REVERSE CULTURE SHOCK

All’s been silent on the blog front of late as I’ve gotten a little caught up in the post-Japan transition, doing things like job searching and apartment hunting.  Making new friends, catching up with old ones, doting on cute nephews.

The first couple of months I was back, people couldn’t stop asking me about whether or not it was weird being in the States. In a word: Yes. There’s a term for what happens when you return to your home country after living abroad for a while; it’s called “reverse culture shock.”

For me, reverse culture shock started from the moment I almost walked into a wall of beef jerky in the San Francisco airport. “America,” I said with reverence, craning my neck upwards to take in the wide assortment of beef strips. The wall of jerky was a sign. A message that I had returned to a land of choices, a place where, like the myriad of flavors on display, I could be among people of all races, ethnicities and creeds! No more being stared at everywhere I went, or sweating out half my body weight daily because there wasn’t any air conditioning. There would be napkins on tables, soap in bathrooms, trashcans on every corner, and things I hadn’t let myself think about for two years, like dishwashers and InSinkErators. Life was going to be convenient and amazing all the time.

That lasted for about a month.   

Soon I found myself thinking very un-American thoughts, like, “Why do we need 30 flavors and brands of granola? Wouldn’t 5 be OK?” I hid my eyes in like a bashful Puritan as people jogged past half-naked, sweat (and everything else) flying. I pushed away plates of dessert, all of which seemed too sweet.  

There were things that I didn’t need to do anymore but wanted to do, like taking off my shoes when I walked inside a house. There were things that I had to stop doing, like bowing to people in restaurants and department stores, or beginning every sentence with, “Well in Japan…” How they do things in Japan is fairly immaterial when you’re living someplace like America; you might as well start extoling the virtues of living on Mars.

Reverse culture shock comes in waves. Take today for instance, five months after leaving Japan. I was walking along the street, and there was this nice-looking older guy, a city worker, and I smiled at him. He smiled back, we exchanged greetings and wished each other a good day, and that was it. And it felt weird. 

I pondered this during the last two blocks home, because for two years I had been smiling and greeting and bowing to almost everyone I encountered back east, to the point where I thought my face and lower back might seize up. I guess I had more to prove then as a foreigner in a strange land. And yet, it was fun to see how people would react. Would they respond? If so, was it out of politeness or warmth? Would the other person giggle or look nervous and edge away?

In America, no one seems to want to make eye contact, whether it’s the person next to them on a packed train car, or a homeless person on the street. The thing is, that when people don’t look at you, they don’t see you. It’s kind of a strange distinction to make, but even though I got tired of people pointing and staring at me in Japan, at least they registered that I was there. What they saw may have given them mixed feelings, but I existed to them in a very real way. And for whatever reason, I don’t think we do that in America. It’s not that we don’t pay attention to people, but we pay attention for all the wrong reasons. We look to keep from running into others, or to anticipate potential threats, or to evade people handing out fliers or asking for money. We look to avoid people, not to engage them. That’s a kind of lonely world to live in.

If any of this sounds like regret at coming back, it’s not. It’s good to be moving on to the next chapter. Even if the new chapter involves skirting piles of feces on the sidewalk, hoping against hope that they are canine in origin, or having a stranger flash me through the blinds in his house. Welcome to San Francisco! Right?

SAYING GOODBYE

It turns out that when you leave a country after two years, people take note.  I would have been content with a handshake, or if I wanted to be really demanding, a hug, but that would defy the unique level of pomp and circumstance that characterizes farewells in Japan.  As a result, the process of leaving was a marathon; my bon voyage events started in June, even though I wasn't leaving until August.  Friends, colleagues, neighbors and grannies all wanted to make sure they fit me into their busy schedules before I left.  

There are several key elements involved in Japanese send-offs: feasting (which includes copious drinking), costumes, and gifts.  A word about gifts in Japan.  They are exquisitely and intricately wrapped in layers of beautiful paper, bags and ribbons, each redundant layer further dooming our planet to global warming.  The treasure inside might be a pair of plastic chopsticks or a priceless picture frame.  The Spartan PS, overwhelmed by the steady flow of offerings and the clutter that resulted was heard to remark indignantly, "The wrapping is usually nicer than the gift!"  

Play your cards right, and you too could be the proud owner of a plastic ground cover with a recumbent Sento-kun.

Presents are also inescapable.  If a Japanese person gives you a gift and you reciprocate, you will immediately receive another present, igniting a never-ending cycle of gift-giving, which you, the foreigner, will never, ever win.  It's a bit like nuclear brinkmanship, if you replace high-tech weapons systems with food or Japanese souvenirs.  Sometimes the giver bestows upon you an envelope, and you open it in relief, thinking it's a nice card in which they've scrawled, "Good luck," only to find that there is "going away" money inside.  Which is a really uncomfortable gift to get from anyone who is not your grandma or your aunt or your mom, back in the day when they might slip $5 in a card to you on your birthday.  

I don't want to make it sound as though I'm disparaging these gestures, because the truth is, I am touched.  I was (and am) overwhelmed by how much I owe these people- not because of the physical things they gave me, but because of every smile and kind word and bit of advice.  The offers of help, the jokes shared, the food given, the warmth and camaraderie.  No one was obligated to reach out to me or make an effort, but so many people did.  As the phrase goes, it's the first gift you can never repay.     

A traditional Japanese yukata given to me by the faculty at my school.  I wore it to closing ceremonies for my speech at the student assembly; one of the teachers taught me how to put it on. 

The yukata from the back.  One of the teachers had harbored a desire to braid my hair for over a year.  On the day of closing ceremonies, she finally got her wish- and did a great job, I think!

In a country of stoics, it's shocking to see an overt display of emotion.  It's even more astonishing when the display is unattractive. Put bluntly, I am an ugly crier.  Some people seemed not to notice as they too were swept up in the sentiment of it all.  Others seemed to find my sadness amusing and flattering.  One young security agent stared at me with undisguised fascination as I waved a final goodbye to my escort at the airport.  Though I think I managed to keep it together fairly well overall, there were several moments where I had trouble.

1. On my last day of class, a Friday, I taught a double period with my lovable, unruly, and totally apathetic third year students.  When I returned from the break in between classes, I found the doors to the classroom shut, and everyone sitting in their seats with an aura of perfect innocence.  I knew something was amiss, but didn't figure out what it was until I saw what they had done to the chalkboard.

From class 3-4.

We didn't get much done after that.

2. Saying farewell to The Grannies was probably the most wrenching goodbye.  Of all the people I came to know and love in Japan, I'm most uncertain as to if and when I'll see The Grannies again.  I fervently hope I do. 

3.  The teachers at my school, including the principal and vice principal, followed me out of the building to say goodbye on my last day, and waved as my supervisor drove me away.  

4. On my last day of class, the girls from my favorite class showed up at the teachers' lounge.  They looked as though they were visiting an ill or dying friend.  One of them silently handed me a manila envelope on which was written, "To Eri from class 2-1.  Please treasure."  Inside was a photo album that featured a picture and message from each student in my class.  The joviality I had fought to maintain all day vanished, and our small knot of people turned into a sobbing, hugging scrum.  Later, their homeroom teacher told me that they had been working on the project for three months.  I didn't need the prompt on the wrapping; the album is absolutely my treasure.

5.  I count this as one of my teaching successes. One of my students is a budding illustrator, and one of her characters is Gachico.  Last year when she started as a first year student, Gachico's speech bubble read, "I don't like English." I teased her about it a little bit, and eventually we started chatting more and more outside of class.  This year  when she turned in her English folder at the end of term, Gachico's old remarks had been erased, and this was written instead. 

TOKYO VICE, PART II: SEX, DRUGS AND PACHINKO

Previously on the blog we discussed the yakuza: how to spot them, how to avoid being beaten up by them.  There's some controversy over the origins of the yakuza; some claim that they are descended from a flamboyant group of samurai called the kabukimono (crazy ones).  Unlike most samurai who adhered to a very strict moral code, the kabukimono were outlaws of sorts, using their training (and weapons) satisfy their every whim.  However, many yakuza insist that the organizations' roots lie with a group called the machi-yokko, a kind of local police force not unlike the posse comitatus.  It wasn't until the chaos following World War II, however, that the yakuza really gained ground and became the massive network they are today.

Whatever the genesis of the yakuza, in modern times they are involved in some very real, very dark activities.  A few of their greatest sources of revenue include sex, drugs and pachinko.  

SEX


Japan has successfully commoditized sex and made it into a thriving business.  It's difficult to determine how much of the economic pie the "entertainment industry" fills; some sources estimate that it might be as high as 2-3% of Japan's GDP, double that of its agriculture sector. The main reason why estimates are difficult is because the industry is run predominantly by the yakuza, and their books aren't necessarily open to the Japanese government. 

Technically, prostitution is illegal in Japan.  However, loopholes in the law make it actually one of the most sexually permissive countries in the world.  For one thing, prostitution is defined as reaching coitus.  Other forms of sex and sexual favors fall outside of this definition, and are therefore considered legal.   Moreover, the penalties for prostitution are unspecified and therefore don't pose much of a deterrent.

Amorous encounters run a gamut; at one end of the spectrum are host and hostess bars where men and women can spend their free time enjoying the scintillating company (and absurdly expensive drinks) of charming and attractive companions.  These liaisons aren't necessarily sexual, though lines can be crossed.  Slightly less innocent are the pornographic magazines and manga (which can be handily covered with brown paper when you buy them so that no one knows what you're reading on the train), and objectifying women at maid cafes.  


I've had more than one visitor (all male) who asked if there were really such things as vending machines of used panties.  They seemed to think that they stood on every corner, and were disappointed to learn that panty machines are mostly a myth, though there are apparently some examples in existence.  

There are far more detestable facets to the sex industry.   Domestic recruiting is on the rise in subways and on playgrounds, targeting teenagers and children with offers to make them into models or give them work at lucrative clubs.  The yakuza also run extensive human trafficking operations, bringing in girls (and boys) from Southeast Asia, the Philippines, and Eastern Europe.  They are lured to Japan with promises of jobs as waitresses or staff at tourism operations, and are essentially held hostage and forced to work in hostess clubs and other establishments.  By some metrics, Japan "has one of the most severe human trafficking problems among the major industrialized democracies."  And the yakuza are the beneficiaries.  

DRUGS

At the beginning of 2013 I found on my desk at school an official memo from the JET Program reminding everyone that as residents in Japan, we must abide by Japanese laws, specifically those concerning drugs.  Though there was no mention of this in the memo, I later learned that a JET had been found with drugs or drug paraphernalia in their bags. This put into context my reception at the airport when I returned to Japan after winter vacation.  Until then, customs had been a breeze; I would hand over my declaration form, tell them I'm an English teacher, and they'd wave me through.  No longer.  Instead, 2013 has proven a record year for being stopped and searched at customs.

Japan has a zero-tolerance policy for drugs.  Even looking at drugs can earn you a lengthy jail sentence.*  And yet, the yakuza still find ways to smuggle drugs into the country, though some syndicates ban members from participating in the drug trade.  However, some yakuza are willing to take the risk in order to receive a lucrative payoff.  The scarcity of drugs in Japan is such that the yakuza can charge exorbitant amounts for relatively small quantities; one article cited that 1 kilogram of "illegal stimulants" would fetch about $70,000 in Japan.  In America, 1 kilogram of cocaine fetches between $24,000 and $27,000.  Granted, it's hard to compare the two given how vague the term "illegal stimulants" is; however, any way you look at it, $70,000 for one kilo of a product is pretty high (no pun intended).

*Of course, Japanese drug laws pale in comparison to other countries.  On a flight to Cambodia last year, the flight attendant came on the loudspeaker shortly before landing and said, "This is to let you know that Cambodia has a zero-tolerance policy on drugs, and that possession or use of drugs is punishable by death.  So please, if you have any drugs or drug paraphernalia on you right now, I urge you to please dispose of it before we land."

PACHINKO

You can hear pachinko parlors before you see them.  Their deafening music and flashing neon signs are enough to induce a seizure.  Pachinko is a bit like combining a slot machine with pinball, but more complex.  Winning at pachinko can yield a lot of money. The only catch? Gambling is technically illegal in Japan. However, the yakuza who run pachinko have found a way around the law.  

Playing pachinko.  From bbc.co.uk.

Let's say you win at pachinko.  You'd receive a small prize, usually something cheap and kitschy.  You'd then take this prize out of the pachinko facility, and walk a short ways down the street to a window that has been blacked out.  Below the window is a deposit slot like you might see at a bank.  You put the prize in the slot, shut the door, and then wait for it to open again.  Presto, change-o, the prize has been magically transformed into money.  

Pachinko prizes. From linkrandom.blogspot.com.

By some estimates, the Japanese drop $200 billion a year on pachinko, and lose $40 billion.  The house may not always win, but they win quite a bit of the time.  This is bad news for pachinko addicts, of which there are many.  Men and women have lost everything while in the thrall of the game: jobs, savings, families.  It's hard to estimate how many people are addicted to pachinko, since addiction is a source of shame and goes underreported.  

I asked The Grannies why, if gambling is illegal, the police don't put a stop to it.  Their response was interesting: some former police officers work security at pachinko parlors after they retire, suggesting that the police may have some kind of mutually beneficial relationship with the yakuza.  Thus, there isn't a whole lot of incentive for the police to crack down on the game.  

IT'S NOT ALL BAD?

Despite the grim reputation of the yakuza, they claim that they do actual good for their communities.  Following the earthquake and the tsunami in Fukushima, the yakuza allegedly transported some of the first emergency supplies into the disaster area.  However, it's a little difficult to feel good about these claims amidst news that the yakuza have been also manipulating the aftermath of the crisis in order to secure cleanup jobs for its members.  The laborers then give a cut of their earnings back to their bosses in the gang.  So in effect, the money that the government is pouring into cleaning up Fukushima is winding up in the pockets of organized crime.  

It's a sobering thought, how deeply the yakuza have managed to permeate Japanese society.  However, as badly as members of the government and the police may want to eradicate the yakuza, it's doubtful that they will ever truly disappear from Japanese society.  At least it provides fodder for movies like The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.

CROSS DRESSER'S PARADISE: ELIZABETH CLUB

Let's begin with three questions.

Have you ever been wondering how you look like as a female?
Don't you want to become a lady of your dream?
Does feeling smoothness of lady's wear make you happy?

I wasn't quite sure what to expect when LAL sent me a link to "ELIZABETH Club," but I certainly didn't foresee a Lisa Frank-designed website dedicated to making male cross dresser's dreams come true.  This is a prime example of how permissive Japanese culture can be...so long as you're discreet.  The line between the acceptable and the abhorrent is fairly arbitrary, however.  

Anonymous members of the community will call schools to report teenagers engaging in PDA while in their uniforms at the mall, and the schools will discipline the young couples.  A woman can get away with wearing booty shorts, but will be subjected to stares if her shirt is cut below her collarbone.  Meanwhile, no one blinks at the highly suggestive book covers on display at every bookstore. 

Math motivator for students?

Furthermore, cross dressers are not as scarce as one might think.  Almost every time I traveled to Tokyo I seemed to cross paths with an older man who has an extensive wardrobe of women's clothing and is something of a local celebrity.  As you can see, he's also not shy about posing for pictures.

In reality, the Japanese aren't that different from any other nation.  In every culture there's a mainstream and the things that fall outside of it.  Perhaps it's simply that the contrast is more apparent given how outsiders perceive Japan: conservative and traditional.  However, that may be an increasingly erroneous assumption as Japan continues to (slowly) change and modernize, and alternative lifestyles and forms of self-expression become more prominent.  

PRANKS, JAPANESE-STYLE

I'm not a big fan of game shows, especially those predicated on pranking people.  Wouldn't you automatically become suspicious if someone started following you with a camera crew? If you sign up for a show that penalizes contestants for mistakes by punching them in the testicles with something call the Chinko Machine, why would you opt in for that?

However, this particular segment deserves recognition.  The premise: a guy dresses up in a very realistic velociraptor costume and chases after an unsuspecting passerby as loud and blood-curdling sound effects are played over a loud speaker.  The targets for this ploy seem to mostly be men (I guess it's funnier to watch men scream in terror), though there was one cross-dresser who lost his blond wig while in flight.  

Enjoy.

TOKYO VICE, PART I

There are a number of books that are must-reads if you're interested in Japan, and I'd argue that Jake Adelstein's Tokyo Vice is one of them, particularly if you like stories that make you say to yourself, "WHAAAAAAT?!"  Adelstein is a bit of a wunderkind in that he was the first non-Japanese reporter to work at the Yomiuri newspaper.  He started out on the Tokyo police beat, and became (very) closely acquainted with what might be termed the "seedy underbelly" of the city (if that sounds hokey, so will the parts of the book that read like a noir novel).  The book is filled with fascinating tidbits, from the fact that the LDP (a major political party) was founded with yakuza money, to the revelation that a yakuza crime boss was granted an entry visa into the US by the FBI in exchange for information on different crime groups.  He also somehow mysteriously made it to the top of the organ transplant list at UCLA.  When Adelstein uncovered the story, a price was put on his head; fortunately, the hit was never carried out and he managed to publish Tokyo Vice.

HOW TO SPOT A YAKUZA 

Unlike other organized crime groups throughout the world, the yakuza possess a kind of notoriety that verges on celebrity.  Comic books and scads of fan magazines feature profiles on prominent members, reviews of the best yakuza-run sex clubs, photos of members' body art, etc.  Some gangsters are even willing to speak to the press, weighing in on recent crimes and pointing out rookie mistakes, like attempts to dump or bury a body after a murder.  In their professional opinion, the only way to properly dispose of a body is to burn it.  

Yakuza fan magazines.  From www.japansubculture.com

Helpful diagram based on feedback from yakuza member on how to incinerate a body.  From www.tokyoreporter.com

While the yakuza aren't exactly in hiding, they don't necessarily flaunt their affiliations.  Telltale signs used to be flashy suits, tattoos, and missing joints on fingers.  Today, a man in a sharkskin suit could simply be a fashionable salaryman, and tattoos an indication of counterculture.  Amputations of digits have decreased.  Still, the Japanese are well-aware of what qualifies as yakuza territory, and a surprising number have had encounters or dealings with gangsters.

Lone Grandpa used to work at the kencho (prefectural office), and told me two stories of how he came face-to-face with the yakuza.  First, he was assigned to negotiate with them over their failure to pay taxes.  This local group had a "business," but wouldn't report their income or pay the expected tariffs, and so every year, a bureaucrat from the kencho (always a man- women are never allowed to go) was sent over to ask for the money.  And every year, the response was the same: "I have no money," meaning that the "company" couldn't be taxed on nonexistent profits.     

I asked LG if he was scared, or if the police went with him.  He said that no, the police don't assist in these negotiations, but they advised LG, "Well, if they beat you up, please tell me and I'll arrest them." However, the yakuza carefully refrain from violence.  All the parties involved know that this meeting is no more than a formality.  No one at the kencho is ever going to get the yakuza to pay up, and so both sides simply go through the motions and save face.

LG's second run-in with the yakuza was slightly scarier.  One day, two men in suits approached LG's desk at the kencho and asked him point-blank to give them inside information on a construction project that was being launched.  The kencho was taking bids for the contract, and the yakuza wanted LG to give them a number.   He refused, and the gangsters were furious and began shouting and making threats.  LG, though nervous, had the presence of mind to attempt to diffuse the situation by serving tea.  Someone had once advised him that if the yakuza ever stopped by, LG should always serve tea, so that if the interview got tense or the gangsters got rough and spilled the tea or broke one of the cups, LG could summon the police and report that property damage had occurred.  

The yakuza left in a huff, and LG ended up waiting until past midnight in the office before making a mad dash to his car, just in case the thugs were waiting for him in the parking lot.  Later he learned that someone else in the department had been bribed or coerced into giving up the information, and was subsequently fired.  LG never heard another word about the matter.


In addition to public works projects, real estate, and good, old-fashioned blackmail, the yakuza have their hands in a number of profitable pies in Japan.  This includes, but is not limited to, drugs, sex and pachinko (gambling).  To learn more, stay tuned for the sequel to this post, "Tokyo Vice, Part II: Sex, Drugs and Pachinko." 

Recent ad for Playtex diapers.  The all-over body tattoos are characteristic of the yakuza.

HOW JAPAN HAS RUINED ME FOR LIFE

A lot of people have asked what I'll miss most about Japan.  Topping the list is the sense of adventure.  My students are a close second.  I'll also miss my colleagues at school, my friends, and the food.  And a million other things, large and small.  

When I reflect on this question, I realize that living in Japan for two years has really ruined me in a lot of ways.  Never again will I be able to buy sushi (or any fresh food) at a convenience store without falling perilously ill.  I'll have to start being more vigilant of my surroundings- no more walking alone at night, or napping on the train with my purse in my lap.  Speaking of trains, I can forget about the efficiency of public transportation.  Farewell to the punctuality of bus and rail schedules, and people showing up early for meetings.  

Because Japan is a cash economy and has weird ATM hours that make it difficult to make withdrawals, I've become accustomed to carrying around hundreds of dollars' worth of yen.  Elsewhere I might be mugged; in Japan, it's fairly par for the course to have that much cash on you.  When I closed out my bank account the other week, the teller gave me the balance of my account in a thick stack of cash.  It looked as though I was about to ransom a small child, but I admit I was exhilarated.  It's the only time in my life that I'll be able to say that I was a mill-yen-aire. (See what I did there?) 

In my next life, there won't be vending machines on every block offering a wide assortment of cold and hot beverages, helping me stay hydrated.  I will have to re-condition myself to not bow to everyone, and remind myself that I can't expect the superior level of customer service offered in Japan.  For example, no one will apologize to me when I commit a grievous faux pas, as though their perfectly reasonable rules or procedures are inconveniencing me, the clueless customer.  

I will have to dig out my tip calculator again, since gratuities don't exist in Japan.  Workers earn a living wage, and besides, it would be considered poor form to expect extra compensation for doing their job.  

Dear onsen, I'll miss you as well.  There's nothing quite like being naked with a bunch of strangers, scrubbing oneself clean and then luxuriating in different baths.  The soothing, scalding heat of one tub, the discomfiting electric pulse of another, or the invigorating wakeup that is the ice-cold pool.

Goodbye, floors so clean I could eat off of them. See you, spotless bathrooms and people who take pride in what they do, no matter how seemingly inconsequential or lowly the job.  Hello, rippling cellulite and exposed undergarments.  To those perpetually and loudly talking on their cell phones, please give me a wide berth.    

Remind me why I didn't renew my contract for another year?