お名前: Reflections on names

I have always been fascinated by names. What do they mean? How do parents choose? How does someone just look like a Tom?

As a writer, I spend a lot of time picking out names for my characters. It isn’t just what sounds good or has the right meaning. There are rules, you know. You don’t want your characters getting confused because their names are too similar or they have too many of them (cough, cough Dostoyevsky).

But what about how/when a name is used? Have you ever stopped to think about it?

Before I moved to Japan, I had spent a little time studying the nuances of names in American culture. I noticed that in certain situations, last names were used rather than first names and vice versa. For example, when I played volleyball in high school, my coach called me by my last name. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it. However, over the years I started to notice that authority figures, like my coach or bosses, tended to use last names. Watch a cop show, any cop show, and you’ll see what I mean.

I think it’s a subconscious habit for the most part, but there might also be a logic behind how we use names. Those authority figures that use last names share certain aggressive and competitive characteristics. It has something to do with the power struggle between boss and employee or coach and player. But the use of first names, nicknames, and pet names can be just as telling. How we use names indicates our relationships with the people around us.

But in America, our system has broken down somewhat. Over the years our social etiquette has slowly fallen away so that we don’t understand the nuances of naming. Japan, on the other hand, has created a whole ceremony and suffix system around names. Just as you’d expect from some of the most polite people on the planet.

If you didn’t already know, in Japan, the last name or family name comes first, and the individual name comes second. This can be very confusing when a gaijin tries to give a self-introduction. Japanese people are aware that we give our first name then our family name, so if you switch it up and give your name Japanese style, things can get a little confusing.

As someone interested in names and how they are used, I found it fascinating that Japanese people always used my first name. They would usually attach –san or –sensei to it to make it polite but friends, acquaintances, and students would all call me by my first name. And it was the same for every other gaijin I met. This isn’t so weird for an American, and my first name is much easier to pronounce and remember in Japanese than my last, but it still goes against Japanese name etiquette. In Japan, individual names are reserved for close family and friends, everyone else should address you by your last name and an honorary suffix or sometimes job title.

American name customs used to be like this. It was polite to address someone as Mr., Mrs., or Miss and their last name until they told you, “Please, call me Tom.” Once you were on a first name basis, you had reached a more intimate level of acquaintance. But at some point, we stopped observing these social niceties and just started calling everyone by their first name like old pals. Well, not everyone. I still have teachers I can only address as Mrs. So and So. And there are others who just have an air about them that discourages any type of intimacy.

But Japan isn’t content to leave it as just first name or last. No, they have to add in an entire system of suffixes! –San is the most common and used as the default Mr., Mrs., or Miss, but there are a whole range of titles above and below that indicate the relationship between two people. And it can be very confusing.

I never mastered the Japanese naming customs. I tried to be polite and use the correct suffix or title when I knew it and, thankfully, everyone forgave me when I messed up. But being surrounded by such complex naming rituals made me think more about when and how we use names.

I can’t help but feel Japanese see the individual and their relationship to them more clearly since they have to choose the right suffix for each situation. That maybe that relationship is cherished more because it is acknowledged every time they say that person’s name.

I am glad American customs aren’t quite as rigid as Japanese ones, but it also makes me feel like maybe we lost something along the way.

ねぎ

The storm blew all the dust from the sky, leaving a perfect blue dome from horizon to horizon.  The morning is still cool, with a slight breeze, but it will be hot soon enough.  You turn from the main street.  The sound of the early morning commuters dies away quickly as the new direction leads your further and further from the thoroughfare.  Sandy fields stretch out on both sides of this narrow road.  The smell of damp earth and onions rises like heat from the ground to meet your approach.

Suddenly you are no longer standing on a road in rural Japan.  You are standing in Granny’s kitchen.  The smell is warm and inviting, just like the room.  The onion’s bite, the one that makes your eyes water if you get too close, has dissipated leaving that smell that always makes your mouth water and your heart feel at peace.  The smell of onions, carrots, potatoes, and meat combined in so many variations over the years. 

You can see her standing at the sink, her back to you as she washes dishes.  She hums the old Scottish tune that she has always hummed, the one she hums as she sews, as she cooks, and as she tucks you in at night. 

You take another deep breath, onions and damp earth.  Slowly you return to the quiet rural road between sandy fields.  The sun beams down from a clear sky, it’s warmth like a hand on your shoulders urging you to continue your journey.  You smile and start to hum that old Scottish tune.

赤ちゃん

I used to joke with Anata that if he wanted children that badly, he would have to help me steal a Japanese baby. I thought they were the cutest babies with their dark hair and big brown eyes. But more than that, they were much better behaved than American babies. I very rarely heard them cry or act out in public. I can’t remember one tantrum in my whole time there. My students were as genki as all children are, but they were respectful of adults and each other. Japanese children were just all around better behaved.

Now that Anata and I are expecting a child of our own, I have been thinking a lot about Japanese babies. There is a good chance my little one will have dark hair and dark eyes like my husband. But even if it has blue eyes and fair hair like me, I am more interested in how I can encourage my child not to throw fits in public, obsess over material things, and otherwise act like wild American children.

Before I go further, let me say that I don’t think American children are terrible. I honestly don’t have a lot of experience with them. However, I saw a big difference between Japanese and American kids. With such a difference in values and cultures, that isn’t a surprise. I liked what I saw in Japan better, that’s all. It felt more like what I wanted for my own children.

In Japan, I didn’t spend a whole lot of time with families. I was fortunate enough to be involved in my local community in Osaka and got to know some of the kids and families through events like Danjiri. I got to see them interact up close, but only a few times a year. But families are everywhere in Japan. No matter where I went, I was surrounded by children and parents.

I think that is what I noticed first - that outings were always done as a family. It was kind of refreshing. When I would visit the park or a monument on the weekends, I was sure to see dozens of couples with their young kids. I am assuming that, like here, as kids got older these family events became more special occasions than weekly adventures since I didn’t see a lot of older elementary kids out with their folks, but it seemed that, while the kids were young, spending time as a family was very important.

What kind of blew my mind was that the fathers seemed just as involved as the mothers. They would carry children (children in Japan are almost always carried or walk on their own, there weren’t a ton of strollers around), play with toddlers, and are otherwise completely present with their family at that moment. It seemed so different from the salaryman picture I had in my head of the workaholic Japanese dad.

I know Japan is a bit behind when it comes to gender equality. Most women feel pressured to quit their jobs when they start a family and won’t return to the workforce until their children are almost grown if at all. I can’t say I agree with this social construction, but I can say Japanese moms seem to be completely devoted to their child’s success and well-being. You just have to look at the crazy bento culture that has exploded all over the internet to see how much effort these women put into everything involving their children. It is an amazing expenditure of energy!

I am not going to be making cutesy cartoon bento for my child, but I appreciate the level of involvement Japanese parents appear to have in their child’s life. I think many of the things Japanese parents do creates a strong feeling of family unity that will help and support the child through growing up. It is a feeling that I hope I can foster in my own family.

But the behavior I admired in Japanese children came from more than just loving parents. It came from the values of Japanese society itself. Children didn’t have a ton of toys or gadgets. There’s simply not enough room in a tiny Japanese apartment or house. Many of the kids I saw made due with whatever they could find and a little imagination. Watching them play with sticks, stones, and other things scavenged from around the playground reminded me of my own upbringing. It is amazing what kids can come up with when they are left alone to imagine their own worlds and games. It is a valuable skill.

And as far as respect for elders and each other, that is the heart of Japanese culture. Thinking about others before you think about yourself is probably the most Japanese things I can think of. And it is astonishing how early children can do that. One of the greatest lessons I learned working with Japanese children is how much more young people are capable of.

When I think about the type of parent I want to be, the type of life I want to give my child, I find myself leaning more toward Japanese parenting styles. I am not saying the Japanese are perfect, no culture is, but I am drawn to certain aspects. Like how they encourage independence and accountability at a much younger age than Americans. How children are incorporated into every aspect of daily life rather than set aside in a crib or playpen while mommy and daddy do their adult stuff. Or how very young children are expected to understand how to act in a variety of social situations – they can run around like little oni all over the playground, but they must behave in stores and other grownup places.  

I know not all the things I like about Japanese culture and parenting will be easy to implement while living in the U.S. Independence is one of these. Japanese children run errands and travel to school all by themselves as early as first grade! In a country with almost no crime, that isn’t unthinkable. Here, however, it would never work. I also really appreciated Japanese minimalism, but since kids are pretty quick to pick up on the value of material things, that might not work out so well.

Anata and I still have a lot of decisions to make and parenting ideas to discuss before our little one comes. And I know there will be even more discussion once our bundle of joy arrives and everything we thought we were decided on gets thrown out the window. I do know that living in another country made it very clear to me that there is no one way to raise a child. Each culture has their own process, but there is no right answer. I need to find the process that works for my family and me.

The Next Hiroshima

I don’t usually do this, but let me get political for a moment. Nuclear war is no joke. I don’t think anyone is stupid enough to think it is. But the President of the United States is treating North Korea’s nuclear threat like silly juvenile boasts (or, you know, like his own bombastic, unrealistic rhetoric). His recent comments at the U.N. about totally annihilating North Korea could be applauded as America finally taking a tough stance on protecting ourselves and our allies. But I see them as an unnecessary escalation. Frankly, he’s playing with fire. While he may want to come off to the rest of the world as some kind of unpredictable leader, he is name calling and leveling threats at a leader we absolutely know for certain is unpredictable.

Many Americans are applauding his statement right now, but they haven’t actually lived in the shadow of North Korea or seen the devastation of an atomic detonation on their soil. My heart goes out to the citizens of Japan and our other Asian allies caught in the crosshairs.

When I lived in Osaka, my sharehouse was very close to Korea Town. Japan has a pretty terrible track record when it comes to integrating and accepting other Asian nationals into their country. I’m not going to go into detail, but I’m also not going to sweep it under the rug. Koreans and other Asians are not always treated well in Japan. Even if they have been there for generations. It is a thing. One I wish Japan would be a little quicker at recognizing and correcting, but what can you do. Anyway, I lived very close to Korea Town, so I got to see a little bit of the good and bad.

For the most part, my Japanese friends and neighbors had a great relationship with Korean friends and neighbors. They shared food, culture, and camaraderie. The families of most of the Koreans I met had been in Japan since WWII, so, aside from ancestry, they were pretty much Japanese. Kind of like Italian Americans or other ethnic groups that have been in this country long enough to blend their native culture with our own.

While things seemed great on the surface, though, I found out this acceptance also came with a lot of fear. Fear of North Korea. I even found out that the reason Otose bought the house I was living in was because she found out the previous owners were North Korean Spies! She never wanted people like that living near her again, so she bought up the whole corner of the block. Now whether the previous owners were actually spies or not, this type of fear was palpable all over Japan. So while my Japanese friends tolerated and in many cases genuinely cared about their Korean neighbors, it seemed there was always a seed of doubt waiting to sprout. Living in the shadow of North Korea had made Japan fearful and suspicious.

I didn’t understand any of this when I arrived. How could I? America hasn’t seen a war on home soil since the Civil War. We have been threatened and afraid, but even the Cold War was over before I was born. Terrorists managed to attack us at home on September 11^th, but even that couldn’t instill overwhelming fear of foreign attack in my generation. Until I moved to Japan, I never worried too much about international politics much less the very real possibility that the country I was calling home at the time would be attacked. After a few months in Japan, North Korea became very scary.

Now that I have returned to the U.S., my fear of North Korea hasn’t abated. I am not afraid that they will fire a missile at America. They don’t really need to. There are plenty of closer targets. Several missiles have already been fired over the island of Hokkaido. My friends in Osaka and Wakayama are far from there, but fear spreads quickly. I have seen videos and heard stories of preparedness drills that look so much like something out of the Cold War era it is heartbreaking. I am afraid for my friends. I am afraid for all of our allies in the region. I am afraid for our world.

WWII was a brutal time for everyone. There were atrocities committed on all sides. Perhaps the worst, though, were the nuclear bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The aftermath of these explosions were enough to make the world say, “yep, we crossed a line.” Like many, I thought, surely, once would be enough.

I think back to my brief visit to Hiroshima. The area around the Peace Park was eerily quiet, even for Japan. It’s like even the birds knew the sadness that burned out building represented and refrained from singing. There was a group near the monument talking to guests and handing out information about the survivors, trying to educate visitors. Trying to keep history from repeating itself. I didn’t understand their fervor at the time. I listened to their stories. I cried. I soaked up the history and sadness of the place. But I didn’t understand their urgency.

I never thought nuclear missiles would be a legitimate threat to my friends and family. I never thought WWIII would be a valid fear in my lifetime. But it seems they knew it would.

山

The mountains rise, dark green against an ash grey sky.  Severing the horizon like the well-worn teeth of an ancient beast.  Wisps of clouds curl along the peaks, flowing down the valleys into the village below like ghostly rivers.  They rise like smoke from the clearings, usually invisible on the heavily forested slopes.  Cold fires tended by unseen forces.

Japanese Ghost Stories

I have always loved ghost stories. The mysterious. The unexplained. The macabre. I have always been drawn to it.

I went through a slasher phase in high school, but I never found the same haunting fascination with gore. To be honest, I find slasher movies dull. They rely on gimmicks, not real fear.

A classic like Psycho, though… It gets under your skin. It doesn’t rely on buckets of fake blood or cutting edge CGI. No, it terrifies you through suggestion. That creepy feeling that makes the skin on the back of your neck stand up and you shiver involuntarily. Even years later, sitting in my sunny living room, it gets me.

My whole life I have been chasing ghosts. Not literally. Though I do believe they exist and I never pass up an opportunity for a Ghost Tour. But ghosts, hauntings, monsters, the supernatural and macabre – I hunt down all the stories. Because I think the things that frighten us are also a mirror into our cultural psyche. We tell children scary stories to keep them safe. But these stories also reveal our values, fears, and deepest desires.

Which is why I found Japanese ghost stories so very interesting. I do not claim to be an expert on yokai, the Japanese term that encompasses ghosts, bogey men, and most things that go bump in the night. There are just some observations I made as I wandered through Japanese folklore and scary stories.

Every culture has its ghouls and goblins. Japan is no different. Their literature, art, and culture are filled with all kinds of supernatural beings. Maybe more than most, honestly. The blending of Shinto (a nature based religion) and Buddhism (a religion with a crowded pantheon) gave rise to a lot of baddies. Quite a few on the harmless/helpful spectrum, too. All of these are classified as yokai. There is no way I could list all the gods, demons, devils, spirits, or other beings that populate the fertile Japanese imagination. There are plenty of books if you are interested, though.

Image from Night Parade of a Hundred Demon

Like the West, Japan has a long, rich history of frightening tales. They even had their own version of one of my favorite 90’s shows, Are You Afraid of the Dark. During the Edo period, Japanese people would participate in a game called 百物語怪談会 (Hyakumonogatari Kaidan-kai). Basically, everyone would gather in a room with a hundred lit candles. They would then take turns telling scary stories and putting out the candles one by one. In the end, they were left frightened in the dark. But many yokai, like the Tengu, Kappa, Funa-yurei, and Tanuki, have resumes that go back even further than the Edo period. They have been tempting, taunting, and haunting Japanese people since the mythological birth of the nation.

A Tengu

So what, you say. Western culture also has a long cast of scary characters. I know. I grew up with stories of boggarts, kelpies, and will o’ the wisps from my Scottish granny. Living in the American South West, I was also surrounded by Mexican and Native American specters like La Llorona and the Wendigo.

However, the part that struck me was the fact that our cast of characters hasn’t really changed in hundreds of years. Vampires, werewolves, and ghosts are still our go to bad guys. Not so in Japan. I found it intriguing that while the fairy stories of my childhood were quite old, Japanese culture continues to create new monsters.

The story of Kuchisake Onna, or Slit Mouth Woman, arose with the recent popularity of surgical masks. Then there is Toire no Hanako, who is kind of like the Japanese version of Moaning Myrtle that haunts elementary school bathrooms. These yokai, and many others, have only recently been added to the Japanese bogeyman role.

While western culture seems content to recycle our ghosts and monsters, Japan is still creating new ones to explain the unexplainable in an ever changing world.

But the inclusion of these new yokai in the Japanese psyche also brings up another interesting aspect of Japanese ghost stories. For the most part, it seems that Japanese yokai are pretty harmless. Except for the later stories like Kuchisake Onna, most monsters or ghosts just cause mild discomfort or inconvenience before moving on. Monsters are easily defeated with simple logic, a magic talisman, or simply walking away. Unlike American hauntings, most Japanese ghosts can be dispatched with a simple prayer. They only want to be remembered, honored, or recognized. There is no mystery to solve. No secrets to dig up. Just burn some incense, pray, and poof.

And honestly, the majority of stories I read or heard ended just like that. Poof. No reason. No questions. Dark things would happen, then stop happening, and the Japanese character just went with it.

As a Western reader, it was really frustrating! But these differences were also reflective of Japanese culture.

With such a long history, you would expect them to have a whole host of things that go bump in the night. But the fact that they are still creating yokai to help educate their children about the dangers of the modern world speaks to their practicality. At the same time, it also shows how, as a culture, they are still very in touch with the mystical and spiritual roots of their country. I have talked before about the magical, eerie quality of Japan. The continuation of these stories tells me that Japanese people feel the same way.

What other culture could come up with an umbrella monster?

Granted, the newer yokai are a bit more violent than their senpai, but I would say the world of today is a little more violent and scary than the world of the Edo era (in some ways). And for the most part, even today’s yokai aren’t necessarily out to harm. They are just looking for recognition and respect. Both values at the heart of Japanese culture.

Despite my frustrations with Japanese story telling techniques, I found the world of Japanese ghost stories to be a fascinating glimpse into the Japanese psyche. It even inspired me to try writing my own百物語怪談会 (some of which you can find here on my blog).

A Japanese Ghost Story

Author's Note: I have always been fascinated by ghost stories. Always. While I was in Japan, I took some time to explore their supernatural beliefs and stories. Their yokai (ghosts) and oni(demons) were very different from what I was used to. But that's a something for another post. I am not an expert on Japanese ghosts or story telling techniques, but I felt inspired by what I read and experienced. So, I made my own imitation. This is an original ghost story written in what I am hoping is a Japanese ghost story style. I hope it will one day be part of my own 百物語怪談会.

Sixth grade was coming to a close. We had taken the tests, finished up most of our studies, and were set for our next great adventure. It was the first time our small class would be separated.

While there were many school events and celebrations to mark this momentous occasion in our lives, there was one we had devised for ourselves and were most anticipating. We had decided that each member of the class must perform a test of courage before graduation day. Keiko was in charge of selecting the test for each girl. Simple tasks, no doubt, but that’s girls for you. It was my job to come up with the tests for the boys.

I spent weeks agonizing over the perfect test for each boy. I researched their fears, their families, what kinds of things they had access to. Ryo’s older brother was terrifying – a Yankee with a motorcycle and a lot of porn hidden somewhere. Daiki had an absolutely gorgeous older sister. Tomo’s family ran a sushi restaurant that specialized in fugu. Stuff like that.

Now, there happened to be a kid in my class named Sano. He joined our class in fourth grade when his family moved from Hiroshima. Nobody liked Sano. He wore thick glasses. He was quiet. He wasn’t good at soccer, or drawing, or really anything. For two years he just sat in the back of the classroom.

I did know one thing about him, though. Sano was terrified of an old, abandoned building that he passed every day on his way to school. To be honest, I wasn’t too comfortable with the building myself. But I didn’t sprint past it every day like Sano. It stood alone in the middle of an overgrown lot. Ivy crept up and over both stories, covering all the doors and windows. In summer, it looked like a green bush in the shape of a house. In fall, the leaves turned bright red and it looked more like a demon’s house. It was probably a shop of some kind once, but no one had been there for many, many years it seemed.

This was Sano’s test. He had to break into the building, go up to the second floor, and shine his flashlight five times out the north facing window. Several of us would be waiting below to make sure he did it.

For the life of me, I will never know why Sano agreed to the challenge. His family was moving back to Hiroshima at the start of break. It wasn’t like he would see any of us again. Though we may have felt he had something to prove to us, he really didn’t. Still, he quietly accepted when I announced his test of courage during the break between math and history.

I couldn’t believe it. Even Ryo had fought me when I told him his test was to steal one of his brother’s dirty magazines and bring it to graduation. This was way more dangerous. I felt cheated. “Fine,” I said, “you will do it the night before graduation. At midnight!”

There was murmuring from Tomo, Daiki, and Haruki. These three had been appointed watchers since we all lived in the same cul-de-sac and it would be easy to sneak out of the house.

But still nothing from Sano. Just a silent nod. The bell rang, and Fujiwara Sensi strolled in before more could be said. Throughout history, I glanced back, but Sano was as blank as ever.

Over the next week, we tormented Sano with stories about what had happened in the abandoned house. The previous owner was murdered one night. It was haunted by ghosts from the nearby Buddhist temple. A hundred years ago an oni had been captured and entombed in the ground beneath the house, but the sealing talisman had been destroyed. Each story was more elaborate and terrifying than the last. Tomo and Haruki backed out midweek, but Sano said nothing.

Finally, the fated night arrived. I med Daiki in the alley behind our houses, and we hurried to the abandoned house. I was glad Daiki was there. I had never been out so late. The streets seemed different. I will admit, I was a little scared.

Sano was already there waiting for us. He stood in the street lights watching the house.

“We will wait right here,” I said. “Flash the light five times, or it doesn’t count.”

Sano nodded. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the light toward the house. Soon, he was lost in the darkness and the overgrowth.

Daiki and I waited nervously.

“We should have gone to the door with him. How do we know he didn’t just scram and leave us standing here like a couple of idiots,” Daiki said. “My dad will kill me if we’re caught.”

“Mine too.”

“What did you have to make it so late?”

“Shh,” I hissed, “I think I heard something.”

We heard the screech and rattle of a sliding door. Light peeked through the dense ivy leaves on the ground floor.

“He must be inside,” I whispered.

A car started somewhere near us. We slunk to the edge of the streetlight, hiding ourselves in the shadows. The night was quiet again.

Slivers of light continued to dart through the green leaves as Sano progressed through the house.

“He’s almost there. We can go soon,” I whispered.

“Good. This place is creepy,” Daiki whispered back.

“That’s only stories we made up to scare him,” I said, trying to push my own fear back down. Honestly, I was ready to run at the next sound.

A burst of light shone from the north window right at us.

“He made it,” Daiki sighed.

A second, a third, a fourth flash.

We waited, without breathing, for the fifth. It didn’t come. Instead, we heard a muffled scream and a thud.

I took off toward home, Daiki close on my heels. We didn’t stop till we were behind our own houses.

“What do we do,” Daiki demanded in rasping pants. “We have to tell someone.”

“No,” I replied, “then we will get in trouble for breaking curfew. He was probably just trying to scare us.”

“It worked.”

“Not a word. We’ll tell everyone Sano chickened out. Even if he contradicts us at graduation tomorrow, who will believe him? We tell no one. Swear it.”

Daiki took my pinky with him. We swore each other to secrecy.

Sano didn’t show up for graduation the next day. I walked by his house that afternoon, but his family was busy with the movers. I watched for half an hour, but I never saw Sano, and I couldn’t get up the nerve to ask about him.

Early the next morning, I saw his family drive away, but the car was too stuffed with belongings to see Sano.

A few weeks later, Daiki and I were coming home late from a pickup soccer game. It was dark already. As we hurried past the abandoned house, a light flashed in the upstairs window.

We stopped dead in our tracks.

Two, three, four, five.

We never walked by that house again.

花

Dew clings to the daisies in the window box.  Sliding along the white petals, hanging tenaciously to the end until gravity wins the silent battle.

田

Fields of fresh, spring green

Slight color variations – darker then lighter – as the wind rustles across a verdant sea

Hisssshhhh

An egret stalking among the blades

Movements slow and inorganic as it struts and jerks on long legs

Sharp eyes trained on the dark mud

Stark white, a lone vessel in sea of green

Mirroring the single cloud passing in the azure sky.

Rain

“Today’s our lucky day!” I said that to myself, my friends, and my guests every time it rained in Japan. I got it from Otosan and Okasan. It was a joke, but, looking back, it did kind of feel like rain enhanced Japan.

I have written about rain many times here on Okashi. Mostly because it was a very large part of my life. I have never lived anywhere with so much annual rainfall. Nor have I ever been so reliant on my own two feet to get me around. I spent a lot of time in the rain. I learned first to accept it, then to appreciate it. And now I miss it.

Rain at Iga Castle

Unlike Japanese rain, American rain doesn’t seem to have the same magic. Thunderstorms are the one exception to this, but that’s due more to the theatrics of lightning than the rain. No, rainstorms in America just seem dreary. Everything is grey and lusterless, like some post-apocalyptic world of barren concrete. The Japanese rain seemed to enhance color and smell. American rain seems to dampen everything. Rain here smells like asphalt or nothing at all.

Perhaps I am just missing Japan. Spring in the Dakotas is an especially dreary season of mud, clouds, and drizzle. It comes late and moves fast, zipping past that brief moment of excitement as buds swell and bloom. Everything goes from brown to green in a weekend then just as quickly back to brown as the heat of summer sets in. So quick you can’t appreciate the awakening of the season.

"Japanese" Food

It took almost a year, but I finally went at for sushi at my favorite “Japanese” restaurant. Don’t get me wrong; I really like this restaurant. They do some amazing things with raw fish. But after nearly two years in Japan, their authentic Japanese billing is pretty inaccurate. Authentic Americanized Japanese would be better.

When I landed in Osaka, I thought I had a pretty good handle on Japanese food. I grew up at Shogun, the owner kindly teaching my sister and me how to use hashi. Okasan loved yakitori and tempura, Otosan had a thing for noodles, and imoto and I loved gyoza and sushi. To be honest, I can’t remember if there was anything else on the menu. That’s all we ever ate.

But what I quickly realized looking around for dinner my first night in Japan is that I had no idea what real Japanese food was. Okonomiyaki, takoyaki, omurisu, oden, tonkatsu, yakiniku, kakigori, yakisoba, dons, ramens, and noodles of all kinds… The list goes on and on.

Just a taste of the foods I ate in Japan

Even my childhood favorites turned out to be pale imitations of Japanese food. Shogun’s yakitori was nothing compared to the variety I found at local izakayas and specialty yakitori restaurants. 

A yakitori sampler from one of the izakayas I visited.

And sushi… Don’t get me started on just how different Japanese sushi is from our American version.

Traditional sushi sampler at my local sushi shop. No dragon rolls in Nihon.

Looking back, I guess I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. After all, everyone knows that American pizza is nothing like real Italian pizza. And if you order a taco in Mexico City, you aren’t going to get something with beef, lettuce, tomato, and sour cream. Just like Japan, America takes in new flavors and makes them her own. I wrote a twenty page paper about it for college!

But knowing you will be disappointed when you look at the menu doesn’t make it easy to show up at an American Japanese restaurant.

Just because I love it... "Dancing" Yakisoba

Learning the way of the sword

No matter how long I stayed in Japan, I would always have been an outsider. Even if I spoke perfect Japanese, observed every nuance of the tea ceremony, somehow mastered the art of Japanese social interaction, I would always be a gaijin – a foreigner.

I don’t point this out to be critical or negative. For me, being accepted as Japanese was never the goal. Japan was just the crucible to forge a stronger, more self-aware me.

But it was frustrating. Knowing that no matter how hard I tried or wanted, I would never be completely accepted. I could change my personality, my mannerisms, and even my voice, but I couldn’t change my body.

Growing up, I was taught that difference is only skin deep. I have come to realize that this is an astonishingly oversimplified way to look at it. Even within my own culture. But let’s start from there.

I came to Japan to find the universal humanity. That commonality hiding just below the surface of our different skin. But what I realized is that difference starts at the skin and goes all the way down to our very souls.

I did find commonality in Japan. A lot of it! But I also found differences in thinking, values, and ideals in even the most basic of elements of daily life. It was very interesting. I began to realize that there was no common seed of humanity. We were not all pines at our core, bur rather we were all trees, just different species. Some are oak, some pine, some maple, some ginko, some bamboo. We share the same simple needs – shelter, food, community – but how we achieve, interact, and value these can be vastly different.

And sometimes these differences can't be reconciled, just acknowledged.

Perhaps the clearest example of this came when I tried Kendo for the first and only time.

I was super excited. I had always loved pretending to be a sword wielder. As a child, I practiced with sticks, imagining I was Xena, Warrior Princess. I knew kendo would be very different, but I wanted to try. I wanted the experience.

I was decked out in the traditional uniform, handed the traditional practice sword, and given the most basic footwork.

You slap your foot down and make a few gallops forward. Only I couldn’t’ slap my foot. My sensei, bless his heart, showed me time and again. I could manage the moves well enough, but my slap was more of a stomp.

Turns out the problem was not in his instruction or my follow-through, but in my physical form. My feet were gaijin feet. They were long, bony, and high-arched. Japanese feet, on the other hand, are much more fleshy and flat. That explains all those stylish, flat shoes that killed my feet after a few hours.

No matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to master the kendo foot slap. Sure, I could still study and practice. In time I could become a respected kendo swordswoman. But I would always be a little different.

As I said, this isn’t a negative. In fact as an American, going about things my own way is kind of the heart and soul of my identity. I am not devastated that my physical body kept me from this and other Japanese experiences. I am not going to say I have always loved my feet, I haven’t, but that is another issue altogether. My feet are my feet. However, this experience reminded me that there will always be differences. I think these should be cherished, though. They make each person and culture individual. This might not be such a good thing to Japanese people, but for me it is. Our differences can bring us closer together if we let them.

I would love to end this story with something like my sensei and I both learned something that night, but I can’t. I am not sure what he took from the encounter. And I was a little too busy trying to remember the movements, positions, and shouts to really think deeply about it.

I can say it was an awesome experience. I was very lucky. Most Japanese kendo students will practice for years, making sure they have everything down perfect before they are allowed to participate in all the drills I was able to do that night. They would never dream of striking a partner after just 30 minutes of practice! I guess this was another difference I didn’t reflect on till much later.

Looking back now, I realize I learned a lot more than just kendo that night.

A Day at the Beach

I made this. No recipe. Just a taste profile in my mind, some readily available ingredients, and a Japanese inspiration. Cajun Paella.

I am pretty proud of myself. It needs a few tweaks, but it stands as yet another reminder of how much I have grown since I moved to Japan. Before Japan, I had to have a recipe (as I have mentioned). I could never create a dish like this. Not just because I wasn’t brave enough, though. Before Japan, I didn’t know what paella was!

And I wouldn’t know what paella was if it wasn’t for a certain seaside adventure in Wakayama.

“OK: Which sounds like more fun

Digging for clams or Oktoberfest in Sakai,” Ling’s message read.

It was late afternoon on a Friday, and we were trying to decide what to do with the approaching weekend.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Oktoberfest with lots of bratwurst and lederhosen, but I just wasn't feeling it.  Maybe it was because Japan isn't always good at international festivals.  They tend to revolve around what Japanese people believe happens in those cultures. Or maybe it was because drinking beer isn't my thing and I was assuming that would be the main focus of a German themed event in Sakai (see hesitation one).  Either way, digging for clams just seemed like way more fun!  Ling thought so too.

According to the website, the beach offered people the chance to dig their own clams for a reasonable ¥1300 (plus ¥100 for basket and rake rental).  After you had dug your last clam, you turned in your basket and however many clams you caught for 700 grams of clean, ready to cook clams.  They also offered grill rentals to cook your catch right there on the beach. 

It sounded like an amazing afternoon.  Plans were made, train schedules checked, and supplies purchased.  We hadn't had too many adventures like this before, so there was a need to purchase a cooler and the cookout goodies to fill it – drinks, mushrooms, corn, green peppers, and watermelon. 

At the appointed time, loaded with food and smelling of sunscreen, we departed for our unique adventure.

The beach was already crowded when we got there in the late morning.  Tents and grills were already up.  We were amazed at the amount and quality of the Japanese beach gear.  These people did not mess around when it came to beach time fun! 

You know the tents in Harry Potter? The ones where Mr. Weasley fits like the whole house in his bag?  This wasn’t just going to the beach, this was making the beach your b***h.  People had set up whole living rooms.  There were tables, chairs, and very well stocked coolers. 

The amount and range of grillables roasting over charcoal were astounding.  We saw prawns, meat, hamburgers, hot dogs. There were veggies I hadn’t ever seen in the grocery here.  And more of it than I had seen at any event sort of school lunch!

Not that I am all that dark myself...

Children, and some adults had all the latest technological gadgets and games.  They lounged in the shade updating Facebook or playing 3DS between bouts of sand castle building and tomodachi burying.  It was an interesting mix. 

Perhaps the second greatest shock was the fashion choices.  There was almost no skin!  I was wearing a thin shirt over a swimsuit top and felt so completely naked next to people in hoodies, sweaters, long pants, and high boots.  You’d have thought it was still winter rather than full on summer! Some people had shed a layer or two, one guy was already turning red from the sun, but for the most part, it seemed Japanese people must be a nation of mildly UV tolerant vampires. 

  

Ling and I found a bare spot of sand among the Bedouin palaces of the other beach goers.  We didn't have an umbrella, a pop-up picnic table, or any of the bells and whistles our Japanese neighbors did, but we still got big smiles as we spread out our towels.

Smaller children were already laughing and squealing at the water’s edge.  The adults were a little further out, knee-deep in the cold water.  Everyone was bent double, bucket in on hand, the other sifting through the sand at their feet for the elusive seafood prize.  Eager to try our own luck, Ling and I charged in, buckets and rakes ready.  The water was still very cold, but the sand felt good, and soon we were literally raking in the clams. 

It was an interesting experience - the cool water on your legs, the warm sun on your back.  You rake through the sand, desperate for that slight bit of resistance.  Ling was off to a good start.  But since I brought the veggies, he agreed to share.  Our buckets were soon half full and our legs and muscles burning from the back breaking labor.

We decided to take a brief rest to soak up some of the sun. 

As we watched the incredibly clothed Japanese people still at it, we realized why there were so many clams.  Turns out they seeded the beach.  A little john boat puttered by with a man throwing out clams by the handful.  The hunters swarmed, catching the clams before they even had a chance to bury themselves.  It was like a maritime version of Mardi Gras.  But knowing why there were so many clams in this little area didn’t diminish the thrill as we waded back into the hunt a little while later.  The eager diggers hadn’t captured all of our prey. 

After another twenty minutes, Ling and I had filled our daily quota (and even given some away to the children like gaijin clam fairies).  Triumphant, we traded our catch for a large bag of cleaned clams.

The next part was what we had both been anticipating and dreading since we decided to try this adventure.  Neither of us had been clamming before, but we knew even less about how to cook our catch.  Ling claimed he understood the gist of it, he had even googled it just to make sure, but I wasn't convinced.  I have no experience grilling (a skill I am content not to level up in), and when the grill turned out to be charcoal, I gave up any pretense of helping.

Ling soldiered on and, despite the fear of food poisoning, we took our first slurp of our hard won lunch.

It was far from the best bbq I have ever had.  The clams were super salty, the veggies needed some kind of marinade, and the charcoal was difficult.  But for a first run, it was great.  Grabbing clams hot off the grill with pilfered chopsticks.  Laughing as we ate our prizes.  It was a great end to a wonderful adventure. 

Smelling of sun and surf, we returned home.  We were sandy and exhausted, but also incredibly happy.  We had spent an amazing afternoon doing something we had never dreamed of doing in Japan.  Something we couldn't wait to do again. 

But with more friends and preparation. Our packing list for next time…

-umbrella or other shade

-chopsticks

-plates

-MEAT, MEAT, and more MEAT

-speakers and tunes

-volleyball or other toys

While there were many things I missed about Osaka, I realized that Wakayama would be filled with quiet, low-key adventures I would never find in the big city.  Afternoons lounging on the beach, hiking through cool, shady forests, enjoying friends and nature simultaneously.  It made me glad to know I had a year for all kinds of adventures.

Wait, great story, but what does it have to do with paella? Well, I’m not done yet.

Ling and I couldn’t possibly eat 1400 grams of clams in one afternoon. We were both still dubious of food poisoning, too, so we decided to take our maritime bounty home and deal with it later. Fresh clams are easy to freeze.

When I got off at Kinokawa Eki, tired and a little sunburned, I walked away with all the clams! Now with double the haul (Ling didn’t want them back), I needed to figure out double the recipes! And that is how I learned about paella. 

World History

Recently, I have been watching a show with footage from WWII that had been remastered in color. Unfortunate timing, given my growing belief that the world has lost its damn mind and we are heading toward Orwellian levels of fear mongering, hate, and government control. Based on my Facebook feed, at least. But that is a topic for some other time.

No, what struck me, as I was watching, was how little I actually knew about these important events. Did I sleep through world history?

Living in Japan, interacting with people from all over the world, I came to realize just how one-sided my education had been.

I don’t mean that in a negative way. My British friends had an equally nationally-centered world view. As did the Australian, Danish, German, Chinese, Korean, and Italians I met. Not to mention the Japanese. Everyone is taught history with themselves (or their country) at the center. The American Revolution isn’t the American Revolution to the British.

Before I moved to Japan, my knowledge of WWII history was very, very basic. Hitler. The Holocaust. Then the Americans saved the day.

I knew about Pearl Harbor, my grandfather was there, but I didn’t understand the skirmishes, sanctions, and politics that led up to it. I also didn’t understand the mindset of the Japanese people. Or any people other than my own.

I didn’t realize that Asia was fighting its own world war at the time. Or that they had fought the same war, over and over, for thousands of years. That the hatred between Japan, China, and Korea was as thick and deep as any European feud I ever studied. Maybe deeper.

Living abroad opened my eyes to just how small my world was. And how much I have left to learn.

It also makes me worry for those who don’t have the opportunity or desire try it themselves. They say that those who don’t study history are doomed to repeat it. But I would argue that those who don’t study ALL of history are equally doomed. We can no longer afford to look at things from a single perspective. We must open our eyes wide.

Yes, Hitler was a demon. But how did a demon come to power? Yes, Pearl Harbor was a tragedy. But how could two cultures see the world so differently that such an event was logical for one and incomprehensible for the other?

We must look past our self-centered version of the world. We must realize that there is always another side to the story. We must understand that others don’t think the same way we do, believe the same things we do, or hold the same values as we do.

Hindsight is always 20-20. I say that a lot. But as I watched the young men and women – almost all dead by now, but still so alive on the screen – I felt very aware of my monumental ignorance.

Not knowing. Not understanding. Being blind to the feelings and values of our fellow man. That is how WWII started. Will it be the catalyst for WWIII?

I survived the 2016 holiday season! Give me a medal or something!

We did it, we survived 2016. And I don’t mean like everyone was hoping Betty White did (or all the other celebrities we were crossing our fingers and praying for as 2016 came to its sad conclusion with a rapid escalation of the death toll). No, Anata and I survived The Holidays! We made it through the obligatory November and December events, even added a couple extra and hosted two, yes, two, dinner parties! Well, to be fair, there was a blizzard on Christmas Day, so we didn’t actually make it to every event on our jam-packed social calendar, but I was still pretty proud when the last guest left at 2 am New Year’s Day, and I was still alive.

I really missed Japan this holiday season. Don’t get me wrong, I was so excited to spend the holidays at home with family and friends, but I found myself longing for the quiet, relaxed winter break I had as a gaijin in Japan.

Japan doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving (obviously), so my Novembers weren’t spent trying to cram and much turkey and mashed potatoes down my gullet as I could get a hold of. Otose did host a party around Thanksgiving each year to celebrate the anniversary of opening her clinic and to make the foreigners staying with her feel more at home, but there was no turkey or pumpkin pie. And there was just the one. This year I had two Thanksgivings!

Christmas was also a much more subdued affair. Not being a Christian nation, Japan doesn’t really celebrate Christmas. They still do some presents, but it is more a date night for young couples than a celebration of Jesus’s birth. There is cake and, surprisingly, buckets of KFC. That is the Japanese equivalent of Christmas Ham – KFC. I guess Colonel Sanders does kind of look like Santa (who does visit Japanese children, by the way)…

I have never been huge into Christmas, so I kind of enjoyed not hearing Christmas carols starting in October or seeing Santas on every street corner. It was nice to not have to decide between saying, “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays” to friends and coworkers. There were sales of course (remember, I said it was a date night), but I felt that the Japanese were at least honest with themselves about the commercial juggernaut that Christmas has become. They weren’t trying to hide behind “Jesus is the reason for the season” or any other feeble excuse we offer up rather than admit that Christmas has become all about the gifts regardless of which happy holiday you celebrate. As a gaijin with a husband and family back in the states, I only had to worry about gifts for a very select few. It was amazing!

Not that I hate giving gifts (or getting them). I just hate how important they seem to have become.

Instead, I like the Japanese New Year gift giving tradition. They give kids money. Plain and simple.

And while we’re on New Year, I think it was one of my favorite holidays as a gaijin. For Japanese people, New Years can be super stressful. The family comes over and basically hangs out for three days. A lot like Christmas in America. Most families will visit the local shrine on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day to get the first blessing of the New Year. These can be crowded, raucous (in a Japanese way) outings. But for the most part, New Year’s is a time to be with family. To visit, play games, and just inhabit the same space for a brief time. With everyone running in so many different directions and for insanely long hours during the year, this is their time to relax and come together. I am sure daughters-in-law suffer through the same stony silences and critical looks, children get as antsy and tired of being scolded, and young people roll their eyes at Grandpa’s anecdotes (or want to) just as many times as Americans, but in my mind Japanese New Year is a wonderful time of family and togetherness. What I wish Christmas were a little more in this country.

I guess I am kind of jealous of Japanese New Year traditions. I would love to spend three days sitting around a kotatsu with Otosan and Okasan, without anywhere to go or anything to do. In America, we do nothing but run, cook, shop, and eat from November till the first week of January. I would much prefer to sip tea (or sake), share a bento with my loved ones, and just be.

I am sure I will get back in the hang of the holidays by next year. I was grateful for the time I got to spend with everyone, the meals we got to share, and the catching up on everything missed, I just wish we could have spread it out over a few more weeks (or months). Maybe next year I can convince Anata to try Japanese style holidays. Or at least build me a kotatsu so we can enjoy watching the snow in warmth and comfort.

2017: The Year of Bamboo

Bamboo is flexible, bending with the wind but never breaking, capable of adapting to any circumstance. It suggests resilience, meaning that we have the ability to bounce back even from the most difficult times… Your ability to thrive depends, in the end, on your attitude to your life circumstances. Take everything in stride with grace, putting forth energy when it is needed, yet always staying calm inwardly.

                                                                                                            -Ping Fu

2016 was a turbulent year. I moved back across an ocean. I had to say goodbye to some wonderful people. I had to readjust from a life in a bustling metropolitan area to life in a rural agricultural area. There was more than an ocean between me and the friends and family I had left behind, but I had to find a way to reconnect. I made new friends, which has always been a little difficult for me. I had surgery, was laid up for months, and found myself drowning in the same dark emotions I had fled from two years before.  I floundered. I rallied. I floundered again. Like a small ship on a rough sea.

This sounds very negative. Did nothing good happen in 2016? It did. I am glad to be home with Anata and my puppies. I have a new job working for the local newspaper, which keeps me involved in the community and actually uses my degree. I picked up another new job writing English lessons for an online company. I get to read good books and think about them critically. But 2016 was also full of emotions that I am just now able to process.

And now it is 2017.

Study the teachings of the pine tree, the bamboo, and the plum blossom. The pine is evergreen, firmly rooted, and venerable. The bamboo is strong, resilient, unbreakable. The plum blossom is hardy, fragrant, and elegant.

                                                                                                            -Morihei Ueshiba

While many will celebrate 2017 as the year of the rooster (or the year of Betty White), I have decided celebrate it as the year of bamboo.

Did you know that bamboo, like rice, is not native to Japan? It was imported from China. But it didn’t take the Japanese long to integrate the bamboo into the very soul of their culture. With their trademark ingenuity, bamboo became indispensable. It was used for building, crafting, and every kind of utensil imaginable. It grew into a beautiful and symbolic staple in their literature, art, and culture.

Bamboo always thrilled me while I was in Japan. I loved to listen to the wind rustle through its leaves. To watch it bend further and further under snow and wind only to bounce back. Its green always reminded me of early summer, my favorite time of year. It was comforting. I took so many pictures of bamboo!

But it is more than the beauty of bamboo that made me choose it as my spirit plant for 2017. It was the strength and flexibility. I have always struggled with mental flexibility. I tend to get ruffled and stressed when plans are changed last minute. I had started to come to terms with this in Japan, but maybe not in the best way. I didn’t get flustered when people flaked out on plans, but I just did them on my own. I quit inviting people to do things and just tried to enjoy my solo adventures. It worked well, for the most part, but it didn’t really solve the flexibility issue.

And now that I have returned home to a spouse and responsibilities, just going on my own doesn’t really work. I also took two jobs that require a lot of flexibility. Sometimes have just a few hours to get an article done. So I decided to be more like bamboo. Bruce Lee said, “Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind.” The bamboo can do this because it has strong roots, but a flexible stalk. I can’t control everything, there will be winds that blow me, snows that weigh me down, but I can sway with them as long as I have strong roots.

The seed of a bamboo tree is planted, fertilized, and watered.

Nothing happens for the first year.

There’s no sign of growth.

Not even a hint.

The same thing happens – or doesn’t happen – the second year.

And then the third year.

The tree is carefully watered and fertilized each year, but nothing shows. No growth. No anything.

For eight years it can continue. Eight years!

Then – after the eight years of fertilizing and watering have passed, with nothing to show for it – the bamboo tree suddenly sprouts and grows thirty feet in three months.

                                                                                                            -Zig Ziglar

For over thirty years I have been building my root base. I have been spreading in different directions, collecting experiences, ideas, and knowledge. My roots weren’t always spread in the best soil, there were weak spots; there have been times I got to close to the surface and got burned or went too deep and drowned. But I continued to grow. Now, 2017 is my year to sprout. To pull all of those things together and push upward toward enlightenment. It is time to try and realize the potential that so many have seen and nurtured in me – Okasan and Otosan, Anata, teachers, mentors, friends, and family. They have watered and fertilized me with opportunities, adventures, and education. They have been patient while I spread my roots, trying this and that, never faltering in their care. 2017 will be the year they see their labors pay off. It will be my year.

あけましておめでとうございます! I wish you all a Happy New Year. I hope that 2017 is your year too. Good luck and 頑張って.