Thursday, August 19, 2010

Killer Grizzly!




I am scared, pardon my French, shitless of bears. Some people might call this fear "irrational". They are correct. Chances of me being consumed by an Ursus Arctos are exceedingly slim. But in my defense, bears are oftentimes quite hungry.

Do you remember that horrifying 1970's "film", Killer Grizzly...the one where a maniacal 18 foot grizzly bear goes on a rampage through a national park? Well, I do. That's why, even though it seems like a quaint notion, I refuse to camp in the Rockies. Also, did you know that there was a 1983 planned sequel to this movie, aptly named Grizzly II: The Predator, starring Charlie Sheen and George Clooney? Thank goodness it wasn't realized because then my feeble mind would have linked terror to George Clooney and that would be devastating. I am already spooked by Charlie Sheen, so that's no loss.

It's a shame, really. Bears have cute noses. They also like to hibernate which, lately, I can totally relate to. I admire my industrious beaver friends, who, when faced with environmental stressors, just get busier. Me, I prefer to eat a lot, head for the cave and live in my PJs. I used to beat myself up pretty consistently about this inclination but now I am mostly at peace with it. I can do a lot of uninterrupted thinking about what I would actually prefer to do after the winter of my discontent has passed. As a result, I can make real changes in my life instead of change making me. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

So, after five years in Japan, change has come with the shocking force of a freak blizzard in the fair month of October. My recent mental snooze has produced some results...I know I need to blog more. Without being able to detail the many ways I am "enamorated" (long live Engrish) of the Japanese, I was at a loss about what to discuss. As it turns out, though, we Americans are a quirky folk, too. I think I'll attempt to make Big Harmony out of what I am experiencing as a quasi-foreigner in my own land.

Also, I will begin the process to become an accredited high school English/French teacher. Hopefully, by the time we hit DC next year, I will be ready to take my final coursework and do my student teaching. I've decided that, other than writing, I absolutely adore those darn kids and teaching them above all else. My greatest wish is that, at some point, I can combine all three passions.

So there you have it. My plans. If you catch me indisriminately stuffing berries (or nachos) in my mouth and looking sleepy, please gently remind me that winter is still a long way off. And for heaven's sake, don't let me rampage through campgrounds. That's just rude.


grizzly photo compliments of freephotos.com

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Hallowed Ground (The Fear of Talking About Fear)

I’m a religious person. I consider myself a Christian, not because I believe in some stock credo that Jesus died for my sins but because I believe he died, bravely, for his beliefs. His unwillingness to give into fear and loathing, even unto death, inspires me and always will. But, this is not a religious issue.

I’m an unapologetic liberal. I believe in and defend all the issues important to any good little liberal--a homosexual’s right to marry, a woman’s right to an abortion, and the right for all Americans to have basic health care, to name a few. I don’t believe that taxation is necessarily evil or that walls should keep out Mexicans. But, this is not a political issue.

It’s an American issue. The current hullabaloo over the Muslim center being built near Ground Zero has deeply disturbed me, as an American. I feel for the peaceful Muslims in NYC who long for a quiet and dignified space in which to worship and convene. I feel for those who compassionately support their fellow Americans’ right to this space. I feel for all of us who were traumatized by watching thousands of innocent people be terrorized and then ultimately killed in the twin towers’ collapse.

We Americans have been running scared since that terrible day in September, nine years ago. Currently, we don’t need to be reminded that all we have to fear is fear itself. We are not the World War II generation, isolated from the world and skittish about entering a global conflict. For better or for worse, we now literally attack problems. And, unfortunately, one another.

Currently, there are two camps pitted against each other concerning the Muslim center’s position near Ground Zero. The first perspective is that, as Americans, Christian or Muslim, liberal or conservative, if we start to place restrictions on a citizen’s right to practice his or her religion freely, we invalidate the Constitution and indeed, our core American beliefs. This is fact. If we eschew our core national beliefs, the radicals have “won”. This is not an irrational fear. Every American should sit up, pay attention and acknowledge this as a legitimate threat to our national identity.

There are others who believe that Ground Zero is “hallowed ground”. To place a mosque in this area dredges up our worst fear that we will be attacked from the inside. Many people who oppose this building are being labeled as xenophobic zealots and/or anti-Islamists--people who think that Islam is out to destroy Christianity and thus “American values”. Surely, there are a few of these folks in the debate but, as a whole, I respectfully disagree. I think the vast majority of those who are voicing doubts about this structure are just afraid.

For example, I read a recent blog that took issue with Sarah Palin’s assertion that Ground Zero is a “hallowed” space by pointing out that the surrounding area is also home to “profane” delights such as adult entertainment, gambling and fast-food franchises. In the blogger's defense, I also distrust Ms. Palin’s reasoning and intentions. However, the author might also be missing the point that for many Americans, this “hallowed space” is not in the physical blocks surrounding the site--it’s firmly fixed in our emotional memory. Fear is a natural and logical response to a known danger. It is not political.

Make no mistake about it, radical Muslims live in the U.S., train in the U.S. and are constantly trying to gain access to this country in order to destroy it. This is a fact. They are becoming astute at infiltrating moderate communities. Although we shouldn’t think that blocking the center will protect us from terror, we also ought not to gloss over the obvious: Radical Muslims will stop at nothing to destroy us, our families and our friends. This is also not an “irrational” fear.

So, we are caught between two scenarios, equally terrifying. One allows complete religious freedom but could arguably allow enemies into our house to attempt to destroy it. The other doesn’t include all Americans in the “pursuit of happiness” and therefore encourages our enemies to start disassembling the house, brick by brick. We could just continue to point fingers at one another. We could throw up our hands in frustration and disgust. Or, we could stop a moment and acknowledge each other’s fears as legitimate.

I sincerely believe that this “war” will not be won in the dusty foreign terrain of the Middle East, but rather, here, in the fractured American psyche. If we are weak today, it neither has anything to do with the strength of one religion over another in our country nor which political party is in power. It’s because we refuse to acknowledge one another’s legitimate fears, discuss them intelligently and then purposefully act on them. We can be accepting of religious diversity AND recognize that extremists might be hiding in the shadows of our freedoms. To be eternally vigilant and protective of our freedoms, we must start to work together for each other.

Recently, moderate Muslims in New Jersey heroically ousted (and reported to the FBI) a young man from their faith, who, despite counseling, still became radicalized. I would expect the same out of Christians if one of their believers were plotting to bomb an abortion clinic. If moderate Muslims continue to seriously ramp up the information about their faith and their efforts to discourage radical thinking among their believers, those among them wishing to do evil will be driven from the shadows. Other Americans, religious or not, could also begin or continue to build strong and lasting ties to moderate Muslim communities. In this way, perhaps our national fear could be neutralized…our national identity solidified, in this little space in Manhattan.

If so, it truly will become sacred ground.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

The Button Box

I entered the NPR 3 minute fiction competition, but with 3,800 entries, it's highly doubtful mine will be chosen. We were required to write a story in 600 words or less that used the common words fly, plant, button and trick. I thought I would put it on Big Harmony and see what you all think. Thanks for reading!


If I asked permission, on rainy days, I could play with it. Everything else in the tidy bedroom was off-limits; the dainty Victorian perfume bottles stained amber from scents long evaporated, the oversized clip-on earrings resting in crystal dishes (only gypsies get their ears pierced was her credo) that ladies of a certain age like to wear, the dresser drawers that were never left ajar, not even in haste.

From time to time, my feet would trick me and I would suddenly find myself in this religiously quiet space, its air as still and lifeless as a mid-afternoon sanctuary. I oftentimes stood by the bed, paralyzed with indecision about whether to quickly open the velvet-lined jewelry box, the nightstand drawer, the writing desk with all its private, mysterious compartments.

My hand on the slender handle of the mahogany dresser invariably paused…it seemed wiser to drift over to the drop-leaf table under the window to furtively look at pictures of family members, stoic-faced in the distant past, brightly smiling in the present. A mundane house plant, dutifully watered for decades, sprawled its tendrils among the photos.

Before the bully twins of guilt and fear ushered me out, I would head for the button box in the corner. It wasn’t really a box. It had no corners. Formerly a metal cookie tin with a snug lid, the round container held hundreds of spare buttons dating back to the first days of a marriage; a leather pea coat button emblazoned with an anchor, a clear, teardrop shaped jewel loosened from a party formal, the diminutive, pearl-toned button that once belonged on the neckline of a baby’s smocked dress, a nickel knob that fastened a teenager’s button-fly jeans.

In my own room, as rain lashed in spasms against the windows, I was allowed to leisurely inspect and sort each one. My whim decided how the piles would form; by shape, size, beauty, or some hidden character I recognized at that moment.

But on sunny days, in the silence of the violated room, I had to hurry and pry the fussily flowered cover off the box. Raking my fingers through the heavy depth of buttons, I felt a different kind of pleasure.

The sound of footsteps would slowly start at the bottom of the stairs. Before they could reach the top, I would have replaced the lid and slipped into my bedroom. I knew that no one would discover whether the buttons had been touched…a thought that always gave me great comfort but no satisfaction.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Bump of Chicken and Super Mattress Games

Tim and I enjoyed two amazing days in Kyoto last weekend for many reasons that you might easily imagine:

a) The sight of Mount Fuji in its winter kimono from the Shinkansen
b) The ancient temples and shrines in the snow
c) The delicious noodles and tofu (Kyoto is known for its creative use of soy beans)
d) The shocking lack of children whining (ours, in particular)

You can't walk 60 seconds in this town without encountering a sacred space...Kyoto has 17 World Heritage sites, 1600 Buddhist temples and 400 Shinto shrines as well as several castles and major gardens. It's truly the Rome of the Far East.

These visual delights are indeed mesmerizing in their own right, but holding equal rank are the more profane and less well-known pleasures of Japanese culture, namely Japanese Pop (J-Pop) names and hotel porn titles.

On the way back down from Kiyomizudera, a profound temple nestled in the hills surrounding the ancient capital, snakes a narrow street of souvenir shops and eateries. I was admiring the local pottery when I spied a bumper sticker of my favorite J-Pop band, BUMP OF CHICKEN, in a tiny music shop. Granted, I've never listened to their music, but how can you not be a fan of that name?

I must have picked up some good luck in the temple, because they also had one copy left of HIDE (pronounced heeday),currently touring with...SPREAD BEAVER.



Hide AND Spread Beaver on one stage? Wow. The awesomeness cannot be contained in two hands. It just can't.

I silently wondered all weekend if PETA continually picketed their concerts. When we got home, Claire questioned what Spread Beaver actually meant: Was it something you smeared on crackers or something more...well...? This, of course, brings me to the topic of porn movies in Japanese hotels.

Since we are not into the club/karaoke/"hostess" bar scene that dominates the local night-life, we opted to get some dessert after dinner and head back early to the hotel. We could have gone to the pool...but that cost $21 per person. (I am thinking of writing a small note to the hotel CEO that simply says, "REALLY?! Sincere regards, Nancy B." (I would frame the response.)

Unfortunately, the in-house movies cost the same as the pool. The NEW releases were Harry Potter and Spider Man 3. The free channels consisted of CNN and endless montages of "relaxing" underwater vistas. Okay, on to the Adult Fare...at least that might be worth 21 bucks because I was pretty sure we hadn't seen them yet.

Here were our choices, verbatim:

The Undergarment of Sister-in-Law

The Beautiful Hip of Neighbor


And my personal favorite, Super Mattress Games. (I think this might be a Nintendo game, too. Although a release date currently doesn't exist, I can't wait for Super Mattress X-Games for the Wii.) In the end, paralyzed with indecision, we ended up just watching Stripes on the computer until the battery died.

Lame, I know. Perhaps, if we could have found out if SPREAD BEAVER were on one of the soundtracks, our choice would have been easy. Perhaps.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Setsubun



Fed up with icy roads and the local idiots driving on them? Ready to stick your head in an oven if the kids have one more snow day? Perhaps you should consider moving to Japan because today's Setsubun celebration drove the last nail into Old Man Winter's frigid coffin. Tomorrow is offically the first day of spring.

Setsubun, February 3rd, marks the last day of the "old" year by ritualistically banishing winter's demons (Oni) while simultaneously welcoming the new, green shoots of good luck that appear in springtime. In ancient times, this occasion acted in the same manner as our New Year's Eve. Instead of blowing horns and setting off fireworks to scare off the bad spirits, the Japanese throw roasted soy beans at them.

Don't ask me why soy beans are frightening. I just don't know.

Although I blogged about this festival's significance last year (see the post, Demons Out...Luck In from last February), today I had the good fortune of seeing the bean throwing (Mamemaki) ritual acted out in a humble shrine by the sea in Hayama.

My friend Hiranosan, his wife Hirokosan and I zoomed into the sand parking lot about two minutes before the ceremony started. We threw our coins into the box in front of the shrine's entrance, pulled the thick rope to ring the bell (in case the gods were unaware of our presence), clapped our hands twice and said a small prayer. We took our shoes off, lined them up (toes pointing out, of course) and promptly proceeded to freeze our tootsies off in the open-aired sanctuary.

Except for the subzero temperature "inside", the ceremony reminded me of Ash Wednesday services in the Episcopal Church--a comforting blend of solemnity and community. A head priest and his assistant blessed the congregation and chanted mysterious words, as mothers with babies arrived late and out of breath, standing in the back in case a quick exit might be needed. We stood up, we sat down. We bowed our heads. An older gentleman carefully brought the offering, a small tree branch adorned with strips of Shinto paper, to the altar.

The toddlers became restless. Although I couldn't understand the words, I could "hear" their little voices pestering their mothers with questions and complaints: "Mama, why does that man have a funny hat?", "What is he saying?", and/or, perhaps, "I can't feel my flippin' feet." (I have a lot in common with Japanese babies.)

They settled down quickly as the priest blessed the beans and started to scatter them around the sanctuary, starting in the northwest corner--the most unlucky compass point since apparently the Oni like to roll in from that direction. I could hear the terrifying legumes ping off the straw tatami mats and under the sanctuary furniture. (I wondered if, like errant strands of Easter grass, the shrine keepers would still be finding them months later in unexpected places.)

The whole experience was over before I knew it. The head priest thanked his congregants for coming. Retired folk and young mothers filed out of the shrine, replacing their shoes and hats, stamping some life back into their frozen limbs and silently going back to whatever they were up to before this short break from mundane living.

Me, I dropped my friends off at their tennis club and went to fill the car...back to the "normal" life where gas costs a fortune and beans don't have the power to strike fear in the hearts of evil-doers.

But, as always, it was fun spending a little time with a community that I don't oftentimes understand but still love to pieces.