had; the very air smothered and oppressed.
Now back in the land of drought, I raise my face to the blessed rain.
Coming of Age Day
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
Monday, January 14, 2002
In Japan, the year you turn twenty marks the passage from youth to adulthood. Traditionally (rather since 1948 when it was instituted) it is a day for dressing up and going to your shrine to be presented as an adult. It is also a day for getting roaring drunk with your friends legally for the first time. The last trains are littered with drunken and sick revelers.
Most men wear modern suits. But women dress in in long-sleeved (furisode) kimono. The furisode can cost as much as a new car, and many young women now rent them. They also must go to a professional dresser who will help them put the kimono on and get their hair done.
Akamine-sensei's sister told me that when she came of age, she asked her parents to buy her an RX-7 rather than spend the money on a furisode. And they did.
Americans Against War
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
I've been glad to see anti-war posters in my neighborhood recently. So I thought I'd share them with you. I know no one who is for this war. Although my circle of friends is small (and you might guess I wouldn't hang out with warmongers anyway), I'm glad to see that there is no support in my neighborhood, either. In fact, not a single American flag is flying. After the 9/11 attacks, perhaps one house in ten flew flags, where none had flown them before. But now, not a single flag is raised. I hadn't noticed it until I went looking.
Culture Shock
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
That the United States began as a loose confederation of states is rarely remembered since states rights were trounced in the Civil War. But originally, these loosely united states had their own strong identities which were further eroded (some might say woven together) by the national highway system. Yet, despite the ubiquitous McDonalds, Holiday Inns, Wal-Marts and Starbucks, visiting another state can be like visiting another country, especially when you go to extremes of the East Coast or the West Coast from the Third Coast (as we Gulf states like to call ourselves).
I was born in California and grew up in the southwest, but I've lived in Austin almost 30 years. So my visit to San Francisco was filled, on the one hand, with a wonderful familiarity and on the other, with an intriguing foreigness. People there spoke with a "normal" accent--although I can't decide if it sounds normal to me because it's the Hollywood/broadcast TV standard, or because it's what I grew up with. Even after a lifetime in Austin, a Texas accent, or a southern accent sounds like an accent to me.
Break the Habit--Austin Unchained
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
One of the things I really love about Japan is how every town has its own distinctive products. In fact, Oita-ken's governor, Hiramatsu Morihiko, played on this tendency when hatching his plan for regional development, One Village, One Product.
Even without governmental cheerleading, every little town has its own sake, sembe, or o-kashi (confections, sweets)--always distinctively wrapped and on sale at the train station so you can load up on o-miyage (souvenirs) to present to friends, family, and coworkers when you return home.
Despite a strong national identity, or perhaps because of it, Japanese towns and villages continue to celebrate their regional specialties. In stark contrast, America, that great melting pot, seems determined to stamp out ethnic and regional differences. Did it start in the 1950s when the National Highway system tied us all together, and the Howard Johnson's and McDonald's sprang up ensuring that no matter where we went it would be just the same as where we came from? JQS was disappointed with his trip to Chicago last year. The area around Northeastern University had exactly the same stores as the area here around UT. "What's the point of going somewhere else, if it's just the same as here?"
Well Austin, especially South Austin, has always taken pride in it's local color. Tomorrow, local Austin retailers are promoting Austin Unchained in an attempt "to encourage Austinites to shop at locally owned stores and break the chain-store habit".
"I believe it's an incredible opportunity to pump millions into the local economy without doing much other than asking if the business is locally owned," said Steve Bercu, who heads the alliance. Bercu is also co-owner of BookPeople, a downtown bookstore. "We are supporting the businesses that add character to the city."
Spending more of that money at local stores instead of at chains means more profit stays in the community, Bercu said. And there is an intangible benefit of supporting local businesses.
"People want a unique environment in Austin. Much of the character comes from locally owned business. If people want to have those things, they have to patronize them. They can't exist in a vacuum," Bercu said. Locally owned businesses are under increasing pressure from a less-than-robust economy and the proliferation of national chain and big-box retailers.
"The economy is putting the squeeze on everybody," said Tim Hurst, who owns Movin' Easy Dancewear, with stores on West 30th Street and on RM 620 near Lakeline Mall. "There are less jobs for people. There are lower-paying jobs that people are getting, so they have less to spend. That puts pressure on them to go to the chains."
Tokara
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
Tuesday April 20, 2004
I went to see a taiko group, Tokara, who was giving a free performance at the Texas Union Theater today. It is a small troop, only four members, two American men and two Japanese women. They communicated such joy in their playing that I was absolutely enchanted. The beauty of taiko drumming is more than the rhythms; the players move like dancers. Are they dancers making their own music with their bodies, or are they musicians whose music cannot be contained to the confines of their instruments?
An elderly gentleman kept on about how the rhythm wasn't dance-able, that it was warlike and intimidating like Thor and his thunderbolts. My reaction was just the opposite. I felt pure, primal joy as the beat reverberated through my body, as if the gods were calling the universe to life.
Crossing Over
Posted by M Sinclair Stevens.
Tuesday July 17, 1990
I am fretful and pacing, as the details of our trip to Austin fall into place. Tonai-sensei offers me a ride to the airport; the last detail of the journey is complete.
Sunday July 22, 1990
At last, there is nothing left to do. Two large suitcases stand by the door, packed, checked, check again and locked, too heavy to be lifted. "God, what do you have in these bags? Bricks?"
"Well, not brick, but the tile cornice of the old house that once graced the vacant lot next to my apartment. And books. And two lacquer bowls that I received as New Year's gifts. And two teapots. And 5 pink frosted glass bowls for spring. And reams of handmade paper. And yukata. And hanten. And wooden toys. And uchiwa. And? Well, no clothes. Nothing practical. In short, only a year of my life."
I have sprayed the bath and toilet with bleach to prevent mildew. I have opened the fusuma so that the closets will air. I have cleaned out the refrigerator. I've washed and swept and dusted and thrown away and crossed everything off my mental lists. Now it's 10:51PM and less than twelve hours until Tonai-sensei will pick us up and we begin the journey back. But we cannot go back in time or place. All has moved forward in our absence.
Who will meet us at the airport? Where will I stay? How will I get around town? I cannot begin to ask myself these questions. Has a year away taught me not to fret. No. It is just that the distance between here and there is unbreachable. Here is no urgency for the worries of that world.
