And this, my friends, is the basis for good writing – no matter what your age.

The post focuses on doors on the subway platforms.  This is not Japan being paternalistic and wanting citizens to follow the rules, she writes, it really is a safety measure.  The post shows similar doors in Bangkok and other cities around the world.

Alice is a columnist for the Japan Times and you can read her full article on the topic here.  For the column, she actually went to Metro officials and discussed the newer installation of the doors.  It’s a great column and I encourage you to follow all of Alice’s work closely.

Please be safe with your phone today!

My grandmother with my children in 2010.

Last week my son had a conversation with my grandmother, his great grandmother.  He had a school assignment to speak to someone – anyone he knew and could interview – who had a connection with World War II.  My grandfather was a pharmacist on a hospital ship based in Europe during the war, and though he died fifteen years ago, my grandmother was the obvious go-to source for help.

Before the call, Bailey created a list of questions to ask.  I looked over the list and they were good questions – ones designed to get her to talk and tell a story.  I knew my grandmother wouldn’t need much prompting to talk.  He wanted to know if Papa enlisted or was drafted.  He wanted to know if Papa ever saved any lives and how he survived the war.  He had questions for Grandma about the home front as well.  It was a good list.

As I predicted, Grandma didn’t need much prompting to talk.  She told Bailey a great story that Papa had told her about how the convoy that included his hospital ship normally sailed in complete darkness for secrecy, and then noticing the beauty of the lights on V.E. day when they could be more overt.  She reminded him that Papa was in Europe when my mother was born and he came home to fatherhood for the first time. She told him about how Papa donated his uniforms for Israeli soldiers after the war.  She told him about the patriotism of New Yorkers and how everyone did their part.  I listened to the entire interview as it happened on speakerphone.  My grandfather was just an ordinary guy, but at the same time, a great guy and a wonderful grandfather.  I spoke to him every day the last year of him life, and Bailey carries his name.   The whole conversation was rife with meaning – to my grandmother, to me, and even to Bailey.

With all of this info, Bailey had to write not an essay, but a poem.  That night, he sat down with his notes and wrote each line that Grandma had told him.  Then under it he wrote a line or two of description or analysis of the story.  He wrote concisely and tried to be as poetic as possible.  He really crafted the words.  He ended up with more than 400 words.

The next day Bailey’s teacher had a few words to say to the students about how to write, and actually suggested the method that Bailey used – quote then analysis.  He also had a word limit of 300 words, so Bailey then had to go back and tighten his language without losing any meaning – a tough exercise for any writer, novice or seasoned.  But he did it – he got it down to just about 300.

Bailey spent Tuesday evening reading the poem aloud over and over again to give it in class on Wednesday.  He said it went really well and the teacher and his classmates seemed to like the poem.  I was pleased for him.

Somehow he captured the feelings – he captured the idea that while my Papa wasn’t a war hero per se, every act at wartime is an act of heroism.  He found the words to name the sacrifice of missing the birth of his first child, and the depth of meaning behind giving uniforms to the army of the burgeoning state of Israel, much of whose initial population was comprised of former concentration camp victims.

I really didn’t help much; Bailey found the words to do it himself.  For me, as a writer, it was joyful to watch him do it.  The learning process – the thinking process – that is going on in his head as he develops never ceases to amaze me.  Is he learning from me?  I don’t know and I am not sure it matters much.  Bailey is just at the start of his educational journey, and I hope he can derive the same sweetness from it that I have had over the years.  He’s off to a strong start.

This problem is rampant in Tokyo.  Wherever I am, people are mosey-ing down the street (let’s face it – New Yorkers move; Tokyo-ites mosey – unless they run – then it’s serious) looking down on their phones and using their brilliant opposable thumbs in ways mother nature never intended and probably causes carpal tunnel syndrome eventually.  I wish it was just texting though.  Tokyo-ites read books and newspapers while they walk as well.  I commute to work by bicycle around the same time every day and I see the same people with their noses buried in something every day.  I have seen one person bump another more times than I can count.  The worst was someone stepping off the curb and into traffic while reading before being pulled back by someone else, who miraculously was actually watching the lights.  I haven’t seen anyone walk into a pole or anything else yet, but I’ve only been commuting for six months so far.  It’s bound to happen.  I would like to put this video onto the smart phone of every person in Tokyo.  It might be meant to be tongue-in-cheek, but I think it has a powerful underlying message and more than just a kernel of truth.

This is an important piece and a topic to which we can all relate.  Enjoy!

Click here to see the full article.

In the same vein, writers’ lives have a constantly changing rhythm.  We have to make our own schedules and they can change daily.  It takes a lot of discipline to create a schedule for oneself when there are no outside pressures like deadlines or bosses.  If one is lucky enough to have editor-imposed deadlines, then that’s great, but not all writers are so fortunate to be writing so regularly.

This semester is going to be a crunchy one, for lack of a better adjective.  I am teaching mornings at an international high school (the only “regular” part of my life these days) and then teaching two classes at Temple University – freshman composition.  As of this writing, I’m not yet sure if the classes are the same, or if they are two different ones.    I am still part of a writing group that meets monthly and I fully intend to keep up with my blog twice weekly as usual.  Add to that a book club, the Jewish Community Center Board, and oh yes, my FAMILY.

Remember those people to whom I am supposed to be rededicated??

Starting from today, for the next 13 weeks of the Temple University semester, there will be a lot of juggling happening.  Luckily, writing is not a 9-5 operation.  I can write at my best time of day – 5:30am – if I want to.  I can write while the kids do their homework at night, which is kind of nice actually, with all of us working at the kitchen table.  And if I really need to, in a pinch, I can put off the writing until the following day.  It has been done before.   I am never happy about it, but it is possible.

So hop on the roller coaster with me, readers; the next three months are going to be quite a wild ride!!

That being said, every single sign at Pearl Harbor is in Japanese as well as in English.  That is by no means a phenomenon limited to the touristy areas.  All over Honolulu signs, menus, products – all Japanese.  This one struck me particularly because I do not know a lot of Kanji symbols – but I do know the one for “enter” and that’s it right there.  Because we live in Japan, we didn’t notice for a little while that what we were seeing was not usual for a small, American city, but it is.  There’s not another American city, I would bet, with more signs in Japanese than Honolulu.  Even some menus were printed in Japanese as well as in English.  The guidebook to our hotel was in both languages.  One waiter told us that no one could get a job in Honolulu in the restaurant or tourist industries without knowing – or being willing to learn – some basic Japanese.

Just a quick aside: there is an Ugg store right on the main strip in Waikiki.  Why, might you ask, do Hawaiians need Australian sheepskin boots?  It’s not the Hawaiians who need Uggs; it’s the Japanese.  To a man, every single patron in the shop was Japanese.  AND, there was a line out the door to enter the shop (I assume so there was not a fire-code violation) comprised of all Japanese shoppers.  Ugg boots are not for wear in Hawaii where the temperature hovers between 77-82 degrees Fahrenheit year-round.  Ugg boots are for Japanese tourists to buy less expensively than in Tokyo and wear when at home.  This speaks to the buying power of the Japanese tourists and the volume of them vacationing in Hawaii.

So there are the kids, entering a wholly-American experience of a war sub, with Japanese signage.  I think it actually made them comfortable as the meshing of their bi-cultural lives.  Certainly it was interesting for all of us to encounter a place loaded with Japanese people and Japanese signage, where WE are the natives.

So much of stress is derived from what we expect from ourselves.  Time and time again it has been proven that women, in particular, are prone to beating themselves up over a job done less than perfectly.  Working moms, of which I am one, feel guilty about so many issues and we forget to have a sense of balance in our lives.  My children are fine; they are no worse for the wear with me working.  So I sometimes forget to remind my daughter to bring her tennis shoes to school on days when she has tennis lessons – she’s 9; shouldn’t she be remembering too?  So in our home, we’re all going to try to take responsibility for each other and for ourselves, and help each other out.  The kids are old enough to understand the concept of taking responsibility and also for looking out for each others’ interests.  While we reconnected in Hawaii, we talked a lot about it.  We are not going to take on projects that cannot be successfully completed within the time-frame, and if one of us has a particularly big project going on, then the rest of us can support the one.  Again, at ages 9 and 12, the kids understand the concepts, and were able to give examples, like a big test or class project, during which they would need extra support from their parents.  My husband has a few business trips coming up this winter and the kids will have to step up helping in the house while he’s away.  I have grading periods during which my husband and the kids will rally around me the same way. Letting go of having clean rooms might be a little harder for me, but I promised to try in the spirit of realistic expectations.

So this year is all about realism, keeping things together, and figuring out ways to keep the stress level down.  It’s also about support and staying connected with the four people who live under this roof.  Bring it on, 2012!

Every year, Roppongi Hills, a trendy area not far from our home, has a little festival in their center arena.  We’re not often here for New Year, so this is our first time attending.  The kids got to spin tops, and juggle with professionals as well as watch a dragon performance and a group of Taiko drummers.  The tops are the type that are spun with a string, and to wind them and then “throw” them properly is quite a skill.  The professional organizers of the day spent as much time as each kid wanted with him or her, patiently helping until the child could do it.  It really was an amazing feat of patience.

The Taiko drummers never fail to enthrall me.  They dance and move as they drum in a synchronized rhythm of crescendos and descrescendos.  It’s so exciting to watch and I can barely keep still!

Here are a few more photos on the day.

Sydney learned to wind a teeny tiny top

This dragon lady touched the heads of children in the front row to bring them luck

Look carefully: these are all tiny tops - the players throw them onto the drum and they spin to knock each other out to determine the winner

You know, I didn’t get to go to my grandfather’s funeral in Connecticut because I was in Japan.  My brother went, though.  He put it best later when he said he had the urge to thank my grandfather that day.  He got to connect with family members from all over the northeast of the U.S. who came in to be with our dad and his brothers as they celebrated their father’s life.  There were people there who he hadn’t seen in years who he was so happy to see.  To my brother, it felt like my grandfather had given him the true gift of family that day.  The meaning of a funeral  is for the living to grieve.  In this case, though we will miss my grandfather, he had 94 wonderful years on earth and his passing was not a tragedy, but rather a part of life.  The funeral was really to celebrate his life, and celebrate they did, telling stories and remembering and enjoying each other.  My brother loved it and I wished I was there.  In the end it doesn’t matter that much because I am positive that it doesn’t matter how long it is between visits with my extended family.  We’re family and we’re irrevocably connected.  That’s what counts in the end.