the importance of being there: japanese work ethics

It's eight o'clock on a Wednesday night and I see on TV hundreds and thousands of people standing outside the ticket gates of a big train station in Tokyo waiting for the trains to start running. The big typhoon that has been attaching Japan for the past few days has just passed through Kanto and is moving toward Tohoku. The people on the TV screen all look tired, some terribly soaked carrying broken umbrellas. I wonder why these people came out when it was clearly warned on the morning news that the typhoon would be in full swing later in the day. I wonder why their companies let them come.

It reminds me of the days that followed the earthquake in March. The air was, reportedly, increasingly getting radioactive, and trains were running only sporadically due to shortage of electricity; yet, many just left home in the morning as if nothing had changed to get on commuting trains that were even more packed than usual from the unsteady schedule.

A friend questioned it on Facebook, expressing how terrified she was being in such a catastrophic situation: "Why don't companies tell their employees to stay home for a few days? Is work that important?"

Another answered: "I think it's important to carry on as usual because things are really crazy now."

I got his point. I was touched by all those workers who try to be in the office and carry on their regular tasks. It was simply noble and respectable. At the same time, I saw her point, too. I echoed her question in my head many times: Is work that important?

Work is important. If we all stopped working for good, society would not function. But then, to the questions Is work the most important thing in our lives? and Does only being at work mean working?, I say, with much determination, no.

While it is really admirable to continue working as usual to keep society functioning, that is not-should not be--the most important thing in our lives. Instead of stuffing ourselves into packed trains to get to the office knowing another long and exhausting journey is waiting at the end of the day, spending time with our family at home for a few days could benefit society by easing the people's fear and anxiety. Besides, not a few tasks we do in our offices are possible to be done by telecommuting in this technologically advanced era and country with emails, instant messengers and online file sharing.

So--again, was it really necessary to force our already stress-and-fear-ridden bodies to endure long and suffocating commutes when there was a possibility we might again get stuck somewhere unable to get home?

I don't know. Well, to be honest, I don't think so. I really think the government, prefectures, cities or companies better tell people it's okay to stay home--or, rather, they should stay home to avoid possibly unsafe, confusing and exhausting situations especially after an event as grave as the Great Earthquake.

Some companies did, but many didn't, because in the Japanese work ethics being there really matters. Whether it's a completely meaningless meeting or a shaking office building on a terrible typhoon day, being there at your own desk is the important thing. And that I believe is why many companies didn't let their employees go home early enough today, forcing them to stand there waiting for the train to move, soaked and terribly terribly tired.

I know it happens sometimes. Sometimes, we just can't help ending up soaked and terribly tired to do what we need to do. Sometimes it is necessary, and I see diligence as one of our culture's greatest values; and yet, watching the exhausted commuters helplessly looking up at the electronic display for any positive news for their long-awaited return home, I can't help but feel a bit frustrated with the strong belief in being there equaling working that is so rampant in our society, and it pushes me to consider leaving the country again just a little more seriously on this typhoon night.

japanese love

Last month, on my mom's birthday, I posted the following as my Facebook status:

Happy Birthday, Mom, once the biggest enemy but always the biggest support and inspiration. I love you.

I had already wished her a happy birthday in the morning before I left for work, but a hint of sentiment that crept into my mind on my lunch break made me post this. There also was an urge to express my feeling in English, for, strange as it is, I sometimes feel it easier to express my feelings in this second language than my own.

People "liked" it, and it made me happy; but then, I realized there was no point in writing something like this on a semi-public place without sharing it with the person it was addressed to. So I forwarded this to her, saying, "This is the message I put on Facebook."

When I came home, she told me she didn't understand it, reasonably, for she hardly speaks or reads English. I translated it for her.

"Uh-huh," she said.
"Yeah, I just thought it would be only fair to share it with you because it's to you."
"You're right. There's no point just showing it to strangers."

We laughed and the talk ended there.

The thing is that I didn't include the "I love you" part in my translation. I assumed she would know, which she most likely did, but I also didn't know how to translate it. Sure, I could have translated it literally or chosen a phrase with similar meaning that is more commonly used in Japanese, but that wouldn't have conveyed what I meant in the English "I love you," the casual yet meaningful expression of affection.

So I just opted out not to include it in my Japanese translation, and my mom, clearly aware of the fact I did, also left it unmentioned. "I love you" floated around for a little while in the somehow comfortably awkward air between us and dissipated as my mom went back to folding clean laundry and I turned to go up to my room to put my backpack down, first feeling a bit sad we seemingly couldn't exchange words of love directly but then realizing that it was how love always had worked between us most of the time; unsaid and sometimes hidden, but constantly floating around us like the sweet scent of orange osmanthus in autumn so we notice only if we pay attention.

True, a part of me still prefers straightforward exchanges of "I love you"s and hugs, but now I can say, no, the Japanese way of love isn't bad, either. Not at all. Because it's there, if you're willing to breathe it in.

in the kitchen

My mom was peeling cabbage to make salad. I was cutting eggplant. She felt a leaf in her hands and said, "I know spring is coming when cabbage leaves are soft."

It made me happy about living in Japan, this little country with four beautiful seasons.

be young, be free

Today, walking down the stairway to a train station, I saw a crowd and heard music and yelping. I peeked through the crowd, and there was a bunch of young people of different colors singing and dancing to musical numbers.

They were a group from the US called The Young Americans. I stopped to watch for a few minutes--and ended up staying for half an hour till the end of the performance. I was captured by their energy. Oh, how joyful they were, their voices, their smiles and dancing so powerful!

Joy is contagious.Though the majority of the polite Japanese audience stood still except occasional clapping and picture/video taking on their phones, there were lips curled into smiles, eyes twinkling and giggles as happy as the musical numbers the performers were singing.

And then, there was a sudden urge, to dance, to sing, to laugh and speak English, a language I've somehow been helplessly in love with. I didn't do any of them, but the sentiment was so strong it made me a little teary-eyed as I stood in the crowd, the sound of English words so familiar in my ears.

The performance ended in great applause, and slowly, people began scattering away. I started walking toward the ticket gate, too, and then it occurred to me that it was an urge to let go, to be free. The young performers dancing, enjoying every moment with hope and joy, that sense of being in the present, that's what I was longing for. In an attempt to readjust to my own culture which so far felt rather restricting, I hadn't had that feeling of freedom since I'd come back.

For a moment, I missed California terribly, but then, I decided it wasn't the matter of where. Wherever you are, you can feel whatever you want--hope, joy, you name it--and it's all up to you to create where you want to be, whether that means refusing some restrictions of your own culture if necessary to protect self or bursting into dancing and singing in the middle of a foreign train station building, hooking the busy commuters and spreading joy even just briefly.

Maybe not briefly. The train ride home was a happy one.

Thank you, Young Americans!

body, space and purpose

I've been sneezing and sniffing a lot, and don't know if it's a cold or allergy (oh my beloved kitty, I know I'm allergic to you). My skin is also suffering, and so is my stomach. I often catch myself holding breath. My shoulders are always tense, and I need to loosen up, making a conscious effort to breathe in and out deeply.

My body is trying to adjust, and I wouldn't say it's because I'm in Japan. I always go through this period of tension with an environment change. A move, a new semester, a new job. It's probably natural, to some extent at least, because after all changes come with some stress, wherever you are.

But one thing I miss being in Japan is space to stretch out. Grass fields and beaches to lie down and do nothing. Japan is so small that space has to be used efficiently, so it feels as though you always have to have a purpose when you are out. You can lie down and relax at home, but once you step out the door, walk toward your goal, no stopping, or stopping only for a purpose such as tying your shoes, buying train tickets and lighting your tobacco. 

So instead of wandering out the door with a paperback and some money for coffee in my purse as I would do in San Francisco, I spread my arms and legs on my bed and relax, and then, when I feel I've wasted enough time, I shake myself up to put on a make-up and change, getting ready for a purposeful outing.

round and chubby

I met with a friend who I hadn't seen in 6 months.

"Oh, you've got your hair pretty short!" she said.
"Yeah!"
"But...with the sides like that, it kinda makes your face look round and chubby, doesn't it?"
"Um," I said, "I think my face is round and chubby. I gained weight."
"Right on!"

I wish I could say it was my hair, but when I came home and pulled up the hair on the sides, my face still was round and chubby in the mirror.

culture shock

Visiting is one thing, living is another. I've visited Japan several times for the past years, but all that time I lived in California. When you are a visitor, you don't mind differences in lifestyle, those little "inconveniences" here and there. They only start to annoy you when you know you are going to live in the place for a little while. That happened when I moved to LA. And now, after six years, it's happening again in Japan.

I shop around and see everything neatly packaged. I see a crowd of people waiting at a red light in my small hometown even though there's absolutely no car in sight and you can cross the street in ten steps. I hear all those announcements and signs telling you what to do and how so that everything will go smoothly.

Ah, Japan. I feel a bit desperate. Though I know all this makes my country a clean, safe, nice place to live, it's also something I kind of wanted to escape from. Or maybe I feel desperate because there's this sense of responsibility that I have to follow all the rules because I'm a native and understand everything. One thing about getting culture shock in your own culture is that you don't really get to have the excitement of acquainting newness, the feeling of a fresh start, that you would get in a new environment (well, if you desired to come to the place in the first place, at least).

With your own culture, it's different. You know it all too well, and you expect it to be the same. And then it presents itself as quite unfamiliar.

I feel Japan is cheating on me.

a change. maybe.

Japan Election Results: Opposition Democrats Win Huge Victory

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It in fact may not make such a big difference whichever party wins, but at least it's a visible change and it was brought by the people. Finally. It's not bad.

ponyo!

You've got to see it!

In Japan being an "otaku" (nerd) is not very cool. If you are into anime or manga, you usually hide it and only enjoy it with other otaku friends. But somehow being an otaku for Ghibli movies is acceptable; or it seems so at least for people in my generation. If you are wondering what Ghibli is, it's the name of the studio Hayao Miyazaki owns which created Totoro, Kiki's Delivery Service, Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away and all the other beautiful animation films. We grew up watching their movies, dreaming of riding the Cat Bus someday, of flying on a broom, of finding a castle in the sky.

Ponyo also lets you dream and makes you smile. It's a very cute movie that doesn't end with just being cute.

By the way, somehow I like the Japanese trailer better, maybe because they play the theme song.

first post: on being a foreigner

A good friend calls and says, "So I guess I'm not applying for OPT."

OPT is optional practical training, which allows those of us who are in the US on the F-1 (student) visa to experience working up to one year. Though getting OPT doesn't mean you can stay here for longer than one year, not getting it means you're leaving for good. Well, unless you're planning to come back or to get married to an American.

I shrug, knowing my friend won't see it, and say, "Okay."

I should be sad, at least sentimental, considering how much time we've spent together, but things like this don't register right away. What I feel for now is more of emptiness. As my "international" friends left one by one for their countries, I felt as if they left holes in my life here, one by one. My friend will be leaving the last one, and it'll be big, for sure. I may feel alone, almost. Well, not alone. I'll just be back again at the point where I started.

When I first came here for grad school, I was probably the only foreigner in the program. At least I was usually the only one in class who spoke accented English. I struggled. I made friends. I got by. I was always conscious that I was Japanese, a foreigner, but I wasn't really aware of that consciousness. Until I moved to the next program where I met other international students.

They were from Taiwan, Korea, Japan, and all over, and were mostly comfortably foreign. They spoke their native languages like it was normal. And now I see how natural it is, but at that time after two years of trying not to sound like a foreigner it felt utterly odd when I had to speak Japanese to my Japanese classmates.I almost wished I didn't understand Japanese so I didn't have to think about how I should sound in Japanese to people I'd just met.

But soon, I got used to it. Speaking Japanese and being a foreigner. That was me, after all. To think about it, I never wanted to belong to America. Yes, I do want to be good enough in English to function sufficiently and not to be treated disrespectfully. Yes, I enjoy American things, some of them, and I like my American friends. But those are the things I would probably enjoy in Japan, and those are the people I would probably be friends with in Japan. I never had any desire to become American. When people asked me if I was from here, I winced secretly. I was happy to be a Japanese who enjoys living in America, and my foreign friends let me be just that. My Japanese-ness didn't stand out because I was Japanese, and it was okay if I acted a little more Americanized once in a while, because, after all, that was where we lived. It was a nice feeling to be one of them--us; it protected me like a cushion from the feeling of alienation that you cannot help but feel sometimes in a foreign country.

So now that most of them have gone back, and the last one is leaving soon, I feel like I'm suddenly losing the comfort zone. I think of my friends, how happy they seemed, while sad to leave the place where they'd spent a few years, to be going back to their own countries. How funny it is that all the people I made good friends with who are from other countries are the ones who were certain about leaving America. None of them wanted to belong to the country where we met. None of us. And yet I clearly know that I'm going to stay here longer, or at least try to do so. If I feel the same way as they do, if I don't want to belong here, why do I even want to stay?

Then I realize after all I don't dislike being a foreigner.

A friend who had gone back to Korea told me, "Back in my country, I feel I'm facing reality. Long Beach was my paradise." Is America a paradise for me? No. Not really. But then, is it reality? Maybe. Maybe not completely. It is reality in the way that it's here where I'm trying to build my future. But it's not reality in that there's always this feeling in the corner of my mind that I have Japan if anything goes wrong. I'm a fortunate foreigner who has a place to return to if America fails me, and that makes my life here less of reality, if not paradise.

And in that way, Japan is sometimes too much of reality. I belong there too much. It's the country I was born and grew up in for most of my life. It's where I left all the things that tied me down to whatever I wanted to be free from. I'd rather be foreign than to completely belong to the place I live in if I could avoid that inescapable sense of reality. Being a foreigner gives you freedom.

So I live on in America, for a little while at least, and I'll try to write down how it turns out and what I see.