Part II: Memories of March 12, 2011

Better to be a wino than a whiner.

The day following the earthquake brought several tremors. After discussing with several friends, we facetiously declared the world to be at an end. As such, we wanted to greet Armageddon in the most comfortable way possible, with several bottles of wine, a few unnecessarily large steaks and surrounded by good friends and laughter. Our “final” dinner was a great success and we all enjoyed the much needed, albeit quiet and restrained, levity that only your truest friends can provide.

Trembling due to quake or stroke?

Our lips now dyed a dark crimson from wine and bovine blood, we ventured forth into the post earthquake world. We decided to invoke the tradition of visiting the statue of Hachiko, a staple of a Tokyo night out. Shibuya on a normal Saturday is bustling with the young and the trendy preparing for a night of adventure. However, we arrived to a Shibuya all but abandoned. For a time, we walked around the usually vital, but now empty streets. Walking past the 109 shopping building and preparing to circle around to Shibuya's Center Street, we were awestruck by the ability to see more than several meters ahead, a rare occurance for this part of town on a Saturday night. It was disconcerting to say the least.  It was around this time when our façade of nonchalance began to crack. We decided to press on and have a few more drinks.

A disquieting sight . . . 

As our night continued, we drifted to the home of one of our members. There, we spent the rest of the evening playing cards and attempting to forget the disturbing sight of Tokyo’s empty streets. Eventually, we all claimed a piece of furniture and drifted to sleep still celebrating our successful faux end of the world.

We awoke the next morning to news that nuclear reactors in Fukushima were in a critical state and the potential for meltdown was high. We watched in stunned silence as a hydrogen explosion destroyed the roof of a reactor housing. The true severity of the situation realized, and our ability to hide our worry broken, we uttered few words except the occasional translation (“radiation” is not a word you are likely to find in beginner Japanese textbooks). We sat with our eyes glued to the screen or any nearby internet source. We combed through any and all news sources for information. Were we being evacuated? Was there a genuine risk of radiation exposure from the nuclear reactors? If yes, were we far enough away from Fukushima to be somewhat protected? These questions were on all our minds as we watched the unfolding drama. Vague answers being a staple of Japanese culture, no conclusive information/instructions could or would be issued by the news or government officials.

Part I: Memories of March 11, 2011

Notes: This is a series of stream of consciousness entries chronicling the events on the day of March 11, 2011 from my perspective. They are memories from a person who was far enough away from the epicenter to in no tangible way be affected by the tragedy of the Tohoku Earthquake. However, they are also the memories of a person was present to witness both the terrifying power of nature, and the true strength of character at the heart of the Japanese people.   

 2:45 PM
Quickly looking up from my computer screen, I scanned the room and took quick note of the sights: disorganized desks, teachers engaging in idle chatter and the expensive, yet rarely used TV in the corner of the room.

These things being rather ubiquitous to a Japanese teachers' room, I returned my attention to my lesson plans for the coming week(while covertly reading the news on my computer). That was when the tremors began. Being born and raised in Japan, the other teachers continued their work under the assumption that the quake would quickly pass.

As the shaking continued, I heard the first words of concern from a colleague. At the time, it seemed a very benign statement, but it was our first inkling that something was wrong.

“This one’s really long isn't it?”

Upon uttering those words, it seemed as if the strength of the tremors grew exponentially. To my amazement, none of the staff panicked. We knew that our first job was to evacuate the students. Calmly, the staff began dispersing around the school.

Leaving the staff room, I found myself at a small trot a few steps behind a colleague. As I saw her, I was in awe of her calm. She understood what needed to be done and that panic on the part of the staff would only create chaos and fear among the students. To this day, that demonstration of personal strength and discipline is my quintessential memory of said colleague (unfortunately this role model of leadership no longer works at my school).

The music room being no more than 20 meters from the staff room, I could hear the screaming of students echoing down the hall. Going to the music room, I was relieved to find the students taking shelter under desks and pianos, but not before placing their instruments neatly on the ground (very Japanese). A student hiding underneath the grand piano called me from her shelter and asked me to lay her euphonium on its side (whether to prevent a falling horn from harming another student or to prevent a fleeing student from harming the horn, I am still unsure).

Doing my best to reassure the band members, a voice over the intercom instructed us to begin evacuation. The ground still shaking beneath us and seemingly growing in intensity, we escorted the students outside to wait for the tremors to stop.

Jogging in and out of the school while, to my astonishment, flagrantly ignoring the “don’t wear your outdoor shoes inside” rule, were the staff. Going from room to room, we checked for stragglers. The staff worked like a well oiled machine as we checked and rechecked halls, rooms and other hiding spaces then signaled that an area was cleared.

Confident that the school was safely evacuated, the staff was able to proceed with a final head count of students. I cannot recall exactly when the shaking stopped (perhaps while we were evacuating students, or maybe while we were doing a final check of the school), but eventually the earth stood still once again. The whole of the school, or more accurately, the whole of the student body that had still been at school when the quake began were safely accounted for.

As I scanned the crowed, I was amazed by the different, yet all too human reactions from those assembled. The teachers hid their shock and fear by busing themselves with headcounts and emergency checklists. Some students sat quietly, while others stated their disbelief at the size and length of the tremors. Still others were embracing and crying from fear, a sight I can do without seeing again. As the staff went amongst the crowd, we tried to ease the tension and reassure students when possible. As I tend to do when dealing with discomfort and trauma, I joked with the students (I have a severe case of Chandler-ism).

After a time, we allowed students with a parent in the house to return home. However, this left a sizable group of students with parents away at work and, due to the closure of trains, unable to return. These students were moved into the gymnasium. The staff played games or chatted “happily” with the marooned students all the while covertly glancing at cell phones to check on our own loved ones (Facebook was a critical asset this day). For some odd reason, most likely desperation, fear and sentimentalism, I spent a great deal of time attempting to contact my former schools in Tochigi (they were as surprised by my call as I).

It was well into the evening when the last students began their treks home or to the homes of welcoming neighbors. The exhausted staff sat in the teachers’ room calling students to confirm their safe return. As our collective adrenaline rush ebbed, we began drinking copious amounts of coffee. In a display of esprit de corp, all the teachers began emptying their desks of any and all candy and treats which had been hoarded over the year. These precious bits of chocolate and sweets were put into a white garbage bag which was then placed lovingly in the middle of the room like some sort of Wonka based oasis.

Due to the mass shutdown of trains, a  number of teachers were stranded at school for the night. For many of them, their dinner would be from the bag of candy. What few blankets were available were distributed to the trapped staff members. Fortunately, I lived close enough to my school to return home on foot. And so I did.

Thoughts on the Concept of "True" Americans

Not shown due to cropping: Miss Davuluri's pageant winning middle finger raised in honor of all followers of ignorance and bigotry.

I wish I could say that my first written work in over a year was a pleasant update on the various happenings in my life as an expat. Unfortunately, such mundane topics don't tend to inspire ample amounts of creativity (nor is it particularly interesting reading). Instead, my motivation is a rather annoying churning of my stomach which I hope to quell by writing. Sweet catharsis.

Recently, a new Miss America was chosen. The newly crowned Miss America has been accused of not being a citizen of America. At best, she has been implied to be of Arab origins and at worst she has been called a terrorist. 

Nina Davuluri is a beautiful, and therefore well out of my league, woman of Indian ancestry born in Syracuse, New York. In the interest of honest and open discussion, I will admit that I too am prejudiced against Miss Davuluri's place of origin. As a University of Connecticut graduate, I have a hatred for Syracuse and all their sports teams which goes beyond explanation.

Upon her crowning, the denizens of the internet voiced their outrage that a "foreigner" and "Arab" won the title of Miss America. Simple fact checking quickly disproves these particular claims as nothing more than superficial bigotry (It is still disturbing that such prejudice exists and so many of those holding such views feel no shame in openly posting hate speech).

More insidious are the claims that those with non Anglo/Western European ancestry and those people with colored skin derived from pigment, rather than tanning bed, are somehow less American. Note that people from the metropolitan east and west coasts tend also to be excluded from holding the title of "real" American.

While the concept of a uniquely "American way" has been part of the American political discourse since her founding, recent political actors have found great success reinvigorating the concepts of "American values" and a "true America(n)". These concepts are used to stratify America and create an intra-national "us" vs. "them" mentality (which helps facilitate a palpable persecution complex). An irony of creating subjective classes of Americans is that, much like the concept of the "middle class", the majority of Americans identify as being part of the chosen few who qualify as "true Americans".

Ask any of your friends whether they consider themselves upper, middle or lower class. The majority will respond they are upper or lower middle class. That's right; Americans have created arbitrary classes WITHIN the nonspecific, arbitrary and yet somehow special category of middle class. Honestly, try it out. I'll wait. 

The nature of a “true” American varies depending on the audience to whom a politician is pandering. Sometimes it is based on occupation as seen when blue collar workers are hailed as salt of the earth “true” Americans. Sometimes, hobbies such as hunting are used to gauge a person’s level of Americanism. Often, geography is used to determine who earns the title of true American (people from New York City being cited as somehow less American than others). But at the most basic level, “true” Americans tend to be those who adhere to some revered set of core “American values”.

Modern political discourse has introduced more narrowly defined and often subjective values which politicians adeptly use to assure their voting base that they are somehow special and truer Americans.

“True” Americans are not the intellectual elite, but those who work hard at their 9-5 job to support their family. They possess that disappearing American work ethic and gumption which made America great. They believe in the potential for unaided social mobility in a playing field which has proven time and again to be fair to all Americans.. Again, this stratifies America into the chosen group of people who believe in hard work and the lazy drains on society.

This is ridiculous.

There is NO objective list of “American values” (the Bill of Rights perhaps being the closest to a codified list of things in which I believe Americans should revere, but not hold sacred beyond discussion and civil debate), except maybe the very vague and cliché’ concepts of life and liberty. There is no single and universally agreed upon set of American values which, if you follow adamantly, makes you a better or truer American than your neighbor.

You are American if you were born on American soil or have been nationalized a citizen of the United States (an act which requires an oath to uphold and protect The Constitution of the United States). You can be a true American if you are white, black, Christian, Buddhist, liberal, conservative, have served honorably in the military or are a pacifist. You can be a true American if you invoke the name of “God” in the Pledge of Allegiance or make the choice to respectfully refrain from uttering the Pledge. You can be a true American if you work at the highest paid levels of corporate America or are struggling to live on social programs such as welfare and food stamps. You can be a true American if you are part of the intellectual elite or are part of the willfully ignorant.

While some of the above listed types of people may not always be the most pleasant of company (particularly the willfully ignorant), and may conflict with your personal beliefs, the fundamental fact is that America is a diverse nation filled with diverse people. It is through America’s variety of opinions, cultures and people that she draws her strength, adaptability and durability. 

- 暖