Today, I was sorting out my mailbox and some old messages I sent to my crush (during fights) came up. I was terrified. Some messages were awful and just really terrifying that I actually started laughing. (I'm glad he's still my good friend.) Later that evening, I heard a rather heartbreaking (but at the same time funny) story from my mother:
My grandmother takes 気功 lessons (it's a kind of Chinese exercise) and she fell in love with the instructor. The problem was, he didn't like her back. Well, at least not in that kind of way. And to make things worse, it got a bit complicated because my grandma ended up confessing due to jealousy. Two weeks ago, she and the instructor and this other woman (we'll call her Satoko) had lunch together, and the instructor ate Satoko's pickles. My grandma told the instructor not to (it made her jealous for some reason), and he asked her why. Later that day, he called my grandma to tell her he thought she was being a bit mean to Satoko. And that really hurt my grandma. (She also didn't like the fact that the instructor seemed to pay extra attention to Satoko which is probably because she has some mild aftereffects of a stroke.) So she decided to write this looong letter saying how much of a great person she was -- she had never ever been mean to anyone -- and she wrote down all her life time accomplishments, how she had raised three great daughters, how great their husbands were and so on, ending the letter with a list of people she had recruited to the 気功 club and insisting how much she had contributed to the growth of it. She also asked the instructor to "treat all students fairly", confessed her feelings for him (that was the main part actually), and faxed it.
The instructor wrote her back, but he didn't really know how to use the fax machine, and this is where things went out of control. His letter didn't reach my grandma, and so she got really upset and mad and sent more letters and started saying bad things about him behind his back. She was awfully depressed and couldn't do anything by herself. She was thrown into multiple panic attacks -- she would suddenly forget how to stop the fire while she was making tea -- and was getting extremely forgetful in general. So my mom ended up calling the instructor to talk to him and asked him to send the fax again. His response was a bit cold anyway ("I like your bright smile, BUT I am only your instructor; every student is equally important to me"), and my grandma is now so embarrassed that the whole family knows the story (though I don't think she expects it to have reached all the way down to me!) and she just wants a hole to hide in.
When I heard all this from my mother, the first thought that came to my mind was -- wow, maybe I inherited that terrifying-letter-writing gene. But the next thought was, I wonder if I would still fall in love when I'm 85. I have a hard time falling in love even now. I mean, I guess I was kind of obsessive with my crush, but he was really an exception; I'm actually almost sure that I will never be that way with anyone else.
2014年5月25日日曜日
2014年3月14日金曜日
aging
Spending a lot of time with my mother and grandmother during spring break, I have realized little by little what aging means: my mother is facing her mid life crisis and my grandmother is almost on the verge of becoming senile -- both my future self if I live long enough.
This morning during breakfast, my mom talked about a conversation between a woman who lives in the same apartment building. My mom and her are both housewives, but when my mom used to work as a language teacher, the woman used to ask her why she worked so hard. She asked how much she made with one lesson, and saw no value in keeping oneself busy for so little money. "We can't do anything much. We shouldn't expect too much from ourselves" she used to say. Every time, my mother thought: I'm different.
But now, she is having difficulties accepting the reality, that she was no different in the end. She was just one of the many housewives and the realization kills her with regret, shame and bitter feelings. I can say very little to her that makes her feel better.
On the other hand, my grandma had a very fulfilling life career-wise. But since she is not used to doing the housework (my mother always helped her with that since she was a child) she finds it difficult to do it now. She has also become increasingly forgetful. She still enjoys dressing up and cares a great deal about how she looks, and she also notices small stuff like the small pimple on my forehead (which she insisted was growing: "Are you just going to let it get fatter?") and whatnot, but spending time with her really teaches me what it means to get close to death. I guess it's a process of losing -- losing memories and skills/abilities and precious people you could share your memories with.
I felt slightly emotional as I watched her practice putting on her pearl necklace she had to wear for a funeral. Although we discovered that she could do it when she brought the clasp in front of her, she insisted she could do it with the clasp at the back and kept trying.
Looking at it from the other side though, it's the process of learning again, which rewards her (and those around her) with the joy of reaching a small goal every time she finds a way to overcome her new difficulties.
Life is maybe an endless learning process until the very moment death picks you up.
This morning during breakfast, my mom talked about a conversation between a woman who lives in the same apartment building. My mom and her are both housewives, but when my mom used to work as a language teacher, the woman used to ask her why she worked so hard. She asked how much she made with one lesson, and saw no value in keeping oneself busy for so little money. "We can't do anything much. We shouldn't expect too much from ourselves" she used to say. Every time, my mother thought: I'm different.
But now, she is having difficulties accepting the reality, that she was no different in the end. She was just one of the many housewives and the realization kills her with regret, shame and bitter feelings. I can say very little to her that makes her feel better.
On the other hand, my grandma had a very fulfilling life career-wise. But since she is not used to doing the housework (my mother always helped her with that since she was a child) she finds it difficult to do it now. She has also become increasingly forgetful. She still enjoys dressing up and cares a great deal about how she looks, and she also notices small stuff like the small pimple on my forehead (which she insisted was growing: "Are you just going to let it get fatter?") and whatnot, but spending time with her really teaches me what it means to get close to death. I guess it's a process of losing -- losing memories and skills/abilities and precious people you could share your memories with.
I felt slightly emotional as I watched her practice putting on her pearl necklace she had to wear for a funeral. Although we discovered that she could do it when she brought the clasp in front of her, she insisted she could do it with the clasp at the back and kept trying.
Looking at it from the other side though, it's the process of learning again, which rewards her (and those around her) with the joy of reaching a small goal every time she finds a way to overcome her new difficulties.
Life is maybe an endless learning process until the very moment death picks you up.
2014年1月12日日曜日
komachi
Last Tuesday, I was talking with my father on the phone when he excitedly told me that he had found an interesting post on Online Yomiuri. It was about a sixteen year old female Shiba dog named Komachi. She had died this year on New Year's Day, and the post was written by the adult son of the owner family, showing his thanks to Komachi (you can read the original post here).
Now we have a very close family friend (the H family) who has a female Shiba dog named Komachi who happens to be around fifteen. Last time my mother met Mrs. H, she had told my mother that Komachi had become very old and weak.
"What do you think?" My father asked from the other end. I said it must be one of the sons in the family that had written the post. "But it can't be M; H is too busy; it must be Y!" We talked over how we should comfort them and discussed what would be the best way to inform the poster that we knew him. "Maybe we could post a response by the name Y!"
In the end, my mother decided to call Mrs. H. My father told my mother that she should be careful with her words since Mrs. H must be in deep grief. They talked about how to start the conversation and how to bring the topic up. "You shouldn't have to bring it up; she would be bursting into tears the moment she hears your voice."
When my mother finally called Mrs. H, she answered with her usual cheery voice. My mother instantly knew it wasn't their Komachi that had died. And this was the message we got:
Broccoli家の皆様
To the Broccoli Family
あけましておめでとうございます。
昨年は家族がお世話になりました。
私こまちはヨボヨボしながらもこのように元気にしています。
今年は百歳目指してがんばりますのでよろしくお願いします。
素敵な一年になりますように。
こまち
Komachi
So we wrote back:
こまち様
Dear Komachi
あけましておめでとうございます。
今朝はとんでもない犬違いをしてすみませんでした。
お元気そうで何よりです。あなたの穏やかな表情を見て安心しました。
ご家族にたくさんの愛情を注がれて素敵なおばあちゃんになられたのですね。
百歳までお元気で長生きしてください。
Happy New Year!
We're sorry to have awfully mistaken you for another dog.
We're glad you're doing well. It's very nice to see the peaceful look on your face.
Your family must have loved you a lot; you seem to have grown to be a very charming grandma.
Please be well and live until 100 (and hopefully longer).
Broccoli家
The Broccoli Family
Now we have a very close family friend (the H family) who has a female Shiba dog named Komachi who happens to be around fifteen. Last time my mother met Mrs. H, she had told my mother that Komachi had become very old and weak.
"What do you think?" My father asked from the other end. I said it must be one of the sons in the family that had written the post. "But it can't be M; H is too busy; it must be Y!" We talked over how we should comfort them and discussed what would be the best way to inform the poster that we knew him. "Maybe we could post a response by the name Y!"
In the end, my mother decided to call Mrs. H. My father told my mother that she should be careful with her words since Mrs. H must be in deep grief. They talked about how to start the conversation and how to bring the topic up. "You shouldn't have to bring it up; she would be bursting into tears the moment she hears your voice."
When my mother finally called Mrs. H, she answered with her usual cheery voice. My mother instantly knew it wasn't their Komachi that had died. And this was the message we got:
Broccoli家の皆様
To the Broccoli Family
あけましておめでとうございます。
昨年は家族がお世話になりました。
私こまちはヨボヨボしながらもこのように元気にしています。
今年は百歳目指してがんばりますのでよろしくお願いします。
素敵な一年になりますように。
Happy New Year!
I always really appreciate your kindness for my family.
I've been doddering but am still doing well.
I'm looking forward to becoming 100 years old this year.
I wish you a wonderful New Year.
Komachi
So we wrote back:
こまち様
Dear Komachi
あけましておめでとうございます。
今朝はとんでもない犬違いをしてすみませんでした。
お元気そうで何よりです。あなたの穏やかな表情を見て安心しました。
ご家族にたくさんの愛情を注がれて素敵なおばあちゃんになられたのですね。
百歳までお元気で長生きしてください。
Happy New Year!
We're sorry to have awfully mistaken you for another dog.
We're glad you're doing well. It's very nice to see the peaceful look on your face.
Your family must have loved you a lot; you seem to have grown to be a very charming grandma.
Please be well and live until 100 (and hopefully longer).
Broccoli家
The Broccoli Family
2014年1月11日土曜日
mom's great ideas
My mother is a great mom. By which I don't mean we always get along well. In fact, we still argue sometimes. But I'm very grateful to her to have always been honest to me. She has always tried her best to be a perfect mom, and yet she has been brave enough to show me that she is just another human being with many flaws and weaknesses. I'll probably get into this deeper some other time -- today, I want to write about some of my mother's great ideas that I recalled lately when I was back home.
☆ My first halloween costume
The second October we spent in New Zealand, I had my first halloween costume parade at school. I actually don't know if it was my mother or my father that first came up with the idea, but they decided to dress me as Momotaro, literally translated as Peachboy. In the famous Japanese fairy tale, he is born from a peach an old couple finds floating down the river, and grows up to go off on an adventure to fight the demons.
He wasn't my hero or anything; I didn't want to dress as a boy in the first place, and I did protest, but my parents were convinced that they had come up with the most awesome idea. My mother picked up a brush and wrote "桃太郎(Momotaro)" proudly on a large white piece of paper so I could hold it as a flag just like Momotaro did in his story. She dressed me in a small kimono I had worn two years before for shichigosan* and said my pink pajama pants would match perfectly.
So that was that. I went to school the next day dressed as Momotaro. Of course, no one knew who he was. I looked around at my female classmates nicely dressed as Snow White, Cinderella, Tinkerbell... They all looked back at me as if to ask "Who are you?" but after all, I think everyone was too busy admiring themselves.
From then on, I never asked for help on halloween costumes. A couple of years later when we were abroad again, I wore another kimono and dressed as something like Kaguyahime (another character in a Japanese fairy tale but not a boy), and when I was out of Japanese fairy tale characters, I chose a vegetable: a carrot. And of course everyone knew what and who a carrot was.
☆ Fart art
When I was back from New Zealand, I once had to write a poem for Japanese class. I didn't enjoy any form of writing back then. Japanese class was a pain. When my mother read what I had written for my homework, she didn't really like it -- it lacked uniqueness. She picked up a collection of poems by Shuntaro Tanikawa, read me a couple of his works, and said I should write a poem about farts. I don't think she said it like that, but that was what I ended up doing anyway. I guess I thought it was a great idea too.
But very few third graders appreciate the art of fart. Not many teachers have poetic sensibility like Tanizaki. And most of all, not many eight-year-olds can be truly confident in what they've created -- especially when it's "controversial art".
At school the next day, a boy sitting next to me glanced at my open notebook and said we weren't allowed to write about dirty stuff like farts. When the teacher asked me to read out my poem, I turned the page over and read a different one -- probably something boring and ordinary, but something that was not about farts.
*Shichigosan（七五三） is a celebration for three, five and seven year olds. Back when the death rate of children was still high in Japan, they started celebrating the health and growth of children who managed to live up to these ages. I guess nowadays in an age when parents expect a lot more from their children, it's a good occasion to remind them that a couple of years ago, before their kids were even born, they only wished they would be born healthy -- just that and nothing more.
☆ My first halloween costume
The second October we spent in New Zealand, I had my first halloween costume parade at school. I actually don't know if it was my mother or my father that first came up with the idea, but they decided to dress me as Momotaro, literally translated as Peachboy. In the famous Japanese fairy tale, he is born from a peach an old couple finds floating down the river, and grows up to go off on an adventure to fight the demons.
He wasn't my hero or anything; I didn't want to dress as a boy in the first place, and I did protest, but my parents were convinced that they had come up with the most awesome idea. My mother picked up a brush and wrote "桃太郎(Momotaro)" proudly on a large white piece of paper so I could hold it as a flag just like Momotaro did in his story. She dressed me in a small kimono I had worn two years before for shichigosan* and said my pink pajama pants would match perfectly.
So that was that. I went to school the next day dressed as Momotaro. Of course, no one knew who he was. I looked around at my female classmates nicely dressed as Snow White, Cinderella, Tinkerbell... They all looked back at me as if to ask "Who are you?" but after all, I think everyone was too busy admiring themselves.
From then on, I never asked for help on halloween costumes. A couple of years later when we were abroad again, I wore another kimono and dressed as something like Kaguyahime (another character in a Japanese fairy tale but not a boy), and when I was out of Japanese fairy tale characters, I chose a vegetable: a carrot. And of course everyone knew what and who a carrot was.
☆ Fart art
When I was back from New Zealand, I once had to write a poem for Japanese class. I didn't enjoy any form of writing back then. Japanese class was a pain. When my mother read what I had written for my homework, she didn't really like it -- it lacked uniqueness. She picked up a collection of poems by Shuntaro Tanikawa, read me a couple of his works, and said I should write a poem about farts. I don't think she said it like that, but that was what I ended up doing anyway. I guess I thought it was a great idea too.
But very few third graders appreciate the art of fart. Not many teachers have poetic sensibility like Tanizaki. And most of all, not many eight-year-olds can be truly confident in what they've created -- especially when it's "controversial art".
At school the next day, a boy sitting next to me glanced at my open notebook and said we weren't allowed to write about dirty stuff like farts. When the teacher asked me to read out my poem, I turned the page over and read a different one -- probably something boring and ordinary, but something that was not about farts.
*Shichigosan（七五三） is a celebration for three, five and seven year olds. Back when the death rate of children was still high in Japan, they started celebrating the health and growth of children who managed to live up to these ages. I guess nowadays in an age when parents expect a lot more from their children, it's a good occasion to remind them that a couple of years ago, before their kids were even born, they only wished they would be born healthy -- just that and nothing more.
2014年1月10日金曜日
missing bike
When Tokyo ran for the 2020 Olympics, the presenters emphasized that Japan was the safest country in the world -- that lost wallets were returned untouched. One of my classmates got her bike "stolen" about a month ago, only to have it found on a random hill a month later. The police called her the other day so she could pick it up. The missing-bike incident reminded me of my own:
It was the summer before the last. When I couldn't find my bike at our apartment building parking lot, I asked my mother if she had used it. She said no. The creepy part was that my bike was super old (unlike my friend's brand new one). There were tons of new good looking bicycles in our parking area so I thought a stranger who was secretly in love with me had decided to take my bike. Detective M (my mother)'s guess was that since my bike was from another area (it said so on the sticker), a group of Chinese men had come to steal it, thinking it would less likely be tracked down. My mother made a big deal out of "the case" and asked the caretaker of the building to be careful about the bikes. She also ended up making my father call the management company.
While the detective took a shower though, my father and I had a calm conversation, and he told me about an embarrassing incident: a few weeks before, he went to the station on his bike, went to work, came back, got on his bike, dropped by Matsuya to have a hamburg steak, and walked back home. The next morning when his bike was missing, he told the caretaker that his bike had been stolen. That was exactly when he remembered he had left it at Matsuya the night before.
So I tried to recall again about the last time I used my bike (which was about a week before). I had gone to sell a bag of old clothes: I had gone up a long slope, walked 15 minutes under the burning sun, arrived at the store sweating like a hippo in heat, and got only 380 yen, which was more of a shock than a disappointment. Of course I didn't forget to pick up my bike because otherwise, I would've had to use that 380yen to buy a train ticket. So I tried to recall if I went anywhere after selling the clothes, and finally remembered that I had gone to the supermarket to buy some bread my mother had asked for.
Since it was around midnight, my father came with me to the supermarket to pick up my bike. He half hoped the bike had really disappeared because he didn't think he could endure the embarrassement. But my bike was surely there, alone under the moonlight. What were we going to tell the caretaker?
Scenario1: just leave the bike where he would notice and have him call us the next morning (and I would keep acting like a victim)
Scenario2: I will say I found it at the supermarket -- that someone must have decided to ride my bike there and left it (and I would never say that was, in fact, me)
Scenario3: just apologize.
I took scenario3, but it wasn't that embarrassing after all. The caretaker, in fact, didn't seem to be all that interested in my bike.
So anyway, "stolen" bikes do get found in Japan, one way or the other.
It was the summer before the last. When I couldn't find my bike at our apartment building parking lot, I asked my mother if she had used it. She said no. The creepy part was that my bike was super old (unlike my friend's brand new one). There were tons of new good looking bicycles in our parking area so I thought a stranger who was secretly in love with me had decided to take my bike. Detective M (my mother)'s guess was that since my bike was from another area (it said so on the sticker), a group of Chinese men had come to steal it, thinking it would less likely be tracked down. My mother made a big deal out of "the case" and asked the caretaker of the building to be careful about the bikes. She also ended up making my father call the management company.
While the detective took a shower though, my father and I had a calm conversation, and he told me about an embarrassing incident: a few weeks before, he went to the station on his bike, went to work, came back, got on his bike, dropped by Matsuya to have a hamburg steak, and walked back home. The next morning when his bike was missing, he told the caretaker that his bike had been stolen. That was exactly when he remembered he had left it at Matsuya the night before.
So I tried to recall again about the last time I used my bike (which was about a week before). I had gone to sell a bag of old clothes: I had gone up a long slope, walked 15 minutes under the burning sun, arrived at the store sweating like a hippo in heat, and got only 380 yen, which was more of a shock than a disappointment. Of course I didn't forget to pick up my bike because otherwise, I would've had to use that 380yen to buy a train ticket. So I tried to recall if I went anywhere after selling the clothes, and finally remembered that I had gone to the supermarket to buy some bread my mother had asked for.
Since it was around midnight, my father came with me to the supermarket to pick up my bike. He half hoped the bike had really disappeared because he didn't think he could endure the embarrassement. But my bike was surely there, alone under the moonlight. What were we going to tell the caretaker?
Scenario1: just leave the bike where he would notice and have him call us the next morning (and I would keep acting like a victim)
Scenario2: I will say I found it at the supermarket -- that someone must have decided to ride my bike there and left it (and I would never say that was, in fact, me)
Scenario3: just apologize.
I took scenario3, but it wasn't that embarrassing after all. The caretaker, in fact, didn't seem to be all that interested in my bike.
So anyway, "stolen" bikes do get found in Japan, one way or the other.
2014年1月6日月曜日
wonders
Happy New Year! I hope everyone reading this had a wonderful holiday with their loved ones. 今年もよろしくお願いします。
Every year on New Year's Day, the whole family on my mother's side gather. We used to get together at my aunt's place (because it was the only place that so many people could fit in -- yes, we live in tiny apartments) or my grandmother's place (when my cousins were away managing their own families), but for the past couple of years, we've been gathering at a restaurant where they serve osechi (special New Year's food). It's better because then, no one has to feel the responsibility to prepare fancy foods. Nor does anyone have to spoil their first day of the year being compared in terms of cooking abilities (-- every family cooks the same thing around New Year's, and my now 85 year old grandmother loved to compare and judge whose osechi was the best).
Anyway, this New Year's Day gathering is the only occasion I see my cousins and their kids. I'm not especially fond of children (especially after being exposed to some random nausea-causing virus at the pediatric department), so I'm totally awkward around them. I don't know what to say to these human-looking creatures. They're cute, but it's kind of like talking to a dog, and I don't do that. Of course, they don't even know who I am. Thank goodness the six-year-old is starting to form some memories. Not that I hate introducing myself all over again every time a new year starts.
Putting my own awkwardness aside, I've noticed that I actually do enjoy watching these near-humans actually become humans -- as in beings that can distinguish "you" and "I", express themselves in words, call people by their names, and whatnot*. They start to think and wonder about funny stuff in a very reasonable way.
My uncle in law happens to be French, and the six-year-old above asked, as we left the restraurant, if he was married to anyone (in the family). I could almost see inside his head -- after six years of living in this world, he had learned that 1. there were different races, 2. a family was a group of people who were related biologically or by marriage, and 3. Asians bred Asians. "So if this white guy happens to be a family member he must be married to someone... but who???"
It reminds me of things I used to wonder when I was his age, or a bit younger. I moved to New Zealand when I was four, and I'm not sure at what point I realized the concept of race. I still remember about when we went camping with another family. One night, the daughter (one of my best friends) and I were having a shower, and the mother suddenly started laughing at my blue butt. But Mongoloid kids are supposed to have blue butts, and I had been told that the color went away when you "grew up". So I looked at my friend's white butt and (since we were the same age) took it as a sign that she was mentally mature but that I was still a "child". I was enormously embarrassed. Maybe my parents told me afterwards that it was a matter of race; I may or may not have understood the concept. I don't remember. All I remember is that some of my Japanese friends had also lost their color before me, and I'd been sensitive about my butt color even before coming to New Zealand.
Anyway, I wish everybody a year full of new wonders and discoveries!
*In case I offended anyone, I did not mean to say that people without these abilities are not humans. I just meant to emphasize the fact that humans (compared to other animals) often change considerably in the course of growing up.
Every year on New Year's Day, the whole family on my mother's side gather. We used to get together at my aunt's place (because it was the only place that so many people could fit in -- yes, we live in tiny apartments) or my grandmother's place (when my cousins were away managing their own families), but for the past couple of years, we've been gathering at a restaurant where they serve osechi (special New Year's food). It's better because then, no one has to feel the responsibility to prepare fancy foods. Nor does anyone have to spoil their first day of the year being compared in terms of cooking abilities (-- every family cooks the same thing around New Year's, and my now 85 year old grandmother loved to compare and judge whose osechi was the best).
Anyway, this New Year's Day gathering is the only occasion I see my cousins and their kids. I'm not especially fond of children (especially after being exposed to some random nausea-causing virus at the pediatric department), so I'm totally awkward around them. I don't know what to say to these human-looking creatures. They're cute, but it's kind of like talking to a dog, and I don't do that. Of course, they don't even know who I am. Thank goodness the six-year-old is starting to form some memories. Not that I hate introducing myself all over again every time a new year starts.
Putting my own awkwardness aside, I've noticed that I actually do enjoy watching these near-humans actually become humans -- as in beings that can distinguish "you" and "I", express themselves in words, call people by their names, and whatnot*. They start to think and wonder about funny stuff in a very reasonable way.
My uncle in law happens to be French, and the six-year-old above asked, as we left the restraurant, if he was married to anyone (in the family). I could almost see inside his head -- after six years of living in this world, he had learned that 1. there were different races, 2. a family was a group of people who were related biologically or by marriage, and 3. Asians bred Asians. "So if this white guy happens to be a family member he must be married to someone... but who???"
It reminds me of things I used to wonder when I was his age, or a bit younger. I moved to New Zealand when I was four, and I'm not sure at what point I realized the concept of race. I still remember about when we went camping with another family. One night, the daughter (one of my best friends) and I were having a shower, and the mother suddenly started laughing at my blue butt. But Mongoloid kids are supposed to have blue butts, and I had been told that the color went away when you "grew up". So I looked at my friend's white butt and (since we were the same age) took it as a sign that she was mentally mature but that I was still a "child". I was enormously embarrassed. Maybe my parents told me afterwards that it was a matter of race; I may or may not have understood the concept. I don't remember. All I remember is that some of my Japanese friends had also lost their color before me, and I'd been sensitive about my butt color even before coming to New Zealand.
Anyway, I wish everybody a year full of new wonders and discoveries!
*In case I offended anyone, I did not mean to say that people without these abilities are not humans. I just meant to emphasize the fact that humans (compared to other animals) often change considerably in the course of growing up.
2013年12月25日水曜日
santa claus
The earliest memory I have of Santa Claus dates back to when I was four. I don't remember what my present was, but I remember the card he gave me and what I said about it to my mother: "Mommy, Santa's handwriting looks just like yours!" If I remember correctly, I was pretty persistent about it. We lived in New Zealand at that time, and I had already created an image that Caucasians spoke in English so I was also slightly surprised that Santa wrote in Japanese.
The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later. It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog. When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers. I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa. It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.
A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal. Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro). It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market. I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.
The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper. I wondered if Santa had been too busy. Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?
Another year passed and we were now living in France. I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store. But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy. Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel. When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree. Only that it was obviously from a local toy store. And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.
The next year, Santa didn't come. Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in. It was on our way back home from school. When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa. My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily. Tears rolled down my face. It was just a couple days before Christmas.
When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed. I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left. I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years. The presents.
And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry. On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination. The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could. The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.
The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later. It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog. When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers. I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa. It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.
A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal. Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro). It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market. I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.
The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper. I wondered if Santa had been too busy. Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?
Another year passed and we were now living in France. I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store. But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy. Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel. When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree. Only that it was obviously from a local toy store. And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.
The next year, Santa didn't come. Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in. It was on our way back home from school. When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa. My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily. Tears rolled down my face. It was just a couple days before Christmas.
When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed. I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left. I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years. The presents.
And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry. On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination. The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could. The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.
2013年12月19日木曜日
back home
My father and I are like best friends. When I come back home during breaks, we have a great time talking about all kinds of things. I can have enjoyable conversations with other people too, but the ones I have with my father are somewhat special -- I can often tell what my father is thinking before he says it and he can also tell what I have in mind, and still, it never gets boring. We even share pretty extreme opinions sometimes, but my father is more extreme, and I probably enjoy the balance between the predictable and the unpredictable.
My mother is often surprised to see how much we think alike. She makes fun of us when our conversations heat up, or when my father gets excited and keeps talking to me the first day I come back. Today was one of those days. My father kept talking about a paper on swine roundworms as we ate breakfast.
Mom: お友達が帰ってきてうれしいね (You're so happy your friend's back, aren't you?) It's such a pity you have to go to kindergarten.
Dad: It's too bad I have a school play tomorrow.
Me: You're in it too?
Dad: No, I'm just one of the audiences. ...Usually anyone can come but we're restricting the entrance for swine roundworm because --
Mom (to me): His school play stories aren't that interesting, so concentrate on eating and finish that breakfast.
In a way, it's actually like my mom raised us both. My parents remind me that people do change with patience and commitment and time. Not because he's asked to, but because it makes things easier, or it's the only way to be with someone. Maybe it's kind of like evolution.
My mother is often surprised to see how much we think alike. She makes fun of us when our conversations heat up, or when my father gets excited and keeps talking to me the first day I come back. Today was one of those days. My father kept talking about a paper on swine roundworms as we ate breakfast.
Mom: お友達が帰ってきてうれしいね (You're so happy your friend's back, aren't you?) It's such a pity you have to go to kindergarten.
Dad: It's too bad I have a school play tomorrow.
Me: You're in it too?
Dad: No, I'm just one of the audiences. ...Usually anyone can come but we're restricting the entrance for swine roundworm because --
Mom (to me): His school play stories aren't that interesting, so concentrate on eating and finish that breakfast.
In a way, it's actually like my mom raised us both. My parents remind me that people do change with patience and commitment and time. Not because he's asked to, but because it makes things easier, or it's the only way to be with someone. Maybe it's kind of like evolution.
2013年5月19日日曜日
weeds
Another brief conversation with my mother (and father):
(I've been studying all day for my microbe test while my father apparently has been doing some weeding. My mother calls.)
Mom: Your father has been lecturing me about weeding. あなたの父親、草に関する講釈がすごいんだけど
Me: Well too bad, he has nothing to talk about but weeds. しょうがないよ、草以外話すことないんでしょ
Mom: Remember the bunch of reddish-brown clovers? He says you have to dig it from the root. Otherwise, they sprout again. 赤っぽいクローバー覚えてるでしょ？根っこから取らないとまたすぐ生えてくるって
Me: Yeah... So have you ever heard of echinococcosis? ねえ、エキノコッカス症って知ってる？
Mom: ...Maybe you should talk to your father. ・・・ちょっとお父さんにかわるわ
Dad: Of course I've heard of it. It's popular in Hokkaido! 知ってるよ。北海道に多いやつでしょ
One good thing about being in a similar field as your father is that you can enjoy some very intriguing conversations with him about helminths.
One bad thing about having a vet husband and a would-be doctor daughter is that you have to listen about weeds and helminths when you care about neither.
Not that being a vet and loving weed-talks exactly go hand in hand.
And just for the honor of my father, he *does* have more than weeds to talk about. Much much more. I don't think he even likes talking about weeds...
(I've been studying all day for my microbe test while my father apparently has been doing some weeding. My mother calls.)
Mom: Your father has been lecturing me about weeding. あなたの父親、草に関する講釈がすごいんだけど
Me: Well too bad, he has nothing to talk about but weeds. しょうがないよ、草以外話すことないんでしょ
Mom: Remember the bunch of reddish-brown clovers? He says you have to dig it from the root. Otherwise, they sprout again. 赤っぽいクローバー覚えてるでしょ？根っこから取らないとまたすぐ生えてくるって
Me: Yeah... So have you ever heard of echinococcosis? ねえ、エキノコッカス症って知ってる？
Mom: ...Maybe you should talk to your father. ・・・ちょっとお父さんにかわるわ
Dad: Of course I've heard of it. It's popular in Hokkaido! 知ってるよ。北海道に多いやつでしょ
One good thing about being in a similar field as your father is that you can enjoy some very intriguing conversations with him about helminths.
One bad thing about having a vet husband and a would-be doctor daughter is that you have to listen about weeds and helminths when you care about neither.
Not that being a vet and loving weed-talks exactly go hand in hand.
And just for the honor of my father, he *does* have more than weeds to talk about. Much much more. I don't think he even likes talking about weeds...
2013年5月18日土曜日
sweat-drenched
A brief conversation with my mother:
Background info -- she and I used to go to a women-only gym called Curves before I moved. I quit but she still goes; she's a really earnest Curves believer. She even went to the one near my place when she visited me, and people watched her in amazement. They asked her if all Curvies were so serious in Tokyo. "And those gloves, they look really pro." If you ask me, she *is* a pro. She even has her own original hip-swaying step that some people crave to try while others just stare. I have yet to see anyone else at Curves who's as intense as her. And I think it's pretty cool that she never cares how ugly she looks or how much stares she gets while she exercises sweat-drenched. Not that she's *that* ugly... It's actually rather heart-lifting to see a middle-aged woman shaking away her hip fiercely.
Mom: We're not gonna have dollars anymore.
Me: Dollars? What dollars?
Mom: Curves.
Me: ...Oh, that's disappointing. So you're not gonna get anymore Tshirts? Sounds like they're being stingier.
Mom: But the owner made another gym right in front of your alma mater.
Me: Really?
Mom: Yeah, she's gonna be even richer by making more of us pigs run around.
Me: ...I might go there once I become a doctor and save enough money to get another degree.
Mom: You're going to study AGAIN? I thought you were going to work.
Me: I said AFTER I work and save enough money. I'm planning to get a master's online while working and then go back to get a PhD -- if I really feel like it. But I might have a wedding and some babies in between. So I'm gonna be like what, forty? Or maybe fifty.
Mom: その時はもうなくなってるかもね (= I might be dead by then / It might be closed by then)
Me: You're gonna be in your seventies. Oh wait, did you mean --
Mom: Yeah, I was talking about Curves.
Me: You're right, it might be closed!
Mom: And I might be dead from overwork. But you can still go to Curves and remember me -- how devoted and diligent and serious I was with that circuit training.
And with life, I suppose. I really respect how she does her best every single day.
Background info -- she and I used to go to a women-only gym called Curves before I moved. I quit but she still goes; she's a really earnest Curves believer. She even went to the one near my place when she visited me, and people watched her in amazement. They asked her if all Curvies were so serious in Tokyo. "And those gloves, they look really pro." If you ask me, she *is* a pro. She even has her own original hip-swaying step that some people crave to try while others just stare. I have yet to see anyone else at Curves who's as intense as her. And I think it's pretty cool that she never cares how ugly she looks or how much stares she gets while she exercises sweat-drenched. Not that she's *that* ugly... It's actually rather heart-lifting to see a middle-aged woman shaking away her hip fiercely.
Mom: We're not gonna have dollars anymore.
Me: Dollars? What dollars?
Mom: Curves.
Me: ...Oh, that's disappointing. So you're not gonna get anymore Tshirts? Sounds like they're being stingier.
Mom: But the owner made another gym right in front of your alma mater.
Me: Really?
Mom: Yeah, she's gonna be even richer by making more of us pigs run around.
Me: ...I might go there once I become a doctor and save enough money to get another degree.
Mom: You're going to study AGAIN? I thought you were going to work.
Me: I said AFTER I work and save enough money. I'm planning to get a master's online while working and then go back to get a PhD -- if I really feel like it. But I might have a wedding and some babies in between. So I'm gonna be like what, forty? Or maybe fifty.
Mom: その時はもうなくなってるかもね (= I might be dead by then / It might be closed by then)
Me: You're gonna be in your seventies. Oh wait, did you mean --
Mom: Yeah, I was talking about Curves.
Me: You're right, it might be closed!
Mom: And I might be dead from overwork. But you can still go to Curves and remember me -- how devoted and diligent and serious I was with that circuit training.
And with life, I suppose. I really respect how she does her best every single day.
2013年3月24日日曜日
nothing important
So I was trying to put this seal over my ipad today (they recommended I put it on to keep the screen clean) and my dad sort of tried to help me, but we kind of messed up and ended up getting a lot of dust-like particles on the seal, hence a lot of blisters between the seal and the ipad. Now I realize this sounds どうでもいい(nothing important). But we both sort of got upset with the situation. "It looks like my ipad has chicken pox."
"Can't you just push those air out?"
"I can't!"
"Well, look. It says you should only peel 5cm first, and then stick the seal little by little. You peeled too much"
"Yeah, I should've read the directions more carefully... but you were too stubborn about keeping that part in the right place; it doesn't work that way because see? ..."
"I think I should've done it"
I don't care a bit about the chicken pox now, but it seemed like the biggest problem on earth just a couple of hours ago.
And it reminded us both about an incident that occurred 15 years ago: I wanted to put a round sticker on the plastic body of a little measure, and I was wondering how I could stick it right in the middle. Dad came along saying he would do a great job. I trusted him with all my heart and handed him the measure and the sticker. He did it pretty carefully - I still remember. But when he handed it back to me, the sticker was not in the middle. It was stuck slightly to the right (or left). I think I tried to take it off and re-do it but the damage had already been done.
I remembered it as one of the very few incidents my dad disappointed me. He remembered it from the other side: "You looked at me with very sad eyes - it was a traumatic experience. That's why I wasn't confident enough today"
It's funny how we remember these kinds of things that aren't important at all. Well, I guess it's a good example that shows the morbid perfectionism that runs in our blood, but the good part is, it seems like we're both growing up. Like I've noticed that in many cases, it's just a short period of time that you care so much about a certain thing. If you can get over that time, you realize it was nothing important.
"Can't you just push those air out?"
"I can't!"
"Well, look. It says you should only peel 5cm first, and then stick the seal little by little. You peeled too much"
"Yeah, I should've read the directions more carefully... but you were too stubborn about keeping that part in the right place; it doesn't work that way because see? ..."
"I think I should've done it"
I don't care a bit about the chicken pox now, but it seemed like the biggest problem on earth just a couple of hours ago.
And it reminded us both about an incident that occurred 15 years ago: I wanted to put a round sticker on the plastic body of a little measure, and I was wondering how I could stick it right in the middle. Dad came along saying he would do a great job. I trusted him with all my heart and handed him the measure and the sticker. He did it pretty carefully - I still remember. But when he handed it back to me, the sticker was not in the middle. It was stuck slightly to the right (or left). I think I tried to take it off and re-do it but the damage had already been done.
I remembered it as one of the very few incidents my dad disappointed me. He remembered it from the other side: "You looked at me with very sad eyes - it was a traumatic experience. That's why I wasn't confident enough today"
It's funny how we remember these kinds of things that aren't important at all. Well, I guess it's a good example that shows the morbid perfectionism that runs in our blood, but the good part is, it seems like we're both growing up. Like I've noticed that in many cases, it's just a short period of time that you care so much about a certain thing. If you can get over that time, you realize it was nothing important.
2013年3月12日火曜日
looking too young
So I walked two stations with my mom today to a movie rental shop. On our way back, we walked by a lingerie shop that was having a sale and I suddenly remembered I needed to buy a new bra. I actually don't know how long you can use a bra if you're wearing it every other day, but I usually know it has outlived its usefulness if I've worn it more than two years.
Either way, I walked into the store with my mom and asked the clerk if she could measure my size (because it seems like my breasts have shrunk lately). She kindly selected a couple of products that were my size and came into the fitting room to see how my breasts had "settled" into the cups, only to find out none of the bras she had picked fit me. So she selected another couple of bras and asked me to try them on. I didn't like the designs but I put them on anyway and while I was trying to fit my breasts into the cups, I heard the clerk telling my mom that it might be a "difficult time" for me: "I think she's still not used to gathering her breasts into the cups. And she's probably still growing." Well, my high school days have almost sunk into oblivion, but I guess if I walked into a lingerie shop on a Monday afternoon in my sweats with my mom without make up on, I still look like a high school student. Or maybe younger - who knows? My mom, by the way, played along and said nothing about my actual age.
On a side note, I was making 豚汁 (ton-jiru = pig soup = miso soup with a lot of vegetables and a bit of sliced pork) with my mom this evening and she looked into the freezer to find a small bag of pork. She saw the label and cried: 「これ、平成１２年って書いてある！(OMG, it says best before Heisei* 12!」
Me: ほんとに？(Are you sure?)
Mom: うん、見て。平成12って書いてあるから。(Yeah, look!)
Me: ・・・2012じゃなくて？(I don't think that's Heisei 12 - it looks more like 2012)
*the Japanese dating system; Heisei means "the era of the Heisei emperor", though we only call him by that name after he passes away. Heisei 12 = 13 years ago.
Either way, I walked into the store with my mom and asked the clerk if she could measure my size (because it seems like my breasts have shrunk lately). She kindly selected a couple of products that were my size and came into the fitting room to see how my breasts had "settled" into the cups, only to find out none of the bras she had picked fit me. So she selected another couple of bras and asked me to try them on. I didn't like the designs but I put them on anyway and while I was trying to fit my breasts into the cups, I heard the clerk telling my mom that it might be a "difficult time" for me: "I think she's still not used to gathering her breasts into the cups. And she's probably still growing." Well, my high school days have almost sunk into oblivion, but I guess if I walked into a lingerie shop on a Monday afternoon in my sweats with my mom without make up on, I still look like a high school student. Or maybe younger - who knows? My mom, by the way, played along and said nothing about my actual age.
On a side note, I was making 豚汁 (ton-jiru = pig soup = miso soup with a lot of vegetables and a bit of sliced pork) with my mom this evening and she looked into the freezer to find a small bag of pork. She saw the label and cried: 「これ、平成１２年って書いてある！(OMG, it says best before Heisei* 12!」
Me: ほんとに？(Are you sure?)
Mom: うん、見て。平成12って書いてあるから。(Yeah, look!)
Me: ・・・2012じゃなくて？(I don't think that's Heisei 12 - it looks more like 2012)
*the Japanese dating system; Heisei means "the era of the Heisei emperor", though we only call him by that name after he passes away. Heisei 12 = 13 years ago.
2012年8月26日日曜日
two grandmas
Just came back from a trip. We (dad, mom,
grandma (on my mom's side - Kazuko) and I) went to my dad's hometown to meet my
grandma (on my dad's side - Michiko). The two grandmas get along really well
and this was their second recent trip together, but the last time Kazuko
visited Michiko's place was when my parents got married which was 30 years ago,
so this trip was kind of special. Everything was my dad's idea and I thought it
was a very thoughtful present for the grandmas.
We stayed at a nearby hotel with a great
view of the ocean and we even got to see a short firework. I always enjoy watching the two grandmas together because
they're the complete opposite though they're the same age - 83.
Kazuko usually
tries her best to avoid every risk she can think of - especially all the health risks. She loves to visit doctors and is a hardcore perfectionist - one of the reasons why it's sometimes difficult to please her. She used to work at a makeup company until
she was 75, made a lot of money, and brought up three daughters.
Michiko on the
other hand never thinks about risks, acts before thinking, and is really laid-back - she's pretty much happy with what she has. She
rarely visits doctors and still works at the cycling shop her husband used to
run. She never made more than enough money, but raised two sons. Last time we traveled together (she was over eighty by then) she gave us a dance lesson. Her rumba steps were amazing!
Of course I like both grandmas but I've
noticed that Michiko is more happiness-prone (if that English makes
sense). It was kind of funny, because
during the trip, Kazuko would occasionally comment on Michiko's remarks and say
"I see, I *must* learn to think like Michiko" but the whole point of
Michiko's way of thinking is that she doesn't have all those "musts"
in her life, and she doesn't compare
herself with anyone. Well, she might,
but she doesn't dwell on things she can't do anything about. Kazuko on the other hand ends up comparing
what she doesn't have and what Michiko does, and links her
"unhappiness" to "the lack" of things she thinks she
lacks. It's really ironic because
materialistically, Kazuko is much richer.
Either way, the grandmas
are really good friends but they never would've met if my parents hadn't. I thought it was nice how marriage could bring people together.
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