Rising Daughters are Hosers, too

Summer vacation this year was a trip to Canada to visit family. Lady E and Ms. M, growing up and being socialized primarily in Japan, are now in the Great White North(west). It’s a curious process to see them endure the long trip over the Pacific and then adapt to the new environment as they embrace their Canuck roots.

The Long Hop: Unlike our prior trip to visit with Lady E this time the 14 hours we spent airborne went easily—low expectations breed positive outcomes.

The girls slept a fair amount during the Pacific hop. The people sitting next to us were compassionately understanding of the situation. No screaming ensued; only 22 trips to the toilet.

Vancouver Airport: Disembarked the plane, and amazing First Nations art everywhere captures the eye as we entered the arrival gate and throughout the airport facilities; a very cool way to be welcomed home for me.

The girls were craning their necks at times to figure this new imagery out.

I noticed many half-Asian kids in the Immigration line with their parents. Felt like a real-life Benetton ad—we are not alone!

Jet Lag: Omnipresent concern. Tried to modify our sleeping hours but alas first day plagued by nod-outs, slurred speech (without the benefit of alcohol) and odd behavior. (Kids were fine, though.) Initial few hours together spent doing the work-ups to transition Nanna and Grampa from Skype People to real flesh-and-blood sentient humans who provide lots of food, love, attention and toys.

Work-related: I felt compelled to connect with work email--responsibility trumps common sense. Picked up Infiniti JX. This super-CUV thoroughly trumped the driving experience provided by Dad’s very good Chevy Impala. Rising Daughters enjoy the sunroof options. Thus ended days one and two.

Traded to Oblivion

The NY Yankees have acquired 10-time all-star outfielder Ichiro Suzuki for…ah, who cares? I despise the Yankees. Yes, this is another rant against the Evil Empire…starring ICHIRO. The Seattle Mariners let him go, that I can understand. But why wear the pinstripes, Ichiro, for crying out loud? 


Courtesy of The New Yorker

Ichiro has been the rare Japanese guy that transcends the country’s overpowering culture of humility. I’ve asked my Japanese friends what they thought of him, and they’d say: “oh, he’s full of himself, don’t be duped.” I’d think—good for him. He was/is a terrific hitter and seemingly a class act, and I think the country could use a few more people like that who excel on the world stage rather than stay in the home islands safety zone. So in that sense, moving to a big market, big ambition team makes sense. But for chrissake, Ichiro, why not the Dodgers?

Yes                           NO NO NO



He had to go and ruin it all by joining the Bronx Bombers. First Hideki Matsui, now Ichiro. When will the madness end? Sayonara Suzuki. Buh-bye!

E-Tales: Guam Diary Part II

Sat., Dec 24: Roused from sleep at 0530. Bundled into car with groggy sister, chirping parents. Rented Honda gets nothing but verbal abuse from Daddy. Sign: Dededo Flea Market. Suspect spelling error. Cars and pickup trucks parked pell-mell. Makeshift chicken hutches, tantilizing smell of BBQ (at 0630?), and inescapable Eric Clapton, Extreme and Journey mix on loudspeaker system. Dad crows about bargains to be had; his code for cheap Dr. Seuss books. Mongrel dogs meander, somehow seem friendlier to me than coiffed canines back home. Marina freaks out when viewing creepy array of Barbie Dolls with no clothes—how childish. Mom and Dad try to blend in but it is blatantly obvious, even to me, that we are not locals. We all have a tremendous amount of fun and enjoy this place very much. We are flea market folk anywhere. 

Late breakfast at Denny’s different from hotel. Parents hoover coffee and toast. Dad reads paper. I prefer the main course of whipped butter with some pancakes on the side. M follows suit. She is under my spell at last! Waitress derogatory about rival server in other section. Wazzat all about? We board rent-a-car again—no booster seat debut. Remainder of morning spent touring Guam in car. Brown jungle leaves lie on rural highways. Palm tree fronds droop over lonely side roads as whelping, tethered dogs lunge at our car when we drive by. Absolutely stunning ocean views and lush green hills capture the eye. Bus stops look like huge mushrooms. Daddy goofy, enthuses about “authenticity.” Sign: Marianas Military Museum at US Naval Station Agat. Daddy looks at Mommy. She shakes head decisively. Oh thank you for that, God.
Hungry now. Arggh. Just gimme some Cheetos or I will start screaming, man. I am bought off with vague promise of “almost there” and Chuck E. Cheese…”soon.” What is this enchanted eatery?
Arrive. Go through doors framed by vivid colors and huge animated characters that I have never seen before. Booping games and other manic kids surround me. Feeling generous—tow sister around. Parents let me wander unsupervised. This place is my Shangri-La. Never. Want. To. Leave. Rubber pizza and nuggets go uneaten—too busy, man.

Returning to tourist strip and hotel; stop at Piti bomb craters. Mom grumbles about entrance fee as we descend below waterline. Sibling loses mind at sight of fish outside, performs toddler version of The Twist. Caused by our mood or this place?

Dinner followed by car night cruise about 1930. Windows down. Muggy air. Slowly tour the illumination strip in Agana Heights…see delightful red, white, blue and green Christmas lights hung on giant jungle flora and fauna…this is some wacky shit, but so….zzzzzzzzzz.

Sun., Dec 25:  Minor elation of hearing “Merry Christmas” from Mommy seared by realization all presents are back in Japan, teasing. Just a few surrogate gifts now. I accept the loss; Marina oblivious. Daddy insists on dumb photos of us parked in front of a tropical Christmas tree. I submit just to get my Frosted Flakes and guava tang. Hotel staff slightly grumpier today. I dig that. We go swimming in the morning. Clear, salty water and real fish swim around my feet. THIS IS AWESOME! Dopamine surge. But somehow can’t put my head underwater. Eventually we all wade in surf together. Feel like a character in John Updike short story. Utterly conventional, superior fun.

Afternoon: we go to the Underwater World Aquarium. Walked by huge duty free shopping emporiums. Mommy recounts her vomiting outside one during a prior visit years ago. Whaaa? Mommy did stuff before I got here? Pass another ABC store (ubiquitous) with canned James Brown. Think: the Godfather of Soul is like chocolate ice cream—never fails to bring out the funk. I do feel good. More walking and Chinese food for dinner.
To cap off the day: Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. Ask for more SpongeBob Squarepants. Denied? It’s only 2200! There are no words. Only tears.

Mon., Dec 26: Daddy looked pale this morning. Croaks out “watermelon vodkas.” Hmm. Maybe leave him alone best option. Last breakfast in hotel. Nice lady puts everything I ask for in an omelet. I decide not to eat it. Many other guests coo at Marina in her high chair. That little bitch. “They” are right: there is always someone out there younger and cuter. Swimming one last time. Used to salty water and warmth. Decide it’s OK to live here. Mommy and Daddy seem bummed today. Not my fault. They need to work on time management skills. Tension-filled suitcase packing as I ponder The Simpsons. Mommy switches to The Weather Channel. Why did Mommy not respond when I bellow at her to change the channel back right now? Out of hotel by lunchtime. Who is this man Tony Roma and why do my parents want to go there so badly? I’m not hungry. I ask for ice cream: “OK.” I love Daddy. Later, I ask for one more ice cream: “No.” Scratch that. I hate Daddy.
Afternoon: Last views of this warm, fragrant place framed by taxi windows. Airplane ride cool. Sister sleeps—spiritual cavalry. I get plenty o’ juice and coloring books to work. Then back on solid ground. Dark out. Cold in Yokohama but somehow futon feels better than plush bourgeois bed. No need for midnight pee; all is well.

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Getting Tattoos=Rad Kid Cool

Lady E. came up to me last week, says: “I’m ready to accept greater responsibility for my own life decisions. I’m five now. I want a SpongeBob tattoo to commemorate this great virtual mentor of mine for the rest of my life.”

I thought: Her sound logic shows developmental progress; feelings of veneration for SpongeBob indicate emotional maturity; and she acknowledges the permanence. And it’s just a boss idea.

I reply: “OK, Elena—sold. But one condition. I want a piece of that coolness, so we ALL have to get tattoos.”

The bargain struck, we had a Rising Family Assembly® to decide what the most awesome tats were that we could get. Elena wanted to keep the SpongeBob motif, but Marina doesn’t quite grasp the whole underwater/Bikini Bottom thing yet. I wanted the famous “screaming chicken” (seen best on the Bandit 1977 Pontiac Trans Am) for all of us, but the girls nixed that idea.

The only thing more badass would be pirate ink, Naomi said. Lady E. was all over that—elementary school buccaneer chic ahoy! So cool! And thus the Brigand Rising Family was born.

Check it out. Someday, when Marina is 50 years old in...well...48 years from now, she will think back to how lucky she was to have such a progressive family. Lady E's tribal thorns are very proto Red Hot Chili Peppers.

You know what they say: the family that gets tattoos together, stays together.

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My satire aside, we don't want to go to jail for child neglect and so I must write in small print these were just temporary water tats. Duh! And we do like tattoos, just not on our kids. The adults in the family have two small ones, so I am not trying to offend any inked folks out there.   

E-Tales: Guam Diary, Part I

Forward
Kids grow up fast, they say. By chance, a few days ago I came across Elena’s diary. I was astounded by the revelations in her daily musings about the life of a five-year-old. I’d like to share a short sample of her take on our trip to Guam last December.

Wed., Dec 21: Departed Yokohama in dead black of night. 0400 up; Daddy annoyingly giddy. Cab driver spiteful; senses we are going to tropical climes? Arrive at the groggy-feeling train station. Little sister—what’s her name again? oh yeah, little miss shitbag—insists on walking up and down aisle on airport train shuttle, collecting laminated instructions on how escape in the event of emergency.  Mommy looking stressed. Airport: on time. Dad lugs our bags grudgingly. Immigration: whaaaa? Won’t let me through? Stare hard at Immigration Guy. Dad sweats the interrogation. Bureaucrat utters something about wrong stamp in my passport. Moron. Parents talk through it. We glide through airport; board aircraft. I screech; demand business class. They give it up—suckers.

Flight good. I work on my art. Marina poops diapers. 33,000 ft. and reeking. Mommy drinks too much. Daddy pretends he doesn’t hear us, reads magazine. Arrive. Warmth and mango smell. Have I been here in a previous life? Palm trees look confident. People drive slower here; look happier. We view Tumon Bay from the windows of our Nissan Murano cab. Water looks like popsicle blue. Hotel room OK, more Havana 1959 than Guam 2011. Marina freaks out; thirty minutes’ screaming equals new dimension of hell.  Sleepy now. Why don’t people speak Japanese here? Daddy drinks local beer; happier than usual. Sign: ABC Store. What, they don’t know their ABCs yet? Morons.

Thu., Dec22: 06:30—Eyes pop open on huge elevated bed. TV squawking SpongeBob Squarepants on Nickelodeon:  what is this shit? Wait…not so bad. Tied on feedbag at hotel breakfast; ate only sugar. Parents oblivious. Little sister quiet, for once. Old marble pillars in ballroom look like my dollhouse. Leave hotel 09:30. Sunny out already. Yay. Sit on hardwood seats on tourist bus; no windows. Feels kitschy but delicious. Wide girth on these folks. Hit Micronesia Mall; coax Dad into many arcade games; roller coaster; boring teacup ride: what am I, three years old or something? Come on. Won lots of cheap stickers from games. Give to sister ‘cuz I don’t want ‘em; win brownie points with parents.
12:35. Lunch. Tried local fare at glitzy-looking food court. Crap. Gimme McDonald’s, please.
Afternoon sun feels nice on neck; usually no ponytail in December. Go to "Largest K-Mart in the Pacific.” Who gives a rat’s ass? Toys look different than in Japan; build quality sucks, though. Japan still has lead in the toy game, I reckon.
Evening: Battle with Mom over…I forget why. Major confrontation. I’m cranky? My ass. Dad avoids issues again by heading to balcony with Bud Light in his mitt. We all sleep well as car horns honk on the tourist drag.

Fri., Dec 23. Another sugar breakfast? Fine by me. Mom and Dad babble about going to waterslide “for you.” Yeah, right. This ain’t Disneyland, folks. Later; eat my words. Tarza waterslide on hill near hotel kicks ass. Water warm like pee-pee here. I could do all the slides because staff pays zero attention to the rules. Rule #1: don’t drown. Everything else is cool. Starting to like these people. Less starchy than back home. Sign: “Tax Free.” Everywhere. Who cares? Spend day in sun; water chutes smoking fun; haul ass up and down hill to various waterslides all day.
Evening. Back to hotel room, out to dinner. Mom and Dad pick steak and lobster place not too far from hotel. Daddy kept going on and on about the goddamn cricket sounds, reminds him of summer, all that shit. I don’t eat any of the swill at the steak and surf joint. Potato chips only, please.

Parents. Suddenly realize they are old. Dad’s breath always smells of stinky coffee in morning; annoyingly chipper. Avoid Mommy until after she drinks her coffee. Hmm…coffee. Intrigued by this magic brew, I stealthily scoff a sip. Tastes like shit. Adults must be insane.

To be continued.

More Train Tales

I spend more time commuting now than I used to when we lived in Hiroshima. Besides getting me to the workplace, the train rides offer interesting insights into the Japanese psyche, which still confounds and interests me despite the years I’ve spent here.

Case in point: a man who tends to take the same train as me during the morning rush hour, who spends the entire journey downtown at the very front of the car, standing right behind the driver (separated by a sheet of  transparent glass), declaring each and every stop and other automated announcements about ten seconds before they are actually broadcast. He is oblivious to the norm of near-silence usually observed onboard trains, as he joyously--and in a loud, clear voice –gives his memorized version of the recorded voice announcements. Except for the clickety-clack racket of the moving train, this is the only other readily audible noise in a car with about 100 passengers.

What does this tell us about Yokohama? There is still a collective human heart beating beneath the seeming indifference and distance between individuals created so that millions of people crammed into a limited space can live together without confrontation. My sense is that in Japan there is a premium put on not being a nuisance to others; I get stares at times if I eat a snack while walking in the train station, occasional frowns if my iPod is too loud when wedged against other passengers on trains. Talking on the cellphone while riding the train or subway is a universal no-no. Yet this man, who defies the sacred silence of my morning commute, is left alone to do his thing. Is it the same degree of tolerance that I enjoy as a foreigner when I unwittingly violate public etiquette? Anyway, it’s refreshing to see that this slightly odd, but harmless, behavior is accepted.

Japan is renowned for its cleanliness and the stellar personal hygiene of its people. No argument here about that: anti-bacterial sprays and hand sanitizers at almost every building entrance, white face masks if you’re sick with a cold or to prevent sneezing during allergy season, and a wall of products at every drug store nationwide—all attest to the national attention paid to staying clean and healthy. Usually both sexes do these personal processes in private or stealthily. Yet, given the necessary space, younger Japanese women still apply their make-up on the train, despite public awareness campaigns to try to discourage it.

Why does it persist? I don’t know—boredom? Multitasking in a time-efficient way?  Better than sleeping? I’m not sure, but it sure is interesting to see this very private behavior performed in a very public space.

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M is Two

There is beauty in simplicity, and the words “happy birthday” have that magical tone that conjures up smiles. Nothing brings me more pleasure than to wish my youngest daughter, Marina, the happiest of birthdays as we celebrated her second year on the planet and with us in the Rising Family. 

The celebration
Joined by longtime friend J.K. and his own brood of young’uns, we BBQ’d and feasted. The cake was brought out and we sang happy birthday. Fueled by the sugar, the kids whirled around the living room in a frenzy. Parents survived with a few drinks and great cheer. Marina seemed a bit overwhelmed by it all, although we did our best to gently prevent a certain older sister from trying to steal too many scenes from the birthday girl.  Attention was focused on our mighty mite, and she beamed with happiness upon receiving a bunch of gifts, especially those from Canada Nana.

The next day, we took both crews to the nearby “Kodomo no Kuni” (Kids’ Country), which is a veritable heaven for little kids: animal petting, fluffy animal rides, tandem bicycle riding with mom, Lord of the Flies-like trampoline jumping—all while being surrounded by a small army of likeminded tykes. 

Happy birthday, Ms. M. We wish you a terrific year ahead.