A few weeks ago, my daughter invited me to go on an outing with her and her helper. My daughter, who is deaf and uses a wheelchair, lives in a group home in Osaka. She is becoming more and more independent, but she does have kind people around her to give her support, including a helper who is also deaf and uses Japanese Sign Language.
Actually, my daughter invited our entire family to accompany her and her helper on a weekend to Happy Village, a recreational facility in Kobe especially for persons with disabilities. We had visited the onsite stables years ago, and our twins had ridden around a ring on ponies. Having such pleasant memories of the place, I looked forward to visiting again.
My husband declined due to a golf tournament, and my son, who had just entered college as a graduate student, was concerned that he would have too much homework. My daughter informed me that her brother would meet us for a meal.
Although I was looking forward to seeing my daughter and getting to know her helper, I did have a few concerns. For one, I don’t have the confidence to drive in the megapolises of Japan. Kobe, for example, is a confusing city with many ramps, overpasses, and one-way streets, not to mention the traffic. I knew that Happy Village was on the outskirts, however, and I thought that maybe I could get myself there by car. I could have gone by bus or train, but it would have taken me two or three times as long to get there.
In addition, I was a bit worried about communication. I can converse with my daughter, more or less, in Japanese Sign Language, but my signing is not perfect. Since leaving home, my daughter’s vocabulary has expanded, and her signing has sped up. When among fluent JSL users, I can’t always follow the flurry of their fingers. Nevertheless, I know that my daughter often struggles to keep up with what hearing people are saying, and I thought it would be a valuable experience.
A couple days before, my daughter sent me a Google Maps link to the restaurant where we would meet. We would have a meal and then proceed to Happy Village. On the day of, I packed a bag, filled my car with gas, and set out. I had no idea what we would be doing. On trips with my husband, every hour was pre-planned. I thought it would be nice to just go with the flow. I was looking forward to seeing my two kids.
I managed to arrive at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare. I staked out a table and sat down to wait. While perusing my phone, I came across a link that I thought would interest my son. I sent it to him. He replied with a laughing emoji, followed by “Are you coming to Kobe tomorrow?”
A cold sweat broke out over me. “Tomorrow? I thought it was today.”
“She told me tomorrow,” he texted back.
“Oh, no.” I quickly scrolled through our communications and confirmed that we were indeed meeting him the following day. It was now ten minutes after the time I had agreed to rendezvous with my daughter at this restaurant. Or so I thought. Was I supposed to meet her tomorrow? Would I have to find a hotel for the night?
Panicking, I sent my daughter a text and a photo of the restaurant. “I’m here!”
She texted back that they would be a little late, and that there would be six of them.
Six! I had thought that there would only be the three of us. Now I was feeling really intimidated. I am an introvert, and I know my limits. The more people there are around me, the more I retreat into myself. Plus, there was the issue of communication.
Finally, my daughter and her entourage arrived. I met her helper, the helper’s husband, the helper’s twin sister, an older woman with cropped hair and rainbow socks, and a young man about my daughter’s age. We got down to the business of ordering food via the tablet on the table, and sorting our basic facts, such as my age, and that we would be meeting my son the following day at Sannomiya Station.
Sannomiya Station! That was in a busy district in the heart of Kobe. I hadn’t known that we were actually going into the city. I managed to sign that I was scared of driving in such an unfamiliar place. I was beginning to realise that I should have pried more details about this trip out of my daughter beforehand.
Three hours later, I followed the others in my car to Happy Village. My daughter and I were in one room, the others in their own rooms. By this time, my social battery was waning. I was ready to take a bath and curl up in bed with a book. My daughter, who is an extrovert, went down the hall for a couple more hours of JSL conversation and cake with her friends.
The next morning, we checked out of the hotel and stopped by the stables. Just as before, children rode ponies around the ring. My daughter zoomed around in her wheelchair, and the rest of us tried to keep up.
Next, we dropped by the helper’s apartment. I was invited to leave my car in the parking garage, and ride in the car with the others, for which I was very grateful. As we headed toward Kobe, I noted how quiet it was inside the car. No one tried to talk or sign. It would have been dangerous for the driver to take his hands off the wheel to form words, or to look away from the road for too long.
We finally connected with my son, and went to a restaurant. Because there were so many of us, we split up. My kids and I sat at one table, and the others sat at another. I brought my son up in English, and it remains our lingua franca. After my son and daughter exchanged a few words in sign language, my son and I talked a bit about the recent political situation in the United States. Although my daughter was curious, I couldn’t quite explain to her what we were talking about in JSL. I encouraged her to write notes to her brother. They communicated by pen and paper for a while.
After lunch, my son went back to his apartment to prepare a PowerPoint for his class the next day. The rest of us wandered around the city, window-shopping, until it was time for me to leave. My daughter wasn’t ready to go home, so the helper’s husband offered to give me a ride back to my car.
On the way, he said, “When you were talking to your son, your daughter didn’t understand.”
“That’s true,” I conceded. “We were speaking in English.” Although I had wanted to bring up my daughter in English, circumstances made it too difficult. Yet, my son was the only one in our family that I could freely communicate with in my native language.
“I felt sorry for her,” the helper’s husband continued.
I nodded. I had an idea of how my daughter felt. Although I had lived in Japan for many years, I often didn’t fully understand what people were saying around me.
He activated an app on his smartphone, which was affixed to the dashboard, which rendered spoken words into text. He suggested that my daughter could use such an app. I tried to explain that she already knew how to use the app, but for some reason she hadn’t tried to employ it in the restaurant.
I guess I could have been offended by his words, but instead I was moved. I was happy that my daughter was surrounded by people who cared so much about her, who were looking out for her best interests. How wonderful that she had finally found her tribe.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
My day job is “associate professor,” so I sometimes attend academic conferences. When I learned of an upcoming conference on language teaching in Fukui Prefecture, which I had never been to, I was eager to sign up. Sure, I wanted to hear all the cutting-edge theories about teaching English to language learners – how to motivate my students to write haiku, how to use AI, and so on – but my primary reason was to see the dinosaur bones.
Although at one time it seems that dinosaurs pretty much roamed the whole world, fossils of dinosaur bones weren’t discovered in Japan until 1989. Those bones were found in Katsuyama City, Fukui Prefecture. Since then, even more bones have been discovered, and a museum ̶ Fukui Prefectural Dinosaur Museum ̶ opened in 2000. As part of the pre-conference activities, the host university had arranged for a trip to the museum. A free shuttle but would depart at 11:30am.
I consulted an app on my smartphone and determined that it would take me about five hours to reach Fukui Station from my home in Tokushima Prefecture on the island of Shikoku. I would have to take a bus, a train, another train, and the high-speed bullet train. After a recent trip to Tokyo, I had learned how to use an electronic transit card, which was basically an app on my phone. This app could be used to breeze through ticket gates at train stations, as well as on buses and subways.
I got up at 5:30am on the day of the museum tour. My husband dropped me off at the bus station. I got on the bus and got off in Osaka. Then I took a train to Kyoto, which was mobbed with travelers. Although I thought I could get on the next train, the so-called Thunderbird, with my app, I discovered that I needed to have a reservation. I suppose I could have made one on my smartphone while standing in line, but I was confused. I left the platform and queued up to buy a reserved ticket from the vending machine, which disrupted my tight schedule and meant I would not be able to make it to Fukui in time for the free shuttle bus.
The Thunderbird goes straight from Kyoto to Fukui with few stops in between. The scenery is mostly composed of rice fields and squat mountains. The monotonous view was calming. About an hour later, the train pulled into Tsuruga where I had to switch to the brand-new Hokuriku Shinkansen for the last seventeen minutes of my journey. In my rush to finish my business at the vending machine in Kyoto, I had inadvertently booked a seat in the most luxurious car. I was the only one there.
I texted a friend who was also attending the conference. She had already arrived. I told her that I would be late, and that I wouldn’t be able to ride the bus with her. This was Japan, where everything was always on time! However, the organisers were Americans, and they were willing to wait for me. Hooray!
As soon as I got to Fukui Station, with its moving animatronic raptor keeping guard out front, I hopped into a taxi and finally arrived at the university, where the bus was indeed waiting. I sprinted onboard, apologised to my fellow passengers, and thanked the organiser profusely.
The museum was impressive, as advertised. Replicas of dinosaurs discovered in such far-flung locales as Morocco and Mongolia were on display. There were, of course, also exhibits of the five dinosaurs and one bird species discovered in Fukui, including the long-necked stubby-legged Fukuititan, the herbivorous Fukuisaurus, and the Fukuiraptor. Although the museum offers an excavation experience where visitors can pretend to dig and discover fossils, my friend and I just walked around looking at all of the cool rocks and bones.
Having gone through my son’s dinosaur obsession when he was young, I could remember some of the dinosaur’s names – the Ankylosaurus with its bumpy back, the Stegosaurus, and Pterodactyl. When we were ready to take a break, my friend and I made our way to the cafeteria for dino-themed snacks.
While many famous destinations in Japan are struggling with over-tourism, Fukui, while slightly off the beaten track, has a pleasantly relaxing vibe. Things may change with the new bullet train, but for now, I recommend it as a fascinating horde-free place to visit.
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
At the end of April and the beginning of May, several Japanese holidays fall close together. This special time of year is called Golden Week. Often, a few work/school days fall between the holidays, however many people take advantage of the break and travel. I have a hard time remembering which days are which holidays, however I do remember that one of them is Midori-no-hi, or Green Day (which falls on the Showa Emperor’s birthday, May 4).
Not long after I graduated from college, I came to Japan to work as an assistant English teacher. I was assigned to a high school in Naruto, a city in Shikoku, southeast of Osaka, noted for its tasty seaweed and huge, natural whirlpools.
The principal of the high school was very friendly and often invited me to drink tea and chat with him, so I was none too surprised when he called me to his office one April afternoon. This, however, wouldn’t turn out to be a typical encounter.
The principal began to tell me about the annual Midori-no-hi (Green Day) ceremony. Each year, it’s held in a different prefecture, and that year it was Tokushima’s turn. The Emperor and Empress are always in attendance. Only a select group of people would be invited to attend the proceedings, the principal told me, and I had been chosen to participate.
How could I refuse? I imagined meeting the Emperor and Empress and telling them about my hometown in America. Maybe we’d sip green tea together from the locally-crafted pottery cups.
A full rehearsal was scheduled a couple of weeks in advance of the actual event. I boarded a bus at 5 a.m. along with a group of high school band members who would be performing during the ceremony.
As we approached the park settled in the mountains of Tokushima, I noticed that the formerly rough road had been paved. The roadside was lined with marigolds which had been freshly planted in anticipation of the imperial couple’s visit.
At the park, we all practiced our separate parts. Mine would be quite simple. Two other young women — a Brazilian of Japanese descent and an Australian who’d just arrived in the country — and I would be escorted to a spot in front of the Emperor and Empress. We would then bow, accept a sapling from the governor, and plant it in the ground with the help of boy scouts.
As the Emperor would be there and the entire ceremony would be broadcast on national television, everything had to be perfect. We practiced bowing many times with our backs straight and our hands primly layered.
Finally, Midori-no-hi arrived. The day was cloudy and occasional rain drops spotted my silk dress. Everyone hoped that the weather would not ruin the proceedings.
Marching bands, an orchestra, and a choir made up of students from various local high schools and colleges filled the morning with music. Instead of the sun, we had the bright brass of trombones, trumpets and cymbals.
Modern dancers in green leotards enacted the growth of trees. Later, expatriate children from Canada, France, Peru and other countries announced “I love green” in their native languages. This was followed by the release of hundreds of red, blue and yellow balloons into the grey sky. A hillside of aging local dignitaries were on hand to view the pageantry.
About mid-way through the ceremony, the Emperor and Empress arrived. They followed the red carpet laid out to the specially-constructed wooden dais, the Empress a few steps behind her husband as protocol demanded, to “Pomp and Circumstance”. The rustle of Japanese flags waved enthusiastically in the air threatened to drown out the orchestra.
After many solemn addresses and much bowing, the Emperor and Empress stepped down to “plant” trees. His Highness pushed some dirt around the base of a cedar sapling with a wooden hoe. His pink-suited consort did the same while balancing on high heels. The placement of the trees was only for show. Later, everything would be transplanted to a more suitable location.
At last, it was my turn. The other young women and I were led to the grass stage to the accompaniment of a harpist. I accepted my tree and buried its roots in the ground. The tree was a sudachi, which bears small green citrus fruit and is the official tree of Tokushima Prefecture.
The music and majesty of the occasion made me feel like I was doing something important on Earth. I was adding to the verdure of the world, enabling Nature. I felt a sense of awe.
When all of us were finished planting, we bowed in unison to the Emperor and Empress, then filed off the field. Afterwards, there was a mass-gardening session as all of the attendants on the hillside began planting prepared saplings.
I didn’t get to meet the royal couple after all. Although they passed by within a few meters of where I was standing, there were no handshakes, no pleasantries, not even any eye contact.
What I did get was a big bag of souvenirs — a cap, a small wooden folding chair, commemorative stamps, a flag, sudachi juice, and a book of photos so that I could always remember that misty day, that baby tree.
Sudachi treeSudachi fruit
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
It may seem perverse to submit an article advocating the benefits of borders to a journal entitled Borderless. I hasten to explain that I agree with the guiding principle of this publication – that the human spirit should be encouraged to soar, transcending cultural limitations and national boundaries. But I’m also reminded of the observation made by the American poet Robert Frost that high fences make good neighbours.
Borders! It’s one of those words that has developed an almost completely negative connotation in recent years, having taken on the emotive sense of exclusion and unfairness. A second example of this phenomenon is the term patriotism, which now is denigrated for similar reasons. Borders and patriotism refer to values and beliefs valorized in the past that are currently under vigorous attack. Their stock has plunged dramatically in this modern globalised society.
It’s no wonder. We inhabit the age of EDI – equality, diversity, and inclusion. Few voices are raised to question its tenets. Most people seem, for example, unreservedly to believe in multiculturalism as an undisputed good, and love of one’s own country has become a questionable – often dismissed as a deplorable – sentiment.
The present disdain for borders and patriotism is unsurprising. We are witnessing the mass migration of people from one part of the world to others on a scale unseen since the post-1945 refugee crisis, when an estimated 175 million people were on the move, in part because of the defeat of the Axis powers but also because of new civil wars. Nowadays, the US, the UK and Europe are proving particularly attractive destinations for individuals fleeing countries troubled by violence, corruption, poverty, religious persecution, and social discrimination. I would like here to explain why I believe in the benefits of borders while acknowledging their potential demerits.
I think the propensity to erect borders is an essentially human trait, coexistent with human existence. The world’s first walls originated with its first cities – places like Jericho in the Bible, constructed twelve thousand years ago – where Joshua waged his famous battle to bring them down. The ancient cities had walls for defensive purposes. Walls intended to divide countries came much later, with the first instance originating in Mesopotamia in 2000 BC.
David Frye observes in his book Walls: A History of Civilization in Blood and Brick that the idea of constructing barriers to keep people out is as ancient as human civilisation. It is only the people excluded that has changed. In the past, it was invading hordes of armed warriors. Now barriers are erected to control immigration, to keep out terrorists, and to halt the flow of illegal drugs.
In Frye’s opinion, borders originated as a means of creating a safe space where civilization could develop and flourish. Walls gave people the security to sit and think. Frye links the building of the Great Wall of China in the late third century B.C. with the creation of the ancient Chinese state. In Britain, Hadrian’s Wall was constructed around 112 A.D. by the Romans to keep out the ‘barbaric’ tribes in the north while they ‘civilized’ the inhabitants further south.
Borders seem to be coming back into vogue. Donald Trump’s vow to expand and reinforce the Mexico-United States barrier was a crucial component of his successful 2016 presidential campaign platform. But in January 2021, the newly elected president Joe Biden halted construction of what had become known as ‘Trump’s Wall’. Since that date, the southern border of the States has been swamped with illegal migrants, and in July 2022 Biden backtracked, announcing a plan to fill in four gaps in the barrier in Arizona that had seen some of the busiest illegal crossings. Some might argue it’s too little too late. In July 2022, there were reports of four thousand Mexican family encounters at the border; a year later, that number had quadrupled. And that’s only Mexican immigrants. Economic and political turmoil in such countries as Venezuela, Haiti, Ecuador, and Columbia has seen large numbers of people trying to escape to the States: their near neighbor where they seek not only safety but a place where they can aspire and thrive.
Similarly, the EU is in the process of having to reconsider what it once identified as one of its guiding principles: the unrestricted movement of people (in particular, workers) within its twenty-eight EU member states. Countries such as Austria and Denmark have significant percentages of their populations who are opposed to this policy. It has been argued that citizens in richer member states are more likely to have negative views. Until the 2000s, only one percent of EU citizens lived in a country other than the country of their birth. That situation has changed dramatically in recent years with the EU’s enlargement to central and eastern Europe. Now intra-EU migration involves millions of EU nationals who are, in general, their countries’ best and brightest – their most highly educated or highly skilled workers – moving from poorer to richer EU member states. What some EU nationals see as an opportunity, others regard as a threat.
Borders not only keep people out but also keep people in. That is one of their least attractive features. The barbed wire that was the first manifestation of the structure that came to be known as the Berlin Wall appeared almost overnight in August 1961. But this wall had an unusual purpose. It was erected to prevent immigration from East Germany to West Germany when the economy of the former was on the verge of collapse because of the many people fleeing to the west. The Berlin Wall staunched that flow of emigration, leading President Kennedy to observe that ‘A wall is a hell of a lot better than a war’.
Arguably the Korean Demilitarized Zone constructed after 1953, which is 250 kilometers long and five kilometers wide, separating the north and south of what was once a single country, has similarly acted as a deterrent to armed conflict. It has been described as a ‘comfortable wall’ that ensures an ‘uncomfortable peace’. For the North Korean government, it acts as a barrier to invasion from the far more prosperous and less repressive government of South Korea. But it has also trapped millions of people in a state that increasingly resembles a huge prison camp. North Koreans are among the poorest people in the world as well as the least economically free. It is estimated that a tenth of the population died during a famine that lasted from 1995 to 1998. While a thousand escape the country every year, many are imprisoned, tortured, and even killed while making the attempt. But they are willing to brave the danger, reluctant to remain in a country where they are systematically denied any civil, religious, or political rights.
Borders are not limited to the demarcation of cities and countries. Physical structures indicating property limits are a fact of everyday life for people throughout the world. In my native America, fences are a prominent feature, indicating boundaries for houses and fields. In Japan, where I lived for many years, the traditional family compound – including farmhouse and storehouse and courtyard – is enclosed within clay walls. In the corner of northwest England where I am currently residing, the countryside of rolling green hills is crisscrossed by dry stone walls and hedges. Hedges in Britain have their origins in the Bronze Age (2500-700 BC), when they were used to manage cattle and to keep them separate from crops. There is speculation that some hedges of sufficient age, density and size may even have once served as military defenses. But while their first function was to act as barriers, they now serve an important role in the environment, as the preserve of insects and wildlife, including sixty species of nesting birds.
A house itself represents a kind of delimitation: a declaration of private space as opposed even to the yard or garden, which are semi-public. Americans tend to be house-proud, their dwellings often boasting large picture windows that afford a view to passers-by of the carefully decorated front room. Japanese, on the other hand, are sometimes ashamed of inhabiting a cramped small house sometimes separated only by a matter of inches from their neighbours’ homes on either side, and they tend to use opaque rather than clear windows to preserve their privacy. Even the big traditional Japanese farmhouse is somehow secretive – bearded in heavy shrubbery, stooping under the weight of a heavy tiled roof. Of course, there are many types of houses in Britain, but I happen to live in one of the most common – a terraced house with a tiny garden out front and a cement yard at the back. My bay window looking out onto the street has its lower half shrouded in a thin net curtain. When I stand nearby, I can look out at my domain – my little plot of earth densely planted with bushes, flowers, and shrubs.
Living in the UK, I’m often reminded of the saying ‘An Englishman’s house is his castle’. The typical British home has an emphasis on the cozy and comfortable, and while few still have coal fires, many retain the old fireplaces as a decorative feature. Alas, nowadays, many British people pave over their little front gardens to use the space for parking. But traveling by train affords wonderful views of long strips of narrow gardens backing on to the tracks, and I sometimes think their owners are like public benefactors, entertaining us with the sight of their patios and pergolas, their beds of flowers and rose trellises as we speed to our destinations.
The observant reader may have noticed that I have begun this short essay on borders by examining those surrounding countries and cities, and then continuing with an ever-narrowing perspective. I would like to conclude by looking at the barriers we put up between ourselves and others.
As I noted at the beginning of this piece, the American poet Robert Frost wrote a poem eulogising high fences for ensuring good relations with our neighbors. Because the States is a relatively new country – and one of considerable size – many Americans can enjoy the luxury of living in houses surrounded by a good deal of land. Driving through any suburb you can see large expanses of grassy lawn separating the house, often a ranch-style dwelling, from the road. In that sense, Frost’s high fences aren’t needed. Unlike the Japanese, crammed into close quarters with each other, or Europeans, fond of renting flats, Americans are used to having their own space. The pioneer spirit lingers on with a focus on rugged individualism.
This can be a curse as well as a blessing. There have been shocking instances in recent years of abducted American women and children spending years as captives in houses so remote or so barricaded against the outside world that their kidnappers could act with near impunity.
Such a situation is unimaginable in Japan. Many Japanese, and especially those in Japan’s cities, live in what they call ‘mansions’ – huge buildings with apartments the inhabitants own rather than rent. Few secrets can be kept in such an environment. In towns and rural areas, the strong emphasis on community activities means that there is constant interaction between households.
While many Americans like to preserve a physical distance from others, the Japanese have developed ways to preserve their privacy in public places as a sort of psychic skill. During my long residence in Japan, I often marveled at how the Japanese can make a virtue of necessity, and this is a case in point. On packed trains, the Japanese self-isolate by reading or dozing or using their phones. In dense crowds in cities, they manage to retain personal space by skillfully skirting each other, scarcely touching, as they walk. Whenever I find myself in one of the huge subway stations in Tokyo or Osaka, I occasionally pause to marvel at what looks like a carefully choreographed dance. Throngs of well-dressed people silently rush past me. They are dignified, intent on their own business, and no confusion or chaos is perceptible. Despite the closest proximity imaginable to each other, they somehow manage to preserve their own personal borders.
The situation in the UK is between those two extremes. Despite inhabiting one of the most densely populated countries in Europe, the British can enjoy incomparable scenery preserved as so-called ‘green belt’ areas around cities as well as landscapes protected by their designation as national parks or as areas of outstanding natural beauty. Unsurprisingly, the British are great walkers. As an American, I’ve had to learn that when a friend suggests a stroll, it can easily mean a four or five-mile hike. The British can escape to the great outdoors when they feel a need to be alone.
There are those who dismiss national stereotypes as nonsense, but I’m inclined to credit them with at least a grain of truth. I think, for example, there are affinities between the Japanese and the British that are perhaps attributable to their both inhabiting island nations and being, as a result, insular. They are bad at learning other languages. They are traditionally characterised by a certain reserve – lacking, for example, the American fondness for confessing details of their private lives to complete strangers.
Borders. Patriotism. The two are connected. It is often said that those who do not learn from the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them. The lesson we might be tempted to draw from the bloody history of the twentieth century is that nationalism is reprehensible and that borders can lead to wars.
But I prefer to draw another moral. It can be argued that the world was plunged into two world wars because evil, opportunistic leaders like Hitler chose not to respect national borders while also twisting patriotism felt by Germans and Austrians into a perverted version of what is a normal human impulse to love one’s own country. As I write this piece, I can’t help but think of how topical it is, with the tragedy unfolding in the Middle East which concerns borders and contested land. I pray a just settlement can be reached and peace achieved as soon as possible.
Finally, I believe we all resort to a variety of measures to define ourselves. We are individuals; we are residents of a certain neighborhood; we are citizens of a particular country. I believe that it is by respecting each other’s borders – personal and public – that we can achieve the ideal of living together on this crowded globe in harmony. Public borders – such as the political boundaries of our own country – can inspire altruism by leading us to identify with an entity greater than ourselves. Private borders – those parameters for conduct and behavior we draw for ourselves, in our daily lives – can confer peace and a sense of individual self.
Wendy Jones Nakanishi has published widely on English and Japanese literature and, under her pen name of Lea O’Harra, has written four crime fiction novels available on Amazon.
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When I first came to Japan from America to teach English on the Japan Exchange and Teaching (JET) Program, I had no idea how popular baseball was in this country. I quickly found out, however. I was assigned to a high school in Tokushima, on the island of Shikoku to be an assistant English teacher. It was summer, and I was immediately informed that the school’s baseball team had won the regional baseball tournament. They had gone on to the National High School Baseball Summer Tournament at Koshien stadium near Osaka.
This event is on par with the Super Bowl in the United States. The games are televised, and the entire country is riveted for the duration of the tournament. Many star players go on to play professional baseball in Japan, and later maybe even in the Major League in America. Ichiro Suzuki, Yu Darvish, and Shohei Otani are just a few players who first claimed the spotlight at Koshien.
Once classes started in September, I discovered that the baseball players were immediately recognisable by their shaved heads. I often saw them practicing on the baseball diamond very early in the morning, sometimes dragging tires yoked to their shoulders as they ran. I noticed that they were respected by the teachers. Even if they fell asleep in class, the teachers didn’t try to wake them up. When they were awake, the baseball players were very polite. They had been trained to greet their elders in a loud voice, and to bow and doff their caps.
Another thing that I quickly found out was that in Japan, baseball season is basically year-round, at least up through high school. Japanese students can choose only one sport. While in the United States, coaches often cut weaker players from their teams, in Japan anyone who wants to join a team is welcome. The team becomes a community for players of different abilities. The bonds that Japanese kids form with their teammates tend to be very strong, since they spend so much time together.
My second year in Japan, I met the man who became my husband. He was a teacher, and a baseball coach. Through him, I became even more aware of what a big deal baseball was in Japan. I also acquired a lot of insider information. I started to write a novel about an American woman married to a Japanese high school baseball coach, which I called The Baseball Widow. I asked my husband many questions while I was writing the book.
We later had twins – a daughter, who is disabled, and a son, who began to play baseball in elementary school. He devoted himself to the sport throughout high school, sometimes waking up at five o’clock in the morning on weekends for out-of-town games. He never once complained. At one point, he asked me to write a baseball story. I did. I wrote the text for a children’s picture book, Playing for Papa, which was published in Spain and is now sadly out of print. I also wrote a middle grade novel, Pop Flies, Robo-pets and Other Disasters, featuring a boy in junior high school. I read the entire novel to my son, and made some changes following his advice.
In addition to baseball, Japan is famous for its robots. Gundam is a well-known robot character, who first appeared in Japanese anime in 1979. Although many science fiction stories feature robots, they are increasingly becoming a part of daily life in Japan. This is partly because Japan’s population is decreasing. There are fewer and fewer young people to do necessary work, so machines are called upon to take up the slack.
Recently, the Japanese have developed robots which can help elderly people and others in many different ways. For example, there are robots which can help farmers pick fruit, as well as humanoid robots that can chat with people and ward off loneliness. Robot pets, like Paro (which became Mon-chan in The Baseball Widow), are also used to keep elderly people and children in hospitals company. There are special cafes staffed entirely by robots, including at least one at which the robots are controlled by people with disabilities. A nearby art museum has a robot guide which takes visitors on tours of exhibits. Robots in Japan have performed weddings and funerals. During the COVID-19 epidemic, one small university even used robots as avatars in a graduation ceremony.
I am fascinated by robots. They are not always what people expect. Sometimes they are soft and fuzzy. As soon as I learned of the robo-seal, I wanted to put it into a story. However, I sometimes feel uneasy about the replacement of humans by robots. Fortunately, at the moment, family bonds remain strong in Japan, with multiple generations living together and helping each other. Like the family in my book, we were three generations, living in the same house. We don’t have a robo-seal yet, but we do have a robotic vacuum cleaner.
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Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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Can anyone say for sure, when Japan and Kerala or, for that matter, Japanese and Malayalam languages, came into contact for the first time? No, it is all buried in the chronicles of yore! This is so, in spite of the legendary Bodhidharma travelling from somewhere in the South-West part of India (Kerala?) to China on its way to Japan in AD 520, albeit still disputed!
With the arrival of the Portuguese in Southern Japan from Cochin(?) during AD 1543, there was obviously a possibility of Malayalee priests or laymen including ‘horse trainers’ and cooks, reaching Japan along with Portuguese navigators. But records of such visits are yet to be made public, being either in Portuguese, Chinese or Japanese archives.
However, according to Takako Mulloor, a daughter-in-law from Japan living in Kerala for the past half a century, such obscurities need not always be the case. She remembers the story of four Japanese youths who happened to visit Quilon and from there to North Kerala, sometime during the reign of Ōtomo Sōrin (1530-1587).
Sorin was one of the few feudal lords of Japan (Daimyo), to embrace Catholicism under the influence of Portuguese missionaries. Originally known as ‘Fujiwara-no-Yoshishige’, he was very powerful at the time, ruling most of Japan. Apparently, he thought it apt to ascertain the ‘truth’ behind the new religion that was spreading fast in his domain. Thus, he is said to have deputed four Japanese youths to Rome and Europe – a new world — to meet the Holy Pope and report back to him.
These youths, after completing their mission successfully, landed in Quilon, on their return voyage. Quilon was a flourishing port of that period. Due to some unknown reasons, they proceeded further north towards Cochin by local crafts, called ‘Kettuvalloms’. Unfortunately, one of them caught malaria and died somewhere on the way and was buried.
According to personal communication from Takako, such records are available with the NHK ( Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai) Brodcasting Corporation of Japan. She remembered that a TV team from NHK had visited Kerala sometime in 1979-80, to make a documentary on these youths and to locate the grave of the one who had lost his life. Takako was their interpreter on this mission, being fluent in Malayalam, Japanese and English.
While I was in Japan from 1965 to 1969, very little information was available in Kerala about Japan. Prior to leaving India, except for some writings by the renowned author MT Vasudevan Nair, the knowledge of Japanese language or culture was scanty.
On joining Osaka University of Foreign Languages (Ōsaka Gaidai), I was fascinated by the general manners of people in and out of the university. They were always kind, polite and willing to help especially students and others from abroad.
Despite having an advanced ‘Language Laboratory’ and excellent faculty, my language proficiency was mostly strengthened by the people on the street or in the villages of the Osaka suburbs. From the very beginning, I was also struck with an inexplicable quality in their language, with its unaccented delivery and melodious intonations that always reminded me nostalgically, of Malayalam!
Amazingly, both these languages were similar in several respects such as the order of alphabets, vowels and structure of sentences that usually didn’t end in a consonant.
We foreign students had to learn some special topics namely ‘Things Japanese’ that included Flower arrangement (Ikebana); Japanese theatre traditions Kabuki, Bunraku and the oral Rakugo and so on. In general, most of them including folk arts, proverbs, and day to day practices, reminded me of the village life in Kerala.
For instance, ‘banishing’ evil spirits from home was just the same as practiced in villages here. Above all, I could also recognise a few Japanese words more or less similar in meaning and pronunciation, synonymous with Malayalam!
That was when the idea of a Japanese-Malayalam Dictionary germinated in me. But, back in Tokyo University after completing six months’ language course, my attention was mainly focused on research, to earn a doctorate. Still, I was able to hone my Japanese speaking skills by constant interaction with the local people who were always enthusiastic about teaching foreigners, their language.
During the second year in Tokyo, unexpectedly one day, the Indian Embassy in Tokyo called me to enquire if I could teach a few senior Japanese government officials, Malayalam.
Didactic skill being not my forte with Malayalam, my first response was a polite ‘no’, despite the attractive remuneration offered. But the potential pupils would not be dissuaded. Thus started my part-time job as ‘Malayalam Teacher’, in Tokyo. Nearly three years of teaching came to an end on my completing my doctoral research, so as to return home.
Contacts with my erstwhile students were soon reduced to almost nil. One exception was an exchange of communication with a Shyoichi Itoh, who retained his interest in Malayalam as also Kerala. Occasionally, he used to write to me in Malayalam to my great delight, for comments and correction. He had also written some articles on Kerala in Japanese journals, on topics of interest to Japanese readers, based on his experience.
The unique Writers’ Co-operative of Kerala (SPCS) was one of such topics covered. Similarly, at my request and as suggested by the editor M T Vasudevan Nair, he wrote an article for the Malayalam weekly, Mathrubhoomi, focusing on the ritual suicide of the famous Japanese writer Yukio Mishima, in 1970. He had also written a guide book for Japanese students interested in learning Malayalam entitled ‘Malayalam for Beginners’.
Subsequently in 1974, Itoh made a surprise visit to me in Poona where I was working at the time. In fact, he came with the happy news of joining The Tokyo University of Foreign Studies (TUFS) as Professor and Head of the Department of Malayalam. That was a deserving recognition of his dedication to the study of Malayalam. His Malayalam for Beginners is still in use in the University and elsewhere.
My last meeting with Prof. Itoh was during early 1982, when he visited my official residence in Tokyo, with his dear daughter. At that time, I was on a government of India assignment (1981-’85), renewing old contacts as well.
Sadly, Prof. Itoh passed away rather prematurely, in 1998.
After taking superannuation from my employer — an international organisation at that time – at the beginning of the current millennium, I settled down in Cochin, India. Still, the dictionary dream was alive and efforts for bringing Japanese and Malayalam closer, was always a passion!
During the early nineties, despite being immersed in professional activities, I had undertaken the translation of Nobel Laureate Yasunari Kawabata’s [1]novel, Yama no Oto or ‘Sound of the Mountain’ (1971) directly from Japanese to Malayalam as Malayute Shabdam.
Published by Current Books (Trissur) in 1994, the translation was well received by Malayalee readers, resulting in more editions. Considering the fact that such translations are usually based on the English version due to language constrains, my work, directly from the original Japanese, is thought to be the first of its kind, in Malayalam.
However, the dictionary project could not be taken up immediately even after retirement, due to personal preoccupations. Ultimately, work on this long-awaited project was started in 2002, two years after retirement, in right earnest.
An old dictionary of Japanese-English-Japanese format, brought along from my ‘student’ days in Osaka was used as the first reference source. Published in 1950 by the Obunsha Company of Tokyo, it was the only one available for me at that juncture.
Following untiring work, the first draft was ready in two years. It was prepared in the Japanese-English-Malayalam format covering some 2000 foolscap pages and nearly a hundred thousand head-words. The meaning of each word and phrase was given in English and Malayalam with Japanese pronunciation in Malayalam fonts. The entire manuscript was compiled in long hand, without using a typewriter or computer!
Thereafter, attempts to get a competent publisher in Kerala was futile mainly due to the non-availability of Japanese fonts for printing. As a final solution, it was felt necessary to obtain fonts from Japan. However, the impasse was broken finally when my old friend and great historian Prof (Dr.) M.G.S. Narayanan introduced Toshie Awaya, a faculty member of the TUFS, as a conduit for assistance from that university.
While discussing various possibilities with Awaya, it was a pleasant surprise to know that late Prof. Itoh, my ‘old student’, used to be her Malayalam Professor!
Subsequently, on visiting Japan with my wife, a meeting was arranged with the late Indologist and renowned historian, Prof. Noboru Karashima, whom I knew during Tokyo University days. He was living in Kamakura, and Awaye took us to his very impressive residence for discussion.
On that occasion, as he suggested, it was decided we meet Prof. Jun Takashima and Prof. Makoto Minegishi engaged in dictionary-related research, in TUFS. They were attached to the Institute of Languages and Cultures of Asia and Africa (ILCAA). Established in 1964 within TUFS, this institute was engaged in promoting academic exchanges between Japan and other Asian-African nations, having been recognised as competent to carry out that task.
The two Professors during a meeting that ensued in the Institute, were amazed to see the sample manuscript of the dictionary that was shown to them. Firstly, use of ‘long hand’ instead of typing or computer printing, seemed out of this world to them.
Another fact, of more importance, was that the dictionary used as reference source material was outdated. It was pointed out that in view of the fast-evolving nature of languages with the addition of new words incessantly, the earlier work had become redundant.
While agreeing to discard the manuscript, we decided to start afresh using a latest dictionary as source to digitalise the new version with the help of a software developed by Prof. Takashima! It was also agreed that the manuscript thus produced with my data would be arranged in a ‘camera-ready’ copy at the ILCAA, that could be suitably published in Kerala.
After several exchanges of visits from India to Japan and Japan to India followed by umpteen number of corrections and revisions, the promised ‘final’ product was ready by the end of 2018.
Then, it was a matter of finding a qualified publisher. The Kerala State Institute of Languages, Thiruvananthapuram, that readily agreed, was found to be the most appropriate one to accomplish that task, in an excellent manner.
The formal release of the beautifully printed and bound Japanese-Malayalam Dictionary of some 1500 pages was formally carried out in the presence of the ILCAA Professors, by Kerala State Cultural Minister A.K. Balan. Hideki Asari, Minister and Dy. Chief of Mission, Japanese Embassy, New Delhi and several other dignitaries were present on the occasion in Thiruvananthapuram on March 8, 2019.
With such a happy finale of a hard work put in during some sixteen years of my post-retirement years, the dictionary may represent a milestone in the annals of Japanese-Malayalam affinities.
During the half a century that elapsed from the time of my first landing in Japan and the release of the dictionary, major changes are manifested in the ethos of Japan-Kerala interactions. Exchange of visits by artists, academics, writers and common people, resulted in the publication of several travelogues, translations, studies, and so forth enabling people of these two parts of the world to come closer, as I dreamt in the 1960s.
Several literary works from Japanese were translated into Malayalam by eminent writers from Kerala including M.K. Menon (Vilasini), K. Kunhikrishnan and others! General studies were also published about Japan, in Malayalam. An in-depth study of Kerala-Japan cultural relations is available in the remarkable book, ‘The Throne of Chrysanthemums’ by the gifted writer and artist, K. Asok Kumar.
In addition to such developments, many professionals from Kerala are now finding gainful employment in Japan, something unheard of a few years back.
In conclusion, it has to be emphasised that the age-old affinity between Japanese and Malayalam needs to be studied afresh by our linguists and historians, in the light of significant evidence emerging from various new studies.
When Rev.(Dr.) Robert Caldwell (1814-1891) postulated the theory of possible origin of Japanese and Tamil languages from the same root, there was no mention of Malayalam, in particular. So also Japanese professors – Akira Fujiwara (1981) and Susumu Ohno (2007) — who revived that hypothesis recently, were also not referring to the Malayalam connection.
Meanwhile, some of our erudite linguists such as Prof. Naduvattom Gopala Krishnan, were able to prove the ancient origin of Malayalam, from the same root as modern Tamil, proving eligibility of both these languages to be included in the ‘Classical Languages’ category, already accepted officially.
According to Prof Gopala Krishnan, the very fact that some ‘Malayalam only’ words were identified in ‘Sangam Literature’ of 300 BCE- 300 ACE, reaffirms its classical position. Even epigraphical evidence from the Edakkal Caves of Wayanad (Malabar), that go back to 6000 BCE, are said to be supportive of ancient origin of Malayalam, together with Tamil.
As such, there is an urgent need for a relook into our perspective of the gamut of Japanese-Malayalam affinities!
[1] Yasunari Kawabata (1899-1972) was the first Japanese to win a Nobel prize in 1968
Dr. KPP Nambiar, formerly a Consultant/Technocrat at the UN Food and Agriculture Organisation, is the author of many scientific papers and books, including a 1500-page Japanese-Malayalam dictionary.
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When I first came to Japan, it seemed as if people were always wanting to dress me up in traditional Japanese clothing and take my picture. The kimonos were bright, with embroidered cranes and flowers, and long furisode sleeves. I was 22 or 23. I would soon learn that such garments were only meant for young women. After marriage, Japanese women typically wore kimono with short sleeves in shades of gray.
Years later, I remember going to an event at my daughter’s school in a tunic and cardigan of light blue. One of the younger Japanese mothers commented on my outlandish fashion choice. Apparently, in Japan, I was too old for pastels. Also, it is unseemly to stand out.
Women tend to stay behind the scenes in this country. In fact, the word for wife, okusan, means “interior person.” This brings to mind someone who hides out in the depths of the house. Normally wives are not mentioned. Men do things without them. I have no idea what the wife of the current prime minister looks like.
As I became older, I could feel myself fading. For many years, I was conscious of the colour of my clothes. Wanting to be taken seriously and respected, I opted for the dark and somber. But recently I am less concerned with what other people think. This, too, comes with age.
I discovered that there is a stereotype concerning women of certain vintage in Osaka. They wear loud clothing, including leopard print, and say whatever they like. I admire that attitude. I am also a fan of Yayoi Kusama, she of the red wigs and huge polka dot dresses. Why not be iconic? Why not be a little weird?
I recently came across a call for models for a project called “40 over 40.” An American photographer in Tokyo named Tia Haygood had decided to make older women visible, to let them feel glamorous and have a good time. I volunteered to be a subject.
We had a consultation via Zoom in which I answered questions about my preferences and personality. I showed her my closet, and we talked about what I would wear. The champagne sequined dress that I bought for dinner with my daughter at the Eiffel Tower? Yes! And the four-inch heeled leopard print shoes that I had bought to go with the dress? Yes! My African print dresses? Yes! Businesslike black blazer? No!
The photo session would be fun, but I also needed a professional headshot. The author photo that I had been using, which had been hastily taken by my impatient husband in our backyard, was fifteen years old. Whenever someone asked me for a photo for a conference programme or a website, I panicked. All I had were some unsatisfactory selfies.
I packed a suitcase with clothes for the photo shoot and flew up to Tokyo. I spent the night in a hotel, and then took three trains to get to the photo studio. By the time I arrived, I was hot and sweaty.
Nobue, the makeup artist, greeted me when I peeked in the door. She ushered me into the breeze of the fan. When I had sipped some water and cooled off, I sat in a chair in front of a mirror and had my face made up.
“Don’t worry,” she kept saying, as she added colour. “Trust me.”
I did.
Tia and I talked about books and people that we knew in common and about the photo project. In December, there would be an exhibition in Tokyo featuring photos of the forty subjects. It would be a celebration, and also a networking opportunity. I vowed to be there.
For the next two or three hours, she took many photos of me in different outfits and poses. Music pumped out of the speakers. She told jokes to get me to laugh. It was fun, and it felt a tad self-indulgent, but I loved it.
While I was in that studio, no one was judging me and I wasn’t invisible. I sparkled.
Suzanne Kamata being jazzed up. Photographs provided by Suzanne Kamata
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Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
When my twenty-three-year-old daughter Lilia, who is deaf, sent me a text saying that she wanted to attend the Osaka Comic Convention, I messaged back “Go ahead!” I figured she would want to go with her friends, fellow manga and anime and Marvel movie enthusiasts. I am more of a literary-novel-type person, unfamiliar with the DC universe. My idea of a good time is reading a book of poetry with a cat on my lap. However, a week or so later, she repeated her desire, along with a GIF of a crying cat, fountains of tears gushing from its eyes. This was followed by three attempted video phone calls while I was at work.
“Do you want me to go with you?” I texted.
“Yes,” she replied.
Well, I could do this for her. On our mother-daughter trip to Paris several years back, she had put up with my dragging her (okay, pushing; she is a wheelchair user) to the Orsay Museum, even though she would have rather gone to the Concierge to look at a lock of Marie Antoinette’s hair. She had made concessions for me, so I could make some for her. Besides, I had never been to a comic convention before. It might be fun. At the very least, I could write about it.
I put her in charge of buying the tickets from the Japanese website. She sent me a screen shot: 25,000 per ticket. What? “That’s really expensive,” I texted her. “I’ll pay for it,” she texted back.
I later found out that admission was only 3,610 yen. The extravagant fees were for a photo opportunity with one of the celebrities who would be headlining the event. One of them played the role of Lilia’s favourite character in her favourite TV series. She had watched all ten episodes of all thirteen seasons, and regularly posted related fan art on her Instagram feed. She had purchased the chance to be in close proximity to the actor.
Sure, it was expensive, but research has shown that experiences are often ultimately more satisfying than things. I know that to be true myself. In Paris, we had a never-to-be-forgotten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower. When we went to Hawaii, on our last trip together pre-pandemic, we had gone on an open-door helicopter ride. For Lilia, having her photo taken with the celebrity would probably be just as thrilling. She had also bought a ticket for me.
I didn’t know much about the celebrity. In fact, I knew nothing. I had glimpsed him onscreen, occasionally, when Lilia was bingeing episodes of the show on our widescreen TV. I looked him up on Wikipedia. He had an impressive background. He’d started out in politics, had probably met President Obama, and then transitioned into entertainment. He had kids, whom he was concerned about feeding well. His wife was a university professor, like me, and he’d published a book of poetry, which I immediately ordered.
I started thinking about how I could make the most of this opportunity. As the author of several novels published by small presses, I was always looking for ways to promote my books. I knew that a celebrity endorsement – or even having a famous person be photographed while holding one’s novel – could bring attention to a book. Maybe I could get the celebrity to hold my book during the photo-op, and then I could post it on Instagram.
But then I went to the website for the Comic Con. I came across a notice that one of the celebrities who had been scheduled to appear in Tokyo in 2022, would not be coming after all. The message read, “Due to a last-minute personal issue,” the celebrity “is unable to travel and had to postpone his appearance at this year’s Tokyo Comic Con. He was looking forward to coming back to Japan and seeing everyone. He is deeply sorry and looks forward to coming back to Japan next year.” But the actor was not attending this year either. He had been run over by a snow plow a few months before and was still in recovery. (This was not mentioned on the website.)
Elsewhere on the website, I came across a list of exhibitors, food vendors, celebrity guests (seven men, one woman), and rules regarding the autograph and photo sessions. So many rules! We would not be allowed to hug the celebrities or touch them at all. We would not be allowed to take selfies or other photos with our own smartphones, or bring props (like a book?), or wear masks, or give gifts to the celebrities. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t be able to ask the TV star to hold my book.
Since the Comic Convention started relatively early, Lilia and I stayed overnight at a nice hotel in Osaka. The next morning, I put on make-up and a pretty dress. I helped Lilia with her hair. We went down to the dining room for a gorgeous buffet breakfast – made-to-order omelettes, tiny French pastries, a big bowl of fresh lychee fruits, and other delights. Although I had splurged on accommodations, I thought that we would take public transportation to the convention site to save money. But that morning, on the third day of the event, the day of our scheduled photo op, rain poured down. We had forgotten to bring waterproof ponchos and umbrellas. I decided we’d go by taxi.
We hopped into a cab at the hotel. The driver was surprised when I mentioned the destination. “We’ll have to go by highway,” he said. That would mean toll fees. But at least we would get there on time, and we would be relatively dry.
The venue, Intex Osaka, was over a bridge on a small island with lots of boxy warehouses. At first, I was amazed by the lack of cars. And people. Were we even in the right place? I didn’t have enough cash on me for a taxi ride back to Osaka Station, and this driver didn’t appear to take credit cards. At last, we reached the huge convention center.
“This is it!” the driver said. Still, no people. He continued to drive around the building, rain spattering his windshield, until, to my relief, we came across some men in uniform waving orange batons, and then to the front, where a long stream of young people holding umbrellas flowed toward the entrance.
Once inside, Lilia flashed our tickets. After a cursory bag check, red paper Comic Con bracelets were fastened to our wrists. I grabbed a map, and tried to get my bearings, but Lilia whipped out her tablet, wrote something on it in Japanese, and showed it to one of the many attendants, a young man wearing a white surgical mask. She’d asked, “Where do we go for the celebrity photos?”
“I’ll show you,” the attendant said. “Follow me.” We scurried past cosplayers dressed up like Spiderman and the Joker and one woman dressed in green carrying a huge candy cane. Some people, not in costume were slurping noodles at a table near a food booth.
Cosplayers. Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata
The attendant indicated an area at the back of the building. We still had a couple of hours before our photo session. “So, we just come here at one fifteen?” I asked. We had an appointment, after all.
“You should get here early,” he said. “At least an hour before.”
I nodded. “Now, where is the Celebrity Stage?”
According to the program, another actor, famous to this crowd, at least, for his role in a movie based on an American comic book, would be participating in a Q and A session onstage in another twenty minutes. I figured we had plenty of time to find a good spot, but when we entered the enormous hall, I saw that all of the seats were filled. We were late.
“This way,” another attendant said, lifting the chain to the wheelchair-accessible area, just to the left of the stage.
We had a good view, but I couldn’t help thinking that at such an event in my native country, the United States, there would probably be a sign language interpreter. In Japan, there was almost never one, unless it was requested in advance. I did my best to interpret for my daughter.
In the program, the celebrity was pictured as bald and sleek. With his dark glasses, he appeared to be the epitome of cool. The man who ambled onto the stage, however, looked a bit scruffy, as off-duty actors often do. He had a beard, glasses, and a leather newsboy cap over his frizzy grey hair. One of his teeth was missing. He greeted the crowd in Japanese and was met with applause.
The emcee tried to engage him in conversation, but he was hard to pin down. He wandered around the stage, joking around. When asked a fan’s earnest question, “What special thing did you have to do to prepare for your role in the film?” he replied, “Nothing.” Later, he was asked if he would appear in another superhero movie. He rubbed his fingers together to indicate it would depend on how much money he was offered, and then, to demonstrate how little most actors actually earn, he took out a one-thousand-yen bill and ripped a tiny corner off. I imagined the horror of all of the frugal, hard-working people in the audience who would never do such a thing. The emcee gently admonished him for tearing money.
Finally, in true Japanese fashion, the emcee asked him to deliver a “special message” to his fans. The celebrity avoided responding to the request, at first, hopping off the stage, and peering into the camera, pretending to check his teeth. Again, “A message for your fans, please?” He got back onstage and adjusted the interpreter’s mic, before, at last, delivering his “message,” one Japanese word: “Hai.”
In this country where everyone was always so orderly and polite, I couldn’t help but be a bit embarrassed by his behaviour. I mean, I wouldn’t have shown up to a writer’s festival or an academic conference without thinking about what I would say. Then again, maybe his performance – and he was performing – was better than him sitting calmly in the chair, giving straight answers. Maybe the unpredictability of this mad genius was entertaining. Maybe just seeing this man who had brought beloved characters to life onscreen, live and in-person, and to be able to pay homage to him, was enough for his fans.
At about 12:10, after we had checked out the exhibitors’ tables and a display of manga posters, I suggested that we get in line for the photo session. Lilia eagerly rolled herself back to the spot we’d been shown to upon arrival. This time, we were early. Not only that, we were first in line. As we waited, Lilia composed a message to the celebrity on her smartphone. I figured that since she was deaf, the convention organisers would allow her to use her phone as a communication device.
A young woman in an orange kimono filed in behind us. More and more people followed. There were other cordoned-off rows for the other celebrities who would be signing autographs and posing for photos, including a Norwegian actor who was known for his role as a cannibal.
When we got closer to the appointment time, an attendant led us to another room, cordoned off like the immigration area of an international airport. Because my daughter uses a wheelchair, we got to take a shortcut. We were still at the head of the line. We were told to put all of our possessions into baskets – again, like the security line at the airport.
“My daughter is deaf,” I explained. “Is it okay if she hangs on to her phone? She just wants to show a few words to the celebrity.”
The attendant shook his head. “Talking to the celebrity is NG.” No good. Prohibited.
Regretfully, I explained what he’d said to my daughter. Lilia, who had also read all the rules on the website, was nonplussed. She put her phone away without complaint.
We stood there, waiting. Although I had the addict’s urge to check my email and scroll through social media, I left my phone in my bag. But I did reach for a notebook and pen.
“What are you doing?” my daughter asked.
“I’m just going to make a few notes,” I told her. “I might write an essay about this.”
“No, you can’t write an essay.” She made an “X” with her arms. No selfies, no touching the celebrity, no talking to the celebrity, and probably no writing about the celebrity.
“I think it’s okay to write an essay,” I said. I scribbled a few words then put the notebook and pen back into my bag.
I asked the attendant where the nearest subway or train station was, already thinking about how we would get home. My daughter asked me what we were talking about and then became irritated. I understood that she wanted me to focus on the celebrity, to think only about him, and what would happen when he arrived. I tried.
More and more people, mostly Japanese women, lined up behind us. I began to realise why the organisers didn’t allow conversation. If the celebrity had to engage in small talk with a hundred or more people, he would become exhausted. As it was, he’d have to smile non-stop for an hour or so. His cheeks would ache. But he would probably make a lot of money from doing this. I wondered how much of a cut he would actually get from the photo-op fees. I thought about all the times I had sat at a table in a bookstore or at a book festival, hoping to sell my novels, and no one had come. Yes, I envied the celebrity.
We waited and waited. The celebrity was late to the photo op. He was probably still signing autographs. Finally, we were led, just a few of us, including the young woman in the orange kimono, into a tented area with a backdrop. A photographer and team stood at the ready. My daughter began to tremble. She indicated that her heart was pounding: doki doki. I thought she was going to hyperventilate. We waited some more.
I wondered if this guy would be scruffy and irreverent like the actor onstage. I hoped not, for my daughter’s sake. We had been planning to have our photo taken together, the three of us, but at the last minute, Lilia changed her mind. She wanted to be in the photo alone with the celebrity. Fine with me.
“He’s coming soon,” someone said. “Please be patient.”
And then…at last…he entered the tent. He was dressed nicely in a blue collared shirt and black pants, a bit of stubble peppering his handsome, now familiar face, his hair neatly groomed.
Lilia’s hands flew to her flaming cheeks. She let out a squeal. The celebrity, and everyone else, were amused by her extreme excitement. He smiled at her as she pulled up next to him in her wheelchair. A piece of tape served as a divider: fan on one side, celebrity on the other. He stood there towering over her, with his aura of fame.
And then, Lilia’s favourite actor, the man who brought her most beloved fictional character to life, crouched down so that their heads were at the same level. He put his arm firmly around her shoulders. The woman behind me, no doubt as aware of the “no touching” rule as I was, gasped. The photographer clicked the shutter, and just like that, it was over. Lilia wheeled out of the way.
Next was my turn. I stepped up to the screen. The celebrity put his arm around me, and I smiled for the camera. “Thank you,” I said in a low voice and exited the tent.
By the time we gathered our belongings, the photos were already printed and ready to be picked up. In the first one, Lilia and the celebrity grinned widely. She held both thumbs up. His body leaned toward hers. They both looked cute. In the second photo, my hands hung down, my posture was stiff, the celebrity’s smile was a tad dimmer, and…my eyes were closed.
But it was okay. The celebrity would probably never see this unflattering, awkward version of me, or the hundreds of other photos taken at this and other Comic Cons. And at least I got an essay out of it. For my daughter, though, this has been the thrill of a lifetime — expensive, yes, but more precious than gold!
A cosplayer holding Suzanne Kamata’s TheBaseball Widow. Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata
Suzanne Kamatawas born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.
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