Have you ever had the experience of being completely taken aback by something that one of your children said? Of hearing words come out that make you think that this kid must have been living with somebody else for all those years?

This happened to me just this morning. We had finished our breakfast, and were in the middle of that general chaos that prevails at that time of day, the kids scrambling to get their school satchels filled with the proper selection of books and their hair fixed in the currently 'in' style, while I try to put our house 'back together' after the activities of the previous twenty-four hours. It is really only once a day that our place could be described as 'clean'. Once the kids are off to school, I am free to finish up the dishes, the laundry and vacuuming, to wipe the floors, air the bedding, feed the fish, give my workroom the once-over, and generally restore order before settling down to the day's work.

This morning, Himi-chan, my 12-year old, finished her personal 'toilet' a bit earlier than usual (a very rare event indeed), and stood in the kitchen watching me as I washed the breakfast dishes. (Actually, to be honest, it wasn't just breakfast dishes, but let's leave me a little pride ...) I don't really mind so much doing this particular job. The warm soapy water feels good, and as long as there isn't a vast pile of dirty plates waiting, or a lot of very greasy ones, or the sound of people enjoying their 'after-dinner' time coming from another room while one works alone, it's a pleasant chore. So I wasn't in a bad mood, but was just quietly working my way down the pile. Himi watched for a while, and then delivered the line that hit me hard. 'Yappari, otoko no shigoto janai ... ne'. 'This really isn't a man's job, is it!'

When I queried her a bit about what she meant, she said that she didn't intend to imply that I was doing it badly, but just that it looked so totally wrong for a man to be standing there at the sink with his hands in the water. A minute or so later, she was off to school, so I didn't have a chance to talk to her further about this, but all day today as I worked away at my printmaking, I mulled over the ramifications of her comment.

Can you see why I was so affected by this? Here is a man who has been living with his two daughters for more than twelve years now (the last four of them 'alone' as the only parent in a three member family), and all during this time he has tried to provide them with as much of a non-sexist background as he possibly can. While I certainly do not claim to be a card-carrying supporter of modern feminism, I have tried, right from the day of the birth of my first child (and even before), to show that I believe that 'family work' (I like that term better than 'housework') is not woman's work, but rather something to be shared by all members of the family unit, to whatever extent each is able to do so.

And here was my own daughter telling me that all my efforts to this end have been wasted. Telling me that she fully expected one day to step into the kitchen, tie on the apron, and get to work ... washing dishes. What a shock - to hear from a twelve year old girl, just at the beginning of her life, that instead of seeing herself as someone who could go anywhere, and do anything, and be anything, she rather accepts the traditional patterns ... She has accepted the equation: housework = female work. She sees herself as a dishwasher!

In one sense, would it perhaps have been better if my kids had been boys? What good is it to show girls that a man is capable of cooking and cleaning? That is just going to lead them to expect too much from their future partners! (Especially if such partners grew up in here in Japan!) If my kids had been male though, wouldn't they perhaps have grown up with a more reasonable attitude towards this kind of work? But after hearing Himi's comment, I'm not so sure about any of this anymore. If after all these years of seeing her father working in the kitchen and laundry space, she still believes that this is woman's work, what hope is there for her of establishing a balanced relationship with a future partner? Is the influence from the society around us, where men get on the train and disappear each morning, while the women clean the houses, so strong? Stronger than her own family's example?

It seems like that might be the case, and that is why I am so depressed at what she said. Because of course, just like anybody, I don't really like doing housework. But in my case, one of the main things sustaining me through it, has been the thought that I was really doing something important for my children - providing them with a living example of how family life should be organized. An example not of how things usually are done, but how they could be done ... and should be done.

And now that feeling has disappeared. With one flippant comment, my daughter destroyed it. For me now, housework is again just drudgery.

Was I just kidding myself all this time? Perhaps it really is a hopeless cause trying to instill a young girl with these ideas ... hopeless, because maybe she is right ... maybe housework really is woman's work! What do you think?

(September 1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 11:39 AM | Comments (0)

The other day I heard from Sadako that she would be spending a day this coming weekend acting as one of the judges for a speech contest being held somewhere in Tokyo. When I suggested to her that it might be a long boring day, listening to a lot of amateur speakers, she replied that actually it might turn out to be interesting, because this was a speech contest with a bit of a difference - it was to be a 'humourous speech' contest.

I asked her what she would do if, rather than being a judge for the contest, she was to be a participant instead. She didn't have to think for long before replying. "That's easy. I'd just tell them about the coffee beans. I'd be sure to win!"

Just tell them about the coffee beans ...

* * *

The Japanese Post Office is truly a wonderfully efficient organization, and I would be the last person to ever complain about their service, but they have been letting us down a bit recently in an important area - the delivery of love letters! Those of you who write love letters frequently, (and that's most of you, right?) know that love letters are different from ordinary letters. When we finish writing a letter to a casual friend or acquaintance, we usually address the envelope and then drop it into a mailbox without much concern as to when delivery might be made. If the friend lives nearby, it may arrive soon; if they live around the world, it will of course take longer, but in any case, we know that it will arrive sooner or later. Exactly when, is not critical. Love letters though, are different, aren't they! No sooner is that last line written ("I want only to be with you!") and our name appended, than the desire to have the letter safely delivered to her waiting hands starts to mount. (For she is waiting, of course!)

Drop it in a mailbox? Impossible! If we do that, it might be days and days before she receives it. The warm endearments will have cooled, the spark will have faded ... Perhaps her attentions will have wandered in another direction ... I have discovered that a letter posted in my own town in the evening for example, (and lonely evenings are the best time for writing love letters!) will not arrive in the neighbouring town until the second day following, or even longer if a weekend intervenes. Completely unacceptable!

So, what is a man to do? There sits the letter in his hand, written in the glow of his love ... but with the warmth fading, fading away, moment by moment. Well, if the Post Office is going to let him down, there's only one thing left to do - deliver it himself!

This was the situation recently facing a person I know rather well. (In order to protect him from embarrassment let's call him say ... 'D') 'D' had written a veritable masterpiece of a love letter - one in which the words were actually burning holes in the paper. It had to be delivered immediately. But look at the problems he faced! It was nearly midnight, and on a Friday, so to mail it was out of the question. It wouldn't arrive until Monday, and by that time would be stone cold. But if he were to cycle over to her house, what could he do then? (Perhaps we should be protecting her too. Let's call her ... say ... 'S'.) He couldn't simply ring S's doorbell. One of her daughters might wake up and answer the door, and then what would he do? "Er ... excuse me, would you please pass this to your mother ..." No, no, that wouldn't work. He could simply drop it into her mailbox, as he had done on previous occasions, but the thought of this 'so-special' letter sitting in that cold metal box through the long night ... No, he must see her now!

He sat at his desk, letter in his hands, thinking and thinking. And then a solution came to him. He knew that S's room and her daughters' room were at opposite ends of their house. What if he were to take the letter over there and toss a few pebbles up at her window to get her attention? She would look out, see who it was, and the mission could be accomplished satisfactorily! But the window was very small, quite high up on the second story, well inside the tall garden wall, and surrounded by shrubbery. It would be a very difficult target indeed ...

I sat and sat, excuse me, I mean he sat and sat, thinking about the best way to get her attention, and finally an idea came. A pea-shooter! If he could make a good pea-shooter it would be no problem to hit the window. He looked around his house to see what he could use ... A few minutes later it was ready: a long thin white tube that normally did duty as a towel rail ... and for ammunition - a handful of coffee beans! He took it out onto his balcony for a test, shooting at a nearby street light. Success! Although the tube was a bit bent, and the beans thus tended to fly off at an angle, he found it was possible after a bit of practice to hit the target with a fairly high percentage of his shots. And the resulting sound was perfect - a short sharp little 'plink', just right for catching her attention! In a few minutes he was off, letter in hand, tube tied to his bicycle frame, and a handful of coffee beans in his pocket!

25 minutes later, there he was, parking his bike in some underbrush near her home. What luck - the entire house was dark, all except for one window, hers! 'S' must be still awake, probably working on a speech she was due to deliver soon. In the evening quiet, he could even hear sounds from her room, a small cough, the turn of a leaf of paper. This was going to be a piece of cake!

There was one small snag though. Even at this late hour there were still plenty of people around. He had just started to get the tube ready when somebody came around the corner walking a dog. A moment later a car came by, and then another walker. How was he going to do this with all these people nearby? He couldn't just stand openly in the middle of the street shooting at the house ... A few moments of investigation confirmed that there was a line of sight to the target window from the shrubbery in that adjoining lot where he had parked his bicycle. It was a difficult angle, but it was well hidden, so he could take his time. In he went.

Only to discover another small snag. No sooner had he pushed his way into the bushes than he heard that awful sound rising up all around him ... bzzz bzzz bzzz Mosquitoes! Clouds of them, awakened from their evening doze by the arrival of this man, sweaty from his cycle ride, wearing ... shorts. A feast! For a moment he considered retreat, but then steeled himself. You can't give up that easily! What kind of a Romeo would call it a day and go home just because of a few little bugs ...? He gritted his teeth and commenced firing!

This was difficult! The sharp angle of view, the bent tube, the mosquitoes, the need to keep ducking down quickly every few moments as yet another neighbour strolled by ... And those deep brown beans were so difficult to see in the dark! Weren't any of them hitting the window? He could hear nothing! He fired again and again, sometimes with a whole mouthful of beans. No response. No 'plink' sounds, and no sign of S's friendly face at the window. His legs started to itch violently. A couple minutes more and he retreated from the bushes for a respite. What now? To come all this way and then slink home ignominiously? No way!

The neighbourhood 'traffic' seemed to have tapered off a bit, and nobody was in sight. Perhaps with a direct shot from out in the middle of the street, it would be possible to hit the window clearly, catch her attention, and get this mission done quickly ... He decided to give it a try. A handful of beans, the pipe raised to his mouth, there he stood in the middle of the street, shooting away. Plink. Plink. Plink. Success! But just then, out walking her cat (her cat! Normal people don't walk cats!) came one of the neighbouring housewives. She stopped and stared at this phenomenon, then turned suddenly and strode quickly back to her home, obviously with some clear purpose in mind. He could well imagine what that purpose was ... It was time to get out of here!

A last pause, to see if there had been any response at the window ... no, still nothing ... and then he was on his bicycle flying down the street away from the 'scene of the crime'. At the end of the block he paused. Perhaps if he waited a bit ... Perhaps that woman with the cat had simply decided to go home and go to bed ... Perhaps he could try again in a few minutes ... He bought a can of juice from the machine on the corner, and casually, ever so casually, stood there sipping it. And then he saw it, arriving sooner than he would have thought possible - the police patrol unit. Stopping just exactly at the place where he had stood shooting, and then with flashlight in hand, starting to explore the dark nooks and crannies around S's house. No question about it, it was time to get out of here!

During the ride home, one thought obsessed him - had that woman with the cat given his description to the police? A tall bearded foreigner on a mountain bike ... There couldn't be too many people in this area who answered to that description. Perhaps he was going to have some explaining to do ... And then, just then, he realized what an absolute idiot he was, because in his haste to get home quickly and directly, he had taken the main road ... the main road running right in front of Fussa Police Station, outside of which day and night there usually stands a constable on duty. A constable who even at this very moment was probably listening to the report on his portable radio receiver ... "All points bulletin! Foreigner ... Beard ... Mountain bike ... Strange long tubular weapon ... Assumed to be armed and dangerous ... Shoot on sight! ..."

And yes, there the patrolman stood, hands behind his back, standing just outside the station in his usual place. It was too late to turn away. So tucking his head down low, trying to exude an aura of total innocence, our hero zoomed by, half expecting to hear, if not the boom, boom of pistol shots, at least a "Hey you! Stop!" But the only booming sounds heard were loud heartbeats ... Mine ... Er, I mean, his!

There's not much more to the story. When he next spoke to 'S' he had to ask if she had heard any noises the other evening ... Perhaps a little 'plink' 'plink' on the window? No ... she had heard nothing. But of course, after hearing his tale of misguided adventure, and laughing at his idiocy, she went into her garden to see what she could find ...

And now, in the corner of one drawer of her desk there rests, not the cold, forgotten love letter, but instead a small envelope containing ... yes, a handful of cracked and broken ... coffee beans. What do you think she feels when she looks at them?

(1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 02:53 PM | Comments (0)