[TODAY'S TOP STORIES] from [The Japan Times]
[LIFE IN JAPAN]
Saturday, May 30, 2009
JAPAN LITE
Islands of and for the old
By AMY CHAVEZ
"Rikimatsu-san, I'm cleaning the fishing boat today," I tell the old man as he passes in front of my house on the port. I am referring to the small fishing boat with a heap of green seaweed and shellfish sticking to the bottom of it — stuff you'd usually find on a Japanese dinner plate. But at least I know my boat will never go hungry.
I point out to him my intentions today because I am a little embarrassed that I haven't cleaned my boat for a while. I am sure he has noticed the growth of seaweed attached to the bottom, peeking out from underneath as if a dozen fish were doing rhythmic gymnastics with green ribbons.
"You never use that boat," he said. "Why don't you get rid of it?"
"But of course we use it," I said, thinking he must be joking.
Rikimatsu-san is one of my favorite old guys on the island. He is 80 years old now and he gave me the fishing boat, the Fujimaru (named after his wife), five years ago. He taught me how to fish for mamakari, aji, ayu, sardines and tachiuo. He still has a fishing boat of his own, but he rarely uses it. His sight has gone bad and he can't hear very well anymore. But that's not why he doesn't go out fishing. His wife won't let him.
"You have so many boats that just sit around here," he complains.
He's partly right. It's a bit cold to use the boats in the winter, so we use the ferry. For three to four months of the year none of our boats get used.
"And that sailing boat," he says, gesturing to the docks where it is tied up among some derelict fishing boats.
"But we have sailing reservations every day till July!" I protest. The sailing season is a very busy time for us.
"And that fishing boat," he says, pointing to our bigger 6.3-meter boat.
"We just went to Awashima and back on that boat last weekend."
"You never use your boats. You ought to get rid of them," he says, waving his hand in disgust. He mounts his bicycle and rides away.
I was dismayed. For a few seconds anyway. Welcome to senility!
And the island seems to be going through quite a bout of it recently. Last autumn, one of the old people complained that the neighbor, a classical pianist, played her piano too loud. Another person brought up the fact that my neighbor's potted flower garden wasn't actually on her own property but was flowing over into a national park, so she should remove the garden. So, she did.
Everyone is getting older. And everyone is going crazy.
With Japan having one of the highest aging populations in the world, the Inland Sea islands are turning into the world's largest chain of old folks' homes. On our island of 664 people, most of whom are over 60 years old, the island doctor prescribes talking to the sea and convening with the tides for most ailments.
Japanese people often move back home to take care of their aging parents, but no one comes back to the islands. The elderly must fend for themselves. And most of them do it pretty well.
It has occurred to me that the islands may be a modern form of obasute-yama, the mountains of Japanese folklore where old people were taken to "live out" their dying days alone with nature. Perhaps the islands have become obasute-shima. But I think most old people would be happy to come here: fresh seafood every day, electric obaa-chan carts, cool sea breezes and beautiful sunsets.
Makes you want to age a little faster, doesn't it?
Perhaps we should take out the Shiraishi lighthouse and instead erect a Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your retirees huddled in nursing homes. . ."
These people may be old, they may be crazy, but they'll never give up their island. This is the place that allows them to continue living on their own.
The other day an old woman wandered into the ferry port office. She had lost her way home. The ferry port manager called her by name, came out of his office to calm her down, then took her by the arm and walked her home.
I feel glad that these older people live on a small island where they can still get by on their own. Because even if they can't fend for themselves, there's always someone else who can fend for them.
[LIFE IN JAPAN]
Saturday, May 30, 2009
WHEN EAST MARRIES WEST
A look at the outside and the in
By THOMAS DILLON
"Honne and tatemae" are terms that many feel are linchpinned to the Japanese psyche.
The first — honne — refers to the intimate truth of the soul, one's uttermost honest feelings, the rough skin under all the powder and rouge.
The second — tatemae — is the face one shows to the world. That toothy grin that perhaps hides one's desire to bite. Analogous to the aluminum siding that helps the house gleam on the surface, while the inside bursts with termites.
One wrinkle to these terms is that many Japanese feel that theirs is the only culture to be so Jekyll-and-Hyde-ish.
Some Japanese can be goofy that way. Like those who believe Japan is the only land with four seasons. Or those that claim the Japanese language is so tough that not even Japanese can speak it well. A claim they always communicate in sparkling Japanese.
But every culture has honne and tatemae. It's as human as flatulence. Which could mean that some people are more human than others.
I, for example, have a lot of . . . honne and tatemae. It waltzes through my life like a New York debutant, smiling while her partner tromps upon her foot. Tatemae cancels out the honne. At least from the outside.
But oh if only someone could peek on the inside . . .
I stand picking at stale munchies as the only foreigner at the party, when I notice this troll of a fellow edging my way and fidgeting with his plate. I catch the body language at once. He's going to trap me in the corner and practice his English.
So I gaze the other way and pray for rescue. Or that perhaps some construction crane will topple in the wind and rip the building in half. Maybe if I focus my willpower, the wind will blow and a crane will fall and this man will be sucked into the chasm. Or I will. Anything to get away. Maybe . . .
Yes? Oh, how do you do? Nice to meet you. Why, yes, it's a splendid party. Just delightful. I agree. Have you tried the rice crackers? Superb, aren't they? Good napkins too. Oh, no, I don't mind. Not at all. And your English sounds quite fluent to me. As clear as crystal.
But if the letter "L" had life, you'd be wanted for murder. And are those vowels in your mouth? Or marbles? I've heard better sounds from forks jammed in the disposal. Yet I enjoy the way you spit when you speak. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I am on a distant beach being sprayed by surf. And not caught in this corner.
My hometown? Chicago, kind of. Oh yes, that's right. Chicago was home to Al Capone. You know well. No, I never met him. Not once. Unfortunately. That's been a while ago. Oh? You have been to Vancouver? For 10 days? No wonder you speak English so well.
And it's a wonder the Canadians let you escape. They are sensitive people and don't care to see any language butchered, let alone one of their own. If you'd been there any longer, I am sure they would have fed you to the bears. Bears are not sensitive, you see. They will eat anyone. Even someone with a necktie as bright as yours.
Oh, you teach English. I should have guessed. At your home. To small children. It sounds fascinating. Well . . . I am busy. But sure. Sometime, if it worked out, I'd enjoy meeting your students. I bet they're cute. And, yes, I'd love to speak with them and let them practice.
Just about as much as I'd love to take a power drill to my knee. I can't believe people pay you money to teach. Are you sure the money's real? Maybe the entire neighborhood is playing you for a joke. I'd check if I were you.
What? You have to go? So soon? Oh, too bad! I'll just have to eat all this great food myself. Uh, sorry, I don't have a name card. But thanks for yours. I'll be sure to get in touch. I'm glad we met. It was nice talking to you.
What luck! I was just about to throw myself on my chopsticks. I'll just drop h is card on the table. Who knows? Maybe someone will eat it. It looks better than the crackers. Probably is too. Now, how to get out of here?
Oh, you're back! You misread your wristwatch! Ha, ha. Yes, I do that all the time. You have another hour? Wonderful. No, wait! I'll get you more crackers myself. You just stay here. No, no. It's my pleasure. Honest. . . .
Or as honest as my tatemae will allow.
My honne, on the other hand, hopes the only thing I have to kill is an hour.
[LIFE IN JAPAN]
Saturday, May 30, 2009
JAPAN LITE
Islands of and for the old
By AMY CHAVEZ
"Rikimatsu-san, I'm cleaning the fishing boat today," I tell the old man as he passes in front of my house on the port. I am referring to the small fishing boat with a heap of green seaweed and shellfish sticking to the bottom of it — stuff you'd usually find on a Japanese dinner plate. But at least I know my boat will never go hungry.
I point out to him my intentions today because I am a little embarrassed that I haven't cleaned my boat for a while. I am sure he has noticed the growth of seaweed attached to the bottom, peeking out from underneath as if a dozen fish were doing rhythmic gymnastics with green ribbons.
"You never use that boat," he said. "Why don't you get rid of it?"
"But of course we use it," I said, thinking he must be joking.
Rikimatsu-san is one of my favorite old guys on the island. He is 80 years old now and he gave me the fishing boat, the Fujimaru (named after his wife), five years ago. He taught me how to fish for mamakari, aji, ayu, sardines and tachiuo. He still has a fishing boat of his own, but he rarely uses it. His sight has gone bad and he can't hear very well anymore. But that's not why he doesn't go out fishing. His wife won't let him.
"You have so many boats that just sit around here," he complains.
He's partly right. It's a bit cold to use the boats in the winter, so we use the ferry. For three to four months of the year none of our boats get used.
"And that sailing boat," he says, gesturing to the docks where it is tied up among some derelict fishing boats.
"But we have sailing reservations every day till July!" I protest. The sailing season is a very busy time for us.
"And that fishing boat," he says, pointing to our bigger 6.3-meter boat.
"We just went to Awashima and back on that boat last weekend."
"You never use your boats. You ought to get rid of them," he says, waving his hand in disgust. He mounts his bicycle and rides away.
I was dismayed. For a few seconds anyway. Welcome to senility!
And the island seems to be going through quite a bout of it recently. Last autumn, one of the old people complained that the neighbor, a classical pianist, played her piano too loud. Another person brought up the fact that my neighbor's potted flower garden wasn't actually on her own property but was flowing over into a national park, so she should remove the garden. So, she did.
Everyone is getting older. And everyone is going crazy.
With Japan having one of the highest aging populations in the world, the Inland Sea islands are turning into the world's largest chain of old folks' homes. On our island of 664 people, most of whom are over 60 years old, the island doctor prescribes talking to the sea and convening with the tides for most ailments.
Japanese people often move back home to take care of their aging parents, but no one comes back to the islands. The elderly must fend for themselves. And most of them do it pretty well.
It has occurred to me that the islands may be a modern form of obasute-yama, the mountains of Japanese folklore where old people were taken to "live out" their dying days alone with nature. Perhaps the islands have become obasute-shima. But I think most old people would be happy to come here: fresh seafood every day, electric obaa-chan carts, cool sea breezes and beautiful sunsets.
Makes you want to age a little faster, doesn't it?
Perhaps we should take out the Shiraishi lighthouse and instead erect a Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your retirees huddled in nursing homes. . ."
These people may be old, they may be crazy, but they'll never give up their island. This is the place that allows them to continue living on their own.
The other day an old woman wandered into the ferry port office. She had lost her way home. The ferry port manager called her by name, came out of his office to calm her down, then took her by the arm and walked her home.
I feel glad that these older people live on a small island where they can still get by on their own. Because even if they can't fend for themselves, there's always someone else who can fend for them.
[LIFE IN JAPAN]
Saturday, May 30, 2009
WHEN EAST MARRIES WEST
A look at the outside and the in
By THOMAS DILLON
"Honne and tatemae" are terms that many feel are linchpinned to the Japanese psyche.
The first — honne — refers to the intimate truth of the soul, one's uttermost honest feelings, the rough skin under all the powder and rouge.
The second — tatemae — is the face one shows to the world. That toothy grin that perhaps hides one's desire to bite. Analogous to the aluminum siding that helps the house gleam on the surface, while the inside bursts with termites.
One wrinkle to these terms is that many Japanese feel that theirs is the only culture to be so Jekyll-and-Hyde-ish.
Some Japanese can be goofy that way. Like those who believe Japan is the only land with four seasons. Or those that claim the Japanese language is so tough that not even Japanese can speak it well. A claim they always communicate in sparkling Japanese.
But every culture has honne and tatemae. It's as human as flatulence. Which could mean that some people are more human than others.
I, for example, have a lot of . . . honne and tatemae. It waltzes through my life like a New York debutant, smiling while her partner tromps upon her foot. Tatemae cancels out the honne. At least from the outside.
But oh if only someone could peek on the inside . . .
I stand picking at stale munchies as the only foreigner at the party, when I notice this troll of a fellow edging my way and fidgeting with his plate. I catch the body language at once. He's going to trap me in the corner and practice his English.
So I gaze the other way and pray for rescue. Or that perhaps some construction crane will topple in the wind and rip the building in half. Maybe if I focus my willpower, the wind will blow and a crane will fall and this man will be sucked into the chasm. Or I will. Anything to get away. Maybe . . .
Yes? Oh, how do you do? Nice to meet you. Why, yes, it's a splendid party. Just delightful. I agree. Have you tried the rice crackers? Superb, aren't they? Good napkins too. Oh, no, I don't mind. Not at all. And your English sounds quite fluent to me. As clear as crystal.
But if the letter "L" had life, you'd be wanted for murder. And are those vowels in your mouth? Or marbles? I've heard better sounds from forks jammed in the disposal. Yet I enjoy the way you spit when you speak. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I am on a distant beach being sprayed by surf. And not caught in this corner.
My hometown? Chicago, kind of. Oh yes, that's right. Chicago was home to Al Capone. You know well. No, I never met him. Not once. Unfortunately. That's been a while ago. Oh? You have been to Vancouver? For 10 days? No wonder you speak English so well.
And it's a wonder the Canadians let you escape. They are sensitive people and don't care to see any language butchered, let alone one of their own. If you'd been there any longer, I am sure they would have fed you to the bears. Bears are not sensitive, you see. They will eat anyone. Even someone with a necktie as bright as yours.
Oh, you teach English. I should have guessed. At your home. To small children. It sounds fascinating. Well . . . I am busy. But sure. Sometime, if it worked out, I'd enjoy meeting your students. I bet they're cute. And, yes, I'd love to speak with them and let them practice.
Just about as much as I'd love to take a power drill to my knee. I can't believe people pay you money to teach. Are you sure the money's real? Maybe the entire neighborhood is playing you for a joke. I'd check if I were you.
What? You have to go? So soon? Oh, too bad! I'll just have to eat all this great food myself. Uh, sorry, I don't have a name card. But thanks for yours. I'll be sure to get in touch. I'm glad we met. It was nice talking to you.
What luck! I was just about to throw myself on my chopsticks. I'll just drop h is card on the table. Who knows? Maybe someone will eat it. It looks better than the crackers. Probably is too. Now, how to get out of here?
Oh, you're back! You misread your wristwatch! Ha, ha. Yes, I do that all the time. You have another hour? Wonderful. No, wait! I'll get you more crackers myself. You just stay here. No, no. It's my pleasure. Honest. . . .
Or as honest as my tatemae will allow.
My honne, on the other hand, hopes the only thing I have to kill is an hour.
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