Earthquake... I Seem To Find Them (3/11/11)

Started at 2:45pm...

When it got really big it was hard not to remember the Kobe earthquake (Daishinsai)...
and there I was praying again, hands joined and eyes closed...with the prayer shawl from Anne around me. I am in my apartment now with everyone from work. We are having aftershocks! The building is rocking but my building is only 12 floors -- work is about 40. So we are safer here.

When I went to see the Suzukis last week, we talked about an earthquake. What if one comes? How to prepare, etc. They said Kanto (Tokyo area) hadn't had one in years, and that we were due. And we laughed and said I had come back for it. They are close to the ocean and I am worried. I hope they are on a train by now...

Here is the story I wrote about the 1995 earthquake in Kobe and meeting the Suzukis...


JISHIN

January 17th. Days in Japan: 137. 3rd Home Stay. Average number of new words I learn a day: 20-30. Favorite new word: “mendokusai.” Translation: “annoying.”

A dog is barking when I wake up. It’s still dark; I can barely make out the silhouette of stuffed animals on the sill. The pink ovals on the digital clock read 5:44 AM; in less than one hour an electronic Japanese woman’s voice will say: “Ima wa roku ji han desu! Roku ji han desu!” Translation: “It is now 6:30! It is now 6:30!” I want to strangle this polite woman who wakes me up every morning.

I toss and finally sit up straight in the single bed of Akiko. Akiko is seven, my youngest host sister yet, and it’s her room I’ve overtaken -- with the understanding that I refrain from touching any of the Disney figurines that line her dresser. The kid is obsessed with Disney. For fun, I turn Donald Duck 180 degrees and put one of Snow White’s Dwarves next to Belle. The rest of the figurines stare at me in horror, shadows cast across their faces. I’ve disrupted the harmony in their universe. I stare back at the chorus of pink flushed cheeks and earnest expressions. “Change is good for you,” I say in my mind (because Disney figurines are mind readers). They still look skeptical, but appear satiated for the moment. Who is this wise woman sleeping in Akiko’s bed? Maybe we’ve got it all wrong and should learn to adjust ourselves.

Yesterday, Carolyn went back to New Zealand. She was the only other exchange student at my school and a group of us headed to the airport to see her off. A-Chan, the head of our Chorus Group, turned to me like a coach at the start of a season: “Carolyn ga inai kara, nihon go de wa, gambatte de shoo.” Translation: “With Carolyn gone, you’ll really have to work harder on your Japanese. You can do it.” I nod my head and feign appreciation for her ‘pearls’ of wisdom -- but I’m annoyed. I’ve never had any Japanese language classes. Carolyn studied for two years before arriving in Japan. She’s been here for 12 months; I’ve been here for 5. No one should be comparing us.

But the truth is, I compare myself to Carolyn all the time. I’m jealous of her Japanese. This drives me crazy because if anything, she should be jealous of me. First of all, I’m much prettier than she is. Her hair is greasy and thin and her ears stick out. She’s never kissed a boy and is immature when it comes to anything outside of schoolwork. She covers her books with Hello Kitty stickers and listens to Mariah Carey. She’s a nerd. If she went to my high school, I’d be nice to her – but we wouldn’t sit at the same lunch table. Here -- I follow her around like a puppy. At least with her gone I won’t be so dependent on someone who annoys me. But who will I walk to school with? Who will translate the whispers of the girls who go to karaoke bars and sex hotels? I toss again. As soon as I can speak Japanese fluently, everything will fall into place. That’s what I’m thinking about when the earthquake starts. How everything is about to fall into place.

There’s a 1970’s movie called The Incredible Shrinking Woman starring Lily Tomlin. She plays a housewife who shrinks to the size of a doll after being exposed to too many household chemicals. Lily takes up residence in her daughter’s dollhouse and one day, the dog paws at the doors and windows. She gets tossed around inside – flailing in every direction, at the mercy of their household pet. This is a good way to describe being in a 7.2 earthquake. It’s like catching a wave at the beach that’s too big to ride. You’re helpless as the wave carries you downward with the force of the ocean behind it. The only thing to do is hold your breath and prep for that scrape into shore that you hope won’t knock the wind out of you – or worse.

“Oh Shit, what if I die?” I think, grabbing onto the sides of my mattress. It’s so loud – like a thunderstorm inside a garbage disposal. “I’m going to die in an earthquake in Japan!” Now I’m crying and just as quickly start to pray: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” -- I’m praying God can hear me. My grandmother taught me the Our Father when I was five. I’d say the prayer at church and sometimes at the dinner table – purely as ceremony. Until one night in 3rd grade -- my Mom was late, too late to have not called, and I was home alone. I remember sitting in the family room of our house in Connecticut, the rain pouring down in sheets, lightning followed by thunder, and I knew she’d been in a car accident. I knew it. So I prayed to God that if He saved her, I promised to pray every day for the rest of my life. She survived a nasty pile-up. And I believed, at the age of 8, that I had saved her.

I kept up with my promise for a whole year. I actually became afraid that if I didn’t pray something bad would happen to my family. My prayer was a little OCD. I always ended with the word GOD, but just to be sure I had finished the sentence, I forced myself to say “ddd – God” aloud. It felt like making sure a door had been shut firmly behind me. And now, a full ten years later, I’m blubbering the words out between tears, begging God-d-d-d to let me live. Another huge jolt moves my bed across the room. Then -- it stops.

Everything stops. Seconds of silence and then car alarms, more dogs barking, the sound of my host father yelling: “Dai jobu?! Minna san, dai jobu?” Is everyone OK? He is at my bedroom door, but it won’t open. It’s made out of steel and the whole frame has warped. He throws his body against it and it gives way. I get out of bed and follow him into the living room. I’m crawling over lots of glass, and look down. The blonde of Cinderella’s hair, perfectly tucked under her blue headband, peeps out from the end of my fist. There is blood on her face – it’s my blood – my hand must be cut, but it’s not deep. When or how Cinderella got into my hands is a mystery.

My host father tells me to get under the kotatsu (a small table) and when I do, I see the faces of Akiko and her older sister Yuki, eyes wide. Before long the first aftershock comes. We all scream, but when it stops -- we giggle. This goes on for a while: aftershock, scream, giggle. It feels strange to be giggling, but it’s also a relief. Like we are all thinking the same thing: WHAT. THE. FUCK. JUST. HAPPENED?

I keep Cinderella hidden in my clenched fist but soon Akiko discovers her. I’m afraid she’ll be mad but instead, she thanks me for saving her life. I hand her over, saying it was nothing, as if I had rescued her on purpose. In my family, I’m the youngest of three, but now I feel like the oldest sister. Yuki starts to cry and I tell her everything is going to be all right. I even smooth Akiko’s hair behind her ears and rub her back. I’m a good older sister.

The sun begins to rise (in the Land of the Rising Sun) through a haze of dust. We stand on the balcony, watching the fires burning in downtown Kobe. It feels like I’m flipping through channels and have stopped on news footage of a city in Iraq. But I can smell the smoke. Somewhere nearby, a woman is crying. I try not to listen but it must be one of the apartments above or below us. Did someone die in our building?

My host father leaves for work but is back within 15 minutes; all the trains are down. He leaves again – this time on his bike. I almost laugh and am about to argue with him – it’s more important that he stay here with us. That’s what my Dad would do. Suddenly I miss my parents terribly. I need to hear my mother’s voice.

My host mother hands me the phone. I rummage through the disaster zone of my bedroom for my phone card. It rings 4 or 5 times. “Hello?” says my Mom. “Mom – I’m OK!” I announce, expecting tons of questions and sighs of relief. “Good to hear your voice, honey!” she says happily. I can hear her heels on the slate floor in the kitchen and remember the time difference – she is just home from work. “Here, Neil – say hi to Gina while I grab the groceries.” The Chia Pet infomercial plays on the TV as the phone gets passed. “Cha cha cha Chia!” “Yo,” Neil says. “What’s up, geisha girl?” A surge of importance rushes over me. “We just had an earthquake!” I say. “Cool,” he says. “Did you feel it?”

It’s rare that my brother listens to anything I say – so the attention is thrilling. He flips through the channels, looking for some kind of news report, then passes the phone back to my Mom. “Neil says there was an earthquake. Are you ok?” my mother asks. I rattle off the same description and I can tell by her questions that she is growing more and more concerned. I keep telling her everything is fine. “It was exciting,” I say. “We’ll call you back when your father’s home from work, Regina, I know he’ll want to talk to you,” my Mom says. I nod, noting her use of “Regina,” which is reserved for times when she is pissed off – or worried.

We hang up – and I don’t talk to my parents – or anyone else – for the next three days. Strangely – all the phone lines in Kobe went down in the earthquake, so it’s anyone’s guess how I was able to get through an hour and a half after it happened. Maybe it was d-d-d-Goddd.

We can’t take a bath or a shower because there’s no running water. We also have to ration food. My stomach growls and I write in my journal: “At least I’ll lose weight.” I want to take video and decide to venture outside later that day. The street has a buckle in the middle of it, as if a Giant had stepped down, cracking it in half. Most all the buildings I can see are completely toppled or badly damaged.
The next few days are a blur. Aftershock, small snack, bit of water, write in my journal, take a nap. When the phone lines are up again, I talk to my parents. They ask me if I want to come home. “No,” I say, shocked at the very idea. “I’m really close to speaking Japanese. I can’t go home now.” They are quiet and then say they’ll respect my decision – but that I cannot stay in Kobe. A few hours later they call back with a plan. My Dad has a contact at work that knows a family north of Tokyo. The couple is willing to take me in. Tatsuo and Yumi Suzuki. Tatsuo will meet me at the Shinkansen train station tomorrow at 6PM. My host mother tells my parents she can get me to the Shin Osaka station. It’s a walk – but she will get me there, she promises.

I look around my room and pack as if I won’t be back – just in case. My journals, video camera and tapes, underwear, socks and a few pairs of pants and sweaters – which is all I can fit into my pack. I see the remnants of Akiko’s Disney figurines – most of them smashed into tiny pieces. At least I was able to save Cinderella. My host mother, Yuki and I set out for the Shin Osaka station. The walk takes us over 2 hours and we are quiet for most of it. We pass teams of dogs that are looking for people beneath the rubble. Old men sit smoking cigarettes and women huddle on the doorsteps of houses that are no longer standing. On our right is the amusement park that’s close to one of the stations near school. The sherbet colored bumper cars and fairy tale spires seem grotesque. I want to take video of them but it doesn’t feel appropriate. I can tell that my Host Mother is nervous being out amidst the rubble and the chaos. She wants to get me to the train as soon as possible.

My right leg hurts. Four days ago I noticed little bumps that turned into mosquito bite sized pimples. They itch like crazy. I haven’t mentioned them to anyone but figure I just need a shower and some sleep. I smile, remembering Carolyn. She missed the earthquake by one day! I can see her now, sitting in New Zealand, watching all the footage on the tube. She was so close to having this be her story. Now – it’s mine. I feel triumphant. Then I look around me. The careful, delicately laid streets and gardens are a jumble of concrete and wires. It makes me want to cry but at the same time it’s thrilling – knowing that I am in the middle of something historic. Maybe this is how a news journalist feels.

By the time I meet Tatsuo on the platform of the Tokyo train station, it’s a little past 6PM. He is my father’s age – in his early fifties, with a handsome face and kind smile. We take two trains to the small town of Kamakura, a fishing village with a view of Mt. Fuji from the beach. The Suzukis live in a beautiful, old Japanese house with traditional tatami rooms and sliding paper doors. They also lived in New York City for eight years and Yumi speaks fluent English. My room is upstairs and belongs to Michiko, their daughter, who is a PhD student at Stanford studying English Lit. Her room is filled with bookshelves that are packed with novels and poetry.

I am so grateful to be here – whisked away from the chaos of Kobe into this exquisite house and town. My leg is killing me but how can I tell them? They just met me. I don’t want to burden them or make an impression of someone who is going to be a bother. I want to simply be a grateful guest. So I shower and return downstairs for a late dinner. We eat and I feel better but when I stand up from the table, the blood rushes from my head and I faint. As in: pass out cold on the kitchen floor. I wake up on their living room couch and show them my leg, which is at this point swollen and reddish purple with the epicenter being one of the mystery pimples. The skin beneath it is hard and it’s hot to the touch. Mrs. Suzuki asks why I didn’t tell them sooner. I try to explain but Tatsuo points out the irony in my thinking: You stayed quiet to avoid making things more difficult -- but in so doing complicated things to the point of passing out. He’s right. What if I had hit my head? The Suzukis would have to phone my parents and break the news: “Regina arrived safely from the deadly earthquake in Kobe, but hit her head after dinner and died on our kitchen floor. My tombstone would say as much: Here lies Regina Taufen. She died so that others might not find her impolite.

The next morning we take two trains to Yumi’s Doctor. He takes my temperature, examines my leg and announces to someone unseen that he must drain it. Yumi translates this last part just as a stainless steel bowl and a lance appear from the gloved hands of a nurse. I look the other way as it punctures my skin and try not to cry but it hurts and the tears roll down my cheeks. The doctor does not speak much English and the medical terms are past my Japanese vocabulary, but later Yumi explains that I have a serious staff infection resulting from folliculitis, an infection of my hair follicles, which was most likely the result of a regular bacteria becoming toxic under the stress of the earthquake. She explains that I must stick to a strict daily regimen of draining the infection, covering the wound with gauze and medical tape, and taking my antibiotics – for 2 weeks. Yumi and the doctor speak quietly as I wait, and every once in a while she looks up and smiles at me.

Later, as we ride the train back to Kamakura, I ask what they were talking about. “You,” she smiles again, looking out the window towards a shrine with bright orange wooden pillars and pieces of white paper folded like cranes hanging beneath. She starts to speak but stops herself, then starts again. “I told him how you were afraid to burden us, and we laughed and said that maybe you were really Japanese after all.” I look her in the eyes and am amazed by her skin. She must be in her fifties, but I see no wrinkles. Just flushed cheeks and a smooth, soft complexion. “He says you are very lucky.” I nod, and say I feel lucky to have gotten out of Kobe and come here. “I mean about your leg,” she continues, decisively. “He said you might have died.” I am not expecting this. Who dies from an infection of a hair follicle? That’s not the sort of thing you hear about. I’m skeptical but don’t discount the continuous throbbing of my shin. “Yumi?” I ask. “Don’t tell my parents that, OK? I don’t want to leave Japan yet.” Yumi pats me on my good knee. “What a brave girl you are,” she says.

That night, I sleep for 16 hours in Michiko’s room. I dream of being chased by wild dogs through snowdrifts on the grounds of some ancient, Wuthering Heights-esque estate. I dig a deep hole to hide myself -- but then I cannot tell which way is up.
When I awake -- it’s dinnertime. Everyone is pleased at how much I slept. Especially Tatsuo’s parents, who are in their 80’s, and live on the first floor. They tell the story of being in the great Kanto earthquake of 1923 (which killed over 100,000 people). Tatsuo’s father was 12 and had to walk barefoot for miles in the dark searching for food. His wife is thin and frail but perks up as she eats, recalling the fires that lasted for weeks.

The next morning I pick up Michiko’s copy of “Catcher in the Rye” and sit outside in the sun, re-reading it. That night, I videotape the process of draining my wound while narrating in the voice of Salinger’s main character, Holden Caulfield. I call my leg “gorgeous, just stunning,” and refer to the bumps as ‘bars,’ while the puss and blood within becomes the riffraff in need of removal by me, the Bouncer (I’m a beefy bouncer, from Long-Guy-Land, but I’ve got a big heart). Maybe I really have lost my mind. Then I read “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath -- and feel totally sane.

I think about Yuki and Akiko and wonder if Cinderella still has any of my blood on her face. There is a knock at the door and Yumi is there with a cup of hot tea for me. “Tomorrow, I was thinking I’d send you on tanken,” she says. “Tanken wa nani?” I ask. What’s a tanken? “Tanken,” Yumi says, “means adventure. How would you like to go to a bamboo temple? I’ll write everything down for you and you can explore on your own. But you’ll have to use your Japanese.” I nod ‘yes’ and thank her for the tea. When she closes the door I say the word out loud again: “Tanken.” That’s what this has been. My Big Japanese Tanken. I like the Japanese word better. But then, I like all the Japanese words that Yumi teaches me.