Does that Include Cleaning the Toilet?

The Japanese Diet has just passed some bills which will tighten control on foreigners in Japan. Among other things, “the bills grant the justice minister the power to cancel a spouse visa from those who have failed to conduct for six months without a legitimate reason ‘activities that spouses normally do’.”

How Perfect is That by Sarah Bird

Texas kind of creeps me out, to be perfectly honest. When I think of the Longhorn State, I think of Waco and capital punishment and those Bush people. To be fair, I’ve never spent any quality time in the state, and I’ve heard that Austin is pretty cool. And I will admit that there are quite a few fabulous writers in Texas, so that place can’t be all bad. I’m thinking especially of Spike Gillespie, Robert Rummel-Hudson, Marit Ingram, and Sarah Bird.

Sarah Bird first appeared on my reader radar with The Yokota Officer’s Club, of which I have finally procured a copy, but haven’t yet read. My first experience with a Sarah Bird novel was The Flamenco Academy, which I loved, loved, loved. That book was intense and passionate and full of duende. It was kind of serious, actually, so I didn’t realize how very funny Ms. Bird can be. Then a week or so ago I read How Perfect is That.  The woman is hilarious.

How Perfect is That is the story of one Blythe Young, originally christened Chanterelle by her “trailer-trash tramp of a mother too stupid to know that in her single, solitary moment of maternal lyricism she had named her only child after a mushroom.” Blythe becomes an event planner for Austin’s elite, marries into one of the elitest families, is divorced without a pre-nup, and finds herself broke, outcast, and wanted by the IRS. She winds up hiding out in her old college boarding house with her former college roommate, the pure and good Millie, who still lives there as a kind of house mother.  Only Millie, it seems, can see the good in Blythe (who has been ignoring her for years). Hijinks ensue.

Blythe is exceedingly naughty (at her last catering job, she spikes the drinks with Rohypnol, the “date rape drug” so that the garden party attendees won’t remember that they’d been noshing on re-purposed snacks from Sam’s Club instead of the gourmet delights originally promised. In the first several chapters, she clings tenaciously to her “Code Warrior,” a mix of booze and drugs. In other words, she is not necessarily the type of person you’d want as your best friend, i.e., she is a somewhat unsympathetic main character. In an interview at the back of the book, Bird says,  ”I may be a complete freak in this, but I loves me a bad girl.” But like all good characters, Blythe isn’t entirely good/bad, and I found myself rooting for her by the end of book. I was also laughing out loud.

If you’ve got a long trans-Pacific flight ahead of you this summer (and if you’re not a diehard Republican and don’t mind a bit of bawdiness), I recommend tucking this novel into your carry-on.

Me in the International Examiner!

There is an interview with me in the current issue of the International Examiner.

At the Manga Museum

Yesterday we took our first road trip in our new-to-us hybrid car. Yoshi was eager to try out the navigation system and the newly installed TV-viewing capabilities, and we were due for a family outing, so he was more than happy to drive all the way to Kyoto (at least 2 1/2 hours from here) for the last day of Yuka Hamano’s art exhibit at the Kyoto International Manga Museum.

Unfortunately, Hamano-san wasn’t there yesterday, but there was a big display in the lobby advertising the exhibit (as well as posters plastered all over the place) featuring three framed illustrations from Playing for Papa! And the book!

We went upstairs and had a look at more illustrations, some from the best-selling book “Hello Work 13″, a sort of guidebook to help kids decide what they want to be when they grow up based on their current hobbies and interests. I didn’t know much about Hamano’s work when she was contracted to illustrate my story, but now I’m a huge fan. She has a very distinctive style, full of humor and whimsy – and lots of great, true-to-life details, like the bamboo branch sticking out of the magazine rack in Playing for Papa.

After we had a look at the exhibit, we toured the rest of the museum. There are, of course, walls lined with bookshelves full of manga. Everywhere we went, we saw people reading. Downstairs, a couple of caricaturists were at work. We had them draw our kids. And yesterday just happened to be Cosplay Day at the museum.  Apparently, once a month young people dress up as their favorite anime or manga characters and hang out in the courtyard. I’m not sure what, exactly, cosplay (short for “costume play”) involves, but here it seemed to mean vogueing and vamping around in character for the camera.

Lilia is always excited by characters – Hello Kitty and Snoopy at Universal Studios Japans, the occasional appearance of Sudachi-kun in Tokushima – and she was thrilled to see people dressed up as her favorite anime characters. She became particularly excited when she saw this one woman with long dyed (or maybe it was a wig) red hair.

On the way home, Lilia was equally impressed by the golden facade of Kinkakuji (The Temple of the Golden Pavilion) and a nest of baby swallows under the eaves at the rest stop.

Screws and Tiaras

Yesterday afternoon there was a PTA meeting for the mothers of kids who are multiply disabled. There are about ten of us, and all of our kids are deaf and something different, i.e. one kid has Down Syndrome, one kid has diabetes and some sort of attention deficit disorder, and three or four  fall somewhere on the autistic spectrum.  My daughter is the only one in a wheelchair, though there is another kid with cerebral palsy who can walk but is developmentally disabled.  We’re sort of marginalized at the deaf school, but we have our own little sub-group. During yesterday’s discussion, we looked over brochures of places that we might visit during summer vacation, as part of research. We are supposed to be thinking about our children’s futures (and we are, believe me). But I found the brochures depressing.  There are all of these centers in out of the way places where disabled individuals bake bread or grow vegetables, or sort screws by size. Many of these places are residential. On the one hand, it’s reassuring to know that there are places where my daughter can work after she finishes high school. But on the other hand, working solely among others with disabilities would place her firmly on the fringes of society. I don’t want that for her. It sounds snobby in a way, but I don’t.

Yesterday evening, we watched TV en famille.  There was a program about a beauty contest in the Netherlands – the Miss Ability Contest. These beautiful young women with various disabilities appeared on stage in evening gowns and bathing suits. My daughter became extremely hyper while viewing, clearly convinced that there is no need to ever learn to walk when one can cruise  around in a wheelchair AND wear fabulous clothes. I’m not altogether comfortable with the notion of beauty pageants, and there was something a little bit freakish about parading these women (my prejudice?), but I couldn’t help thinking how extremely different things are in the West.

Adopting Alesia

Dee Thompson wrote about learning to live with her adopted Russian teenager in her contribution to Call Me Okaasan. In her new book, Adopting Alesia, she writes about how she came to adopt her daughter.

In Dee’s words:

I never dreamed I would find my child on the other side of the world.

A few years ago, I was single and childless, and 40 years old. I had spent 20 years searching for Mr. Right and he was nowhere to be found.

Longing for a change of pace and some adventure, I went to Russia to sing Handel’s Messiah, in a remote town on the edge of Siberia. There I met a little girl in an orphanage and I knew she was my daughter. I had seen her in a dream the night before. I had never even considered adopting an older Russian child, but from the moment I first saw her, I knew in my heart that Alesia was my daughter, and no matter what it took, I was going to bring her home.

When I returned to the US, my adoption dream hit brick wall after brick wall. My company laid me off. I had to break up with a boyfriend who didn’t want children. I found out the orphanage director didn’t like Americans and wouldn’t even talk to the adoption agency. Alesia wasn’t even available to adopt. The agency told me over and over to choose a different child. I didn’t have the money I needed to complete the adoption. I started another romance that failed. At times I thought I was going crazy.

Many people told me I was crazy to adopt – the child I had thought was about 8, because she was so emaciated – turned out to be 11. I persevered. When I finally got her home, she was 13 years old.

Through it all, I read everything I could about adoption, learned to speak rudimentary Russian, cried a lot, and wrote in my journal. I later spent many late nights turning that journal into a book.

Adopting Alesia is a book about a dream, a miracle, and two people who were meant to be a family, despite everything. Adopting Alesia is not merely an adoption story. It’s a story for anyone who has ever had to learn to be brave, fought to follow a dream, or found faith in the darkest of times. It’s a story of a little girl who didn’t even know the word “adoption.” It’s a story about love.

Dropped Pencils and Other Disasters

So yesterday evening I went to the excruciatingly long meeting to discuss the problems with the fourth grade class.  I arrived at 6:30PM, and didn’t leave until after 9PM, and no, there wasn’t a bathroom break.

The teacher started out by saying “wasuremono ga oi” (ha ha) and then talked about how the students were unable to concentrate. As an example, he talked about how some students dropped their pencils and books during class (that would be my son). I looked at the desk. It’s rather small and flat -topped. There’s no groove for a pencil, not a lot of space for the many items they need for studying. I don’t think my son drops his pencil because of ADD or whatever. Anyhow, it went on like that. The dropping of pencils is noisy and distracting, according to the teacher, and is something that needs to be dealt with.

Around the two-hour mark, the parents began expressing their concerns.  Although there was some praise for the emphasis on academics (one mother mentioned how the students are expected to correct their homework during recesses as if it were a good thing), several mothers complained that there was not enough homework. I realized then that there was no point in expressing my petty concern, which is that there is no recess.  Maybe it’s just me, but I think that if the kids got a break once in a while they might be better able to concentrate.

Of course I also did not object to the teacher having told my son that Americans are “teki to ni” (i.e. careless and not detail-oriented) and that my son should be more like the Japanese who are so very precise and detail-oriented. I believe his exact words were “Nihonjin wo kichiro o suru.”

The Things They Carry

“Wasuremono ga oi.” I’ve heard this from both of my children’s teachers over and over again for the past four years, speaking not only about my kids, but their classmates as well. “They forget to bring many things.” Although, supposedly, the children are supposed to prepare their stuff for school themselves, thus developing independence, there is no way that mine can remember everything without my reminding them, and I can’t remember everything because, well, I’m over forty.

Here’s what my daughter was supposed to remember to bring one day this week:

thermos

handkerchief (for drying her hands after she washes them)

tissues

hearing aid

five regular pencils, sharpened

red/blue pencil

eraser

straight ruler

rounded ruler (what is that called?)

science textbook

Japanese textbook and notebook

social studies textbook

finished homework (three pages)

renrakucho (notebook for writing down the day’s schedule, etc.)

notebook for parent/teacher communiques

zippered bag for memos, etc.

100 grams of salt

30cm x30 cm piece of aluminum foil

Here’s what she forgot:  the aluminum foil, which I prepared for her, but which she uncharacteristically forgot to put in her bag.

 

Here’s what my son was supposed to remember to bring to school today:

various textbooks and notebooks, pencils, eraser, ruler, etc. as above

school T-shirt

school shorts

hat

lunch

thermos

bathing suit

bathing cap

goggles

towel

pool card

Yesterday he forgot his hat.

The teachers always say that forgetting things now bodes ill for the future.  I’m not sure what will happen if they don’t remember everything every day, but I do know many Japanese adults who have forgotten things. I’m not convinced that training them not to forget twenty things a day actually insures that they will not forget things as an adult.

Tonight there is a fourth grade PTA meeting. I’m willing to bet money that the teacher will say, “Wasuremono ga oi.”

Yuka Hamano Exhibit

If you’re anywhere in the Kyoto area, be sure and check out Yuka Hamano’s exhibition at the Kyoto International Manga Museum.  Illustrations that Yuka did for my story Playing for Papa will be on display, as well as other works, from June 20-July 5.

Social Justice and the Ten Year-old

If you live in Japan, you’ve probably seen a parent or coach slap a kid upside the head.  You’ve probably seen this kind of thing on TV. Beat Takeshi is always bopping people on the head with inflatable mallets and such. This kind of hitting isn’t taken seriously in Japan, but I find it very disturbing.

My son attends a school that prides itself on raising kind, considerate children. And yet, I have heard from two witnesses that my son’s teacher is slapping the kids.  Slapping my kid. My son is happy at school and he has never once mentioned this. When I asked him about what I’d heard, he shrugged it off said that he was at fault in both instances, and that “it’s the Japanese way.”

I’ve also heard that the some students spend all of their noon recess correcting homework and re-taking tests. According to my son, the students are given the option of doing the work at home. Maybe that’s true, but yesterday I wrote in his notebook (a private note to the teacher) that I would like for my son to be allowed to have recess. Somehow, the entire class knew about what I had written. My son told me that my note caused him misery at school. He tearfully demanded that I never write in the notebook again without telling him first.  Something is not quite right here.