The Election I

I don't know what to say. It's been two weeks since the election and I still don't quite know what happened. Part of me saw this coming. Most of me didn't believe it was possible. 

During the primaries, I predicted that Donald Trump would not be selected by the Republican Party, that he would be passed over for one of the less popular men running. But that did not happen. 

Then I predicted that he would either drop out of the race or that the American people would sober up and realize the utter ridiculousness of this election. But that did not happen.

By the time I got home on election night, it was 7:00 PM. Trump was already leading significantly. I watched the vote count on Google while listening to NPR. I felt sick to my stomach; at one point, I  thought my dinner was going to revisit me. I had hope that Hillary Clinton was going to pull through. The next morning, my alarm went off and the first thing I heard was NPR announcing Trump's victory. I actually waited for the man on the radio to say, "Haha, just kidding!" But when that did not happen, I became overwhelmed by feelings of disbelief, fear, and anger. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' emotions of grieving are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.[1]  I now float somewhere between denial, anger, and depression.What I'm grieving for, I'm still not sure.

The election, on many levels, was deeply personal. And worse yet, I don't know to whom I can talk because this election has bred such strong feelings of intolerance. I no longer feel safe talking to some people without fear of a backlash. A lot of people I know have ignored bringing up the election, as if it has no effect on their life. But, as a woman, and member of a population that still is treated like a minority, it has a direct effect on my life. And, part of the reason it is difficult to discuss is that a lot of people, no matter how progressive they might be, struggle to fully comprehend how an election can have a dramatic effect on an individual's life. So it's been gradually eating away at me until I can no longer stand it.  

I will admit that I did not like Clinton initially. She was associated with an old fashioned political strategy that I just did not want. And, unfortunately, her husband's presidency single-handedly enhanced the structure of institutionalized racism that exists in the US prison system today.[2][3] These two factors made it difficult for me, my peers and people of color to follow.[4] Then there was the ongoing, yet somehow nonexistent, crimes she committed through email.[5][6][7][8] 

But after sifting through all of that, especially in comparison to Trump's allegations of sexual assault and fraud, I realized I had bought into a shallow attempt to "scandalize" a woman who has the potential to be POTUS.[9][10][11][12][13] It's a cruel and convoluted retelling of Hester Prynne's life in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter.[14][15][16][17] Or, if a person lives in a world only of men, Trump may be Prynne.

When I look at Trump, and hear what he says regarding women, I become scared in a way that I've never felt before. The world for women is already one that is unsafe and where fact is perceived as exaggeration. Many women, if not most, can attest that sexual assault and domestic abuse are rampant in a lot of ways that many men (and some women) are unable to see. I think a lot of women would agree that sexism is on the rise. The tension is real and becoming more unstable. When I consider Trump as POTUS, I start to predict, not imagine, how much worse it will be for women. Trump has already run a campaign against women that is equivalent to Emperor Kuzco selecting a bride. 

A lot of men and women may look at the argument of sexism and either decide they themselves are not sexist and it does not apply to them, or that it is a ridiculous excuse for being a sore loser. The worst part of sexism is that women have been raised to be the harshest critics against women. Women prevent themselves from moving past discrimination. Sexism is this complex web of outside attacks and self destruction; its power is not an easy concept to grasp.

In helping me communicate all of this, I've put together a list of human rights that are violated on a daily basis against women. Sometimes it's difficult to see the magnitude of a problem when it's not presented with overwhelming evidence, hence my (beautifully created) footnotes in Chicago format.

1. Right to equality.

Looks like: designating roles and jobs for certain sexes, one sex is forced to shoulder both career and home lives, not earning a job and compensation based on equivalent credentials. 

Sounds like: "I bet you make a great wife." - Trump

2. Freedom from discrimination.

Looks like: an unrealistic expectation or disallowing a woman equal access.

Sounds like: women who are never taught how to navigate taxes and insurance. "You have to treat 'em like shit." - Trump

3. Right to life, liberty, personal security.

Looks like: taking away feelings of safety; having to choose behaviors, clothing, and attitude that will not "ask" for unwanted attention.

Sounds like: catcalling, rape jokes. "26,000 unreported sexual assaults in the military - only 238 convictions. What did these geniuses expect to happen when they put men and women together?" - Trump

4. Freedom from torture and degrading treatment.

Looks like: domestic abuse; violent, verbal and/or emotional.

Sounds like: Megyn Kelly's accusations of sexual harassment against Trump and Roger Ailes.“You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her — wherever.” - Trump

5. Right to equality before the law.

Looks like: a punishment given without proper analysis of evidence.

Sounds like: Brock Turner's trial. "I would never buy Ivana any decent jewels or pictures. Why give her negotiable assets?" - Trump

6. Right to be innocent until proven guilty.

Looks like: accusing women of having malicious intent based on their sex (noun, not verb) alone.

Sounds like: "She's such a whore/slut/bitch" (literal translation: she receives money for sexual acts/engages in sexual activity equivalent to a man/is a female dog). "Women have one of the great [sic] acts of all time. The smart ones act very feminine and needy, but inside they are real killers. The person who came up with the expression ‘the weaker sex’ was either very naive or had to be kidding. I have seen women manipulate men with just a twitch of their eye — or perhaps another body part." - Trump

7. Freedom of opinion.

Looks like:  GASLIGHTING - convincing someone that what they think and believe is inaccurate or wrong to gain power over an individual/group, resulting in doubt of a person's own perception of reality, the most common, subversive and overlooked factor influencing a woman's thoughts and decisions.[18][19][20][21][22][23] 

Sounds like: "You're crazy." "You don't know what you're talking about." "You're overreacting/overemotional." "You aren't seeing it realistically." "You're just being paranoid." "It was a joke!" "I've been doing/saying that; you just haven't seen/heard it." Anything that starts with, "Well, actually..."

• “Cher is somewhat of a loser. She’s lonely. She’s unhappy. She’s very miserable.” - Trump
• “All of the women on ‘The Apprentice’ flirted with me — consciously or unconsciously. That’s to be expected.” - Trump
• "You wouldn't have your job if you weren't beautiful." - Trump
• "Why does she keep interrupting everybody?" - Trump
• "And the girls—we're supposed to call them women, but they're girls to me." - Trump
• "She is a dog who wrongfully comments on me." - Trump
• “My favorite part [of Pulp Fiction] is when Sam has his gun out in the diner and he tells the guy to tell his girlfriend to shut up. Tell that bitch to be cool. Say: ‘Bitch be cool.’ I love those lines.” - Trump

1. Allan Kellehear, MD, "On Death and Dying," Elisabeth Kübler-Ross Foundation, accessed on November 12, 2016, http://www.ekrfoundation.org.
2. 13th, directed by Ava Duvernay (Netflix, 2016), Film.
3. Jo Ann Harris, "1032. Sentencing Enhancements - The Three Strikes Law," United States Department of Justice: Offices of the United States Attorneys, accessed on November 10, 2016, https://www.justice.gov.
4. Meghan Keneally, "What's Inside the Controversial 1994 Crime Bill That's Plaguing Hillary Clinton on the Campaign Trail." ABC News, April 11, 2016 and accessed on October 25, 2016. abcnews.go.com. 
5. Steven Lee Myers, "Use of Unclassified Email Systems Not Limited to Clinton," The New York Times, May 10, 2016 and accessed on October 3, 2016, www.nytimes.com.
6. Matt Apuzo, "Security Logs of Hillary Clinton's Email Server Are Said to Show No Signs of Hacking," The New York Times, March 3, 2016 and accessed on October 3, 2016, www.nytimes.com.
7. Steven Lee Myers, "7 Democrats in Congress Say Clinton Email Inquiry Is 'Too Politicized," The New York Times, March 10, 2016 and accessed on October 3, 2016, ww.nytimes.com.
8. Bill Chappell, "FBI Finishes Hillary Clinton Email Review: 'We Have Not Changed Our Conclusion' Comey Says," National Public Radio, November 6, 2016 and accessed on November 6, 2016, www.npr.org/the-two-way.
9. David Boyer, "Obama Blames Sexism for Hillary Clinton's Woes, Notion She's 'Hiding Something in Email Scandal," The Washington Post, November 1, 2016 and accessed on November 6, 2016, www.washingtonpost.com.
10. Bradford Richardson, "Feminists Defend Hillary Clinton Against 'Sexist' FBI Investigation: 'Bitch Hunt," The Washington Post, October 6, 2016 and accessed on November 6, 2016, www.washingtonpost.com.
11. Daniel Bush, "Election 2016: The Hidden Sexism that Could Sway the Election," PBS Newshour, accessed on November 6, 2016, www.pbs.org/newshour.
12. John Stroehr,"The Sexist Press," US News, September 6, 2016 and accessed on November 6, 2016, www.usnews.com.
13. Robin Lakoff, "Hillary Clinton's Emailgate Is an Attack on Women," Time, October 31, 2016 and accessed on November 6, 2016, time.com.
14. Tory Johnson, "Same Old Story," republished by Debra Condren, "Clinton's Campaign Proves That the Scarlet Letter for 21st Century Women Stands for Ambition," The Huffington Post, last updated May 25, 2016 and accessed on October 4, 2016, www.huffingtonpost.com.
15. Nicolaus Mills, "Scarlet Letter Politics," Dissent Magazine, January 25, 2016 and accessed on November 12, 2016, www.dissentmagazine.org.
16.  Julian Hawthorne, "The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne," The Atlantic April, no. 4 (1886), accessed on November 12, 2016, www.theatlantic.com. 
17. David Horsey, "Hillary Clinton Pays Price for 'Careless' Emails," Los Angeles Times, July 7, 2016 and accessed on November 12, 2016, www.latimes.com.
18. V. Calif and E.M. Weinshel, "Some Clinical Introjections: Gaslighting," The Psychoanalytic Quarterly 50, no. 1 (1981): PMID:7465707
19. Gertrude Zemon Gass and William C. Nichols, "Gaslighting: A Marital Syndrome," Contemporary Family and Therapy 10, no. 1 (1988): 3 - 16, DOI: 10.1007/BF00922429.
20. Kate Abramson, "Turning Up the Lights on Gaslighting," Philosophical Perspectives 28, no. 1 (2014), 1 - 30, DOI: 10.1111/phpe.12046.
21. Macarena Blazquez-Alonso, et al, "Indicators of Psychological Abuse Associated with the Length of Relationships Between Couples," Annals of Psychology 28, no. 3 (2012): 772 - 779, 
    DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.6018/analesps.28.3.123261.
22. Juan M. Moreno-Manso, et al, "Gender as an Explanatory Factor of Psychological Abuse in Dating Couples, " Journal of Social Service Research 40, no. 1 (2014): 1 - 14, DOI: 
23. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/01488376.2013.842951.
25. Sharon Hayes and Samantha Jeffries, "Tools and Tactics," Romantic Terrorism: An Auto-Ethnography of Domestic Violence, Victimization, and Survival (2016), 26 - 40, DOI: 10.1057/9781137468499_3.

So, obviously it's nearly a year later...

Note: I am now writing from my home computer. If there are errors, it is because I am an imaginative writer.

I never did finish writing about that last day in Nagasaki. Mostly because I wrote a beautiful post, and then the app on my phone decided that the trip wasn't worth writing about. It froze and I lost all of the data before I could publish it. The issue continued throughout the rest of the trip, rendering it impossible for me to write and post. I became frustrated and decided that never looking back on it would be the best option.

It was wrong of me to ignore it. It is worth writing about. The last hours of that one evening have become so vivid in my memory that I now find it difficult to recall the rest of the trip with much clarity.

After we left Etsuko-san, Fumiko-san drove me and Perry to the hotel to meet Kaho. Her parents would be joining us. I had never met Kaho's family before that night. I had never met any Japanese friend's parents. I wasn't sure what to expect. Would they interview me? Would they be short with me? Did they speak English? Were they going to judge me for not knowing Japanese? (I'm working on it!)

However, I found them to be oddly similar to my parents. For example: at one point in the evening, her dad, clearly an engineer of some sort, attempted to understand the mechanics of a stationary glass door by trying to casually move it forwards and backwards as he studied the hinges above. With a firmer grip, he then tried to move the door with a little more force.

We stood silently in the elevator waiting.

Realizing the door was not going to move without him most-likely breaking it off of the wall, he got on the elevator while his wife gave him a knowing look.

Although seemingly awkward for everyone involved, I immediately felt at ease. It was as if my parents were standing in front of me. I wanted to laugh at how such a small act could create feelings of reassurance and trust. But, I thought it would be rude and so I did my best to remain quiet.

Anyway, Kaho took us to Mount Inasa!! Her dad drove us all. I assumed their car, a minivan, would look like everything else in Japan: spotless and meticulously well kept. But when Kaho opened the door, it appeared surprisingly American. It seemed like a family used it regularly. It seemed like it contained a past that was scattered on the floor and on the seats.

As I considered that, I started to understand why Kaho seemed to flourish in the US. To her, it was both novel and vaguely familiar all at once. She found pieces of home throughout her time there and she was comforted by them.

In the van, Perry and I talked about our earlier failed attempt at finding Inasa. Kaho's parents spoke not one word of English that night, but they remained silent while we spoke to their daughter. Once we got to the end of the story, I heard her father chuckle. Then his wife laughed too. When we reached the end of the road, the entrance for Inasa's peak was in front of us, where literally dozens of taxis sat. They were dropping off and picking up people in a steady stream. Her dad pointed at them and we all laughed.

When we got out, we were immediately met with a cold wind. In general, cold wind merely functions as a reminder to me that I may one day freeze to death in an alley of Minneapolis. But, in the previous days of this trip, it was extremely hot and humid. I welcomed that air bravely. It was so refreshing that I wanted to inhale as much of it as my tiny lungs would allow. And my lungs were tiny; I couldn't contain enough of that breeze. The deeper I breathed, the more I wanted to feel it run through my body like cold water. It made me feel alive in a way I hadn't felt the entire two weeks we were in Japan.

And, although "the view" is supposed to be seen at night, it should be made clear that whoever thought that was beautiful definitely did not see it at sunset.

That evening, the unbearable heat of the day eased. The sky was cloudless and the sun was simultaneously blinding and soft. The shadows, cast down on to the city by the surrounding mountains, created a shade of blue that almost shimmered against the orange and brown of the rock. In those shadows, I could see the specks of light popping up where people walked and dined and talked and lived.

Facing the opposite direction, the ocean was equally breathtaking. The waning sun had just enough energy to spread its rays across the east like arms, reaching for the harbor and the ships, the water and the ripples, the mountains and the trees. It held everything in that glow.

We took pictures of it all, but they do not have the alluring periwinkle and silver shadows we saw that night. They didn't preserve the the pink and yellow ribbons of light floating in the sky.

That night, as Kaho and I stood side by side in silence looking out on the water,  I learned from her that the magnificence of life is strongest when we can see past the immense world to the smallest aspects of existence. Our friendship became more than two people at the top of a mountain enjoying the sunset together. I wanted to hold her hand and call her family. I wanted to hug her and tell her I loved her. I wanted her to know that she had changed my life.

But then I realized all of that could seem weird and creepy. So I decided to remain next to Kaho in silence, hoping she knew how radiant it was to be standing next to her in that moment.

The sun ebbed into the mountains. At last, it gently released all that it held that day, leaving Nagasaki and the sea with the placid night.

And it was perfect.

Saturday, June 27, Evening, with Perry

The night was completely clear for once. Nagasaki is supposed to have the second best night view in the world. So before we left for Kyoto, I was determined to get up to Mount Inasa. Tonight was that night.

I asked the hotel front desk for walking directions to the ropeway that would take us up the mountain. I did this a couple years ago; I knew it could be done.

But when I asked the concierge, I don't think she understood what I was asking, and I don't think I fully understood her response. She told me we needed a bus reservation to go up, but it was too late tonight. But she said we could take a taxi to get up there. This was at least a five minute conversation, exchanging several confused looks with explanations ending in ellipses.

I was tempted to try again to get directions to walk to the ropeway, or just try to remember the route from my previous visit but that may take a lot of time...

NO TIME! I decided. Off we went to get a cab. There was no way I was going to miss Mount Inasa. 

No. Way.

The concierge gave me a flyer, all in Japanese, about Mount Inasa. So, predicting that we would not be able to fully communicate with the driver, I whipped out the flyer, "Mount Inasa."

Driver: (pointing at the flyer) "Inasa?"

Me: "Hai!"

Driver: (mumbling something, then looked at me) "Inasa??"

Me: (resolutely) "Hai."

He gave me the flyer back and started driving. He was speaking in the clearest Japanese possible. We understand not even a syllable of what he's saying.

"Nani?" I ask cautiously.

Then he did something that I thought only Americans did: he spoke to us in Japanese louder. He was definitely trying to explain a concern he had about our ride, but we couldn't understand. At stoplights on the way, he continued to help us understand.

I started to get a bad feeling. This man was trying so hard to help us get up a mountain and we were sitting in the backseat thinking, "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. WHAT DO WE DO NOW?!" The inconvenience for him was too much for our consciences to handle. And it is not okay in any way to tip in Japan, so we couldn't pay him extra for his effort. I forgot all of my small gifts at the hotel, so I had nothing to give him as thanks.

But the ride didn't stop there because then he CALLED A FRIEND to ask for directions and possibly to find out if he can, in fact, drive us up a mountain.

After a few minutes he hung up, and halfway up the mountain, he pulled over asking for the flyer back. Then he started explaining something to us again. He pointed at a time table on the paper, then waited for us to respond.

Perry: "What should we do?"

Me: (as calmly as possible) "I don't know what our options are." (Translation: "I am flipping out inside too f@$#ing much right now to make that decision.")

Perry calmly explained to me the options because he understood.

Me: "That's what he said?"

Perry: "I don't know but it sounds right."

Me: "It sounds right?"

Perry: "Well I don't know either!"

Me: "I thought you understood him?"

Perry: "I never said that."

Me: "Ugh...." (to the driver) "...gomenasai, gomenasai." (Translates to: "I'm sorry, we are young and stupid; we thought we could do anything.")

The driver repeated what seem to be the same options.

We got wrapped up in a short irritated back and forth in hushed whispers, with frequent "gomenasai" and "I'm sorry" to the driver.

Finally, it was said.

Perry: "Should we just go back to the hotel?"

Me: "...fine."

Perry told the driver to go back to the hotel.

Driver: "JR Hotel?"

Perry: "Hai."

Me: "GOMENASAAAIIIIII!" I was fighting back tears.

The driver laughed and said something in Japanese that sounded like I don't need to apologize. He turned the car around and headed back down the mountain.

But he didn't take us back to the hotel. He dropped us off at the bus station that takes people to Mount Inasa. He laughed some more. We got out of the taxi and went to look at a time table that was completely in Japanese. After a minute:

Me: "Is he gone yet?"

Perry: "Yes, but it's not a big deal. He still got paid and now he has a good story to tell his friends. Let's go back."

We headed back, but Perry stopped, "Let's go the other way so we don't have to see him again and embarrass ourselves more."

It cost us $18 to go halfway up a mountain.

Sunday, June 28, Late Afternoon with Perry

Today is our last day in Nagasaki.

After visiting Sachiko-san, Etsuko-san insisted on a visit to her house. This was my first time in a Japanese home. It was small. It made our house look like a mansion. There was little to no property, aside from the driveway.

We entered and she laid out slippers in front of us. She even had slippers that fit Perry's feet, a "feet" in and of itself if you will. I cannot believe I just typed that.

We sat down in her dining room and she fed us Japanese cherries and a snack that is popular someplace east of Nagasaki.

She talked about the plants covering her windows. It was a soft vine of some sort. She explained that it was a plant that the Japanese use because it absorbed the heat during summer, keeping buildings cooler and thus conserving energy. She said she didn't have an air conditioner in her home, but it was a comfortable temperature inside.

She showed us little shot glass sized bottles of American liquor, explaining the significance of each one. And then began pulling out other very small things that held so much meaning to her. 

She wanted to take us out to dinner so much, but we already made plans to meet Kaho later. I started to catch on that Etsuko-san was attempting to thank us for some reason. I had a nice gift for her as gratitude for taking the time to meet with us for almost an entire day. But I hesitated giving it to her at that point. I didn't want to make her feel obligated to reciprocate even more.

Gift-giving can be really tricky in Japan. A small gift costing a couple dollars at most is expected for those who help. But, give too much of a gift, the obligation to reciprocate could throw two people into a unending gifting trap.

Finally, I decided to give her a small gift instead. It was a small log cabin incense burner that smelled of the trees in northern Minnesota. I'm not a fan, but I thought it would be a good gift for people who don't frequent Minnesota. It has the smell and included the history of settlers in the state. This was one of my tiny gifts I brought for people who helped us. I had several in my suitcase and had to battle the smell off my clothes.

But they were worth the smelly clothes. Etsuko-san loved it. She tore off the tape and sat it on her small buffet. Then she wanted to know how to get more. She even made Fumiko-san use her tablet to look up the website from where we ordered them.

Then, she decided to thank us even though we inconvenienced her. Etsuko-san ran to another room. I started to panic. I messed up. I shouldn't have given her anything. I asked her if I gave too much, but Fumiko-san said that it was fine, that she wanted to do it. I should accept her gifts. She seemed to suggest this is just how Etsuko-san is.

She came back with an antique necklace with a magnifying glass. I felt uncomfortable. Again Fumiko-san waved it off. But Etsuko-san left again only to come back with more.

They were two tiny stuffed bunnies with long ears, wearing a kimono. Etsuko-san explained that the kimono fabric was originally a human one from the Edo period (1603 - 1868). Meaning that the fabric was possibly as old as a Shakespeare play and maybe as new as the US Civil War.

I said that was amazing, but did not make a move to touch them. She pushed them across the table towards Perry and I, "Please take."

There was a melt down in my head at that moment. It was way too much. I couldn't give her another gift because then she'd want to give more, but it would be terribly rude to decline.

I looked at Fumiko-san hoping she would intervene. Without looking up from the tablet, she said, "Such a great gift to remember this day!" Maybe she noticed the sweat running down my face. She finally looked up and added, "She wants you to remember her and her sister."

It was then that I finally got it; I misunderstood the entire afternoon. This would have happened regardless of the incense cabin. It wasn't that she was thankful for that. It was that this day meant  so much to her. I realized that she was happy that I wanted to meet Sachiko-san and present the cranes from my students. In her eyes, I already provided a gift.

I still did not want to accept those bunnies. I didn't deserve that much.

....we ended up leaving with them anyway, mostly because Fumiko-san forced us to.

As we left, I thought about Etsuko-san's house. It was small. But because it was small, it made the things inside her home much more meaningful. The things she kept in her home had to be the most important things in her life.

What things in my house are most important to me? What do I keep as memories of my life? If I only had so much space, what are the most valuable things I would keep to remember my friends and family?

Sunday, June 28, Afternoon with Perry

This afternoon, we went to meet Sachiko-san. Sachiko-san is a woman who survived the atomic bomb in Nagasaki. She was under 10 years old and playing outside with friends. She was nearly killed, by inhalation and suffocation, from the dirt and debris that piled on top of her.

My friend, Caren, is writing a book about her life. She has been working on it for many, many years. She allowed my after school students to read a copy of the manuscript she sent to the publisher. I planned to visit Sachiko-san on behalf of my students. I'll get to that later.

But first, we ran into Anne Prescott and John Frank! These two guided me through my first tour of Japan in 2013. They are staying at the same hotel we are. I felt bad for Perry because just as we got on the up escalator, Anne was half way down, I quickly pushed Perry back off with no explanation, then started waving wildly at the escalator. We talked a bit about our trips and tried to set up time to meet later next week. I don't think it will be possible though. We both figured since Perry and I are leaving for Narita on July 4th, and they had rigid schedules for the first and second days they arrived (the 3rd and 4th). It's too bad; it would have been fun to see each other again later.

In the afternoon, we went with Miyanishi-san to the Nagasaki Symphony Orchestra concert. Miyanishi-san is in the orchestra!  He plays the clarinet. It was an amazing experience with such talented musicians.

Miyanishi-san had us sit next to a woman we did not know, but she quickly started talking to us. She knew who I was. This woman was Etsuko-san (sp?), Sachiko-san's younger sister. She seemed happy to take us to see her sister.

After the concert, we went to see see Sachiko-san at the assisted care building she lives at. We, literally, went up a mountain to get to her.

Etsuko-san was very nice, but was a bit surprised by my age. I think she was expecting someone at least 30 years older. I hope I did okay. I was very grateful to her for spending so much of the day with me. Fumiko-san drove us, and conversed in a lot of Japanese with Etsuko-san. I heard "Maggie-san" a lot, but I'm not sure why.

Meeting Sachiko-san was more overwhelming than I thought it would be. She does not read or speak English; I asked a friend of mine, Keiko - who is also working with Caren on translating Sachiko-san's story into Japanese - to translate a letter I wrote to her. The letter is as follows:

Dear Sachiko,

I am a teacher at a school in St. Paul, Minnesota. This was the first year we created the peace club at Hmong Academy. Caren gave us a manuscript of your story. She said that she wanted to know what young people thought about it. So, last fall the students read your story.

I would like to share some information about our students. They are children and grandchildren of the Vietnam war. Their families fought for the United States in Laos. The Lao government ordered for all Hmong to be killed. Their families ran from their homes through the jungles hiding from the Lao military. The United States did not help them. Many people died escaping while crossing the Mekong River where Lao military sat in trees and shot them. They went to refugee camps in Thailand.

Then they came to the US to live. Their families knew no English. Again, the US did not help. Many Americans were, and still are, mean to them. They think the Hmong are somehow poor and stupid people. St. Paul has one of the highest populations of Hmong people. The Hmong are adapting and  rising to success, but they are losing their language and culture. This year is the 40th anniversary of their migration to the US. This same year it has been 70 years since the atomic bombing in Nagasaki.

I wanted to share this with you because I think one of the reasons our students loved your story was because it was very personal. They too lost many loved ones, their homes completely destroyed and confronted discrimination. They had to start over in a place that was completely different than before.

Thank you so much, Sachiko, for teaching our students about strength and resilience, about overcoming terrible things. After reading your story, I think many of the students started the healing process for their families' and the school. You have truly inspired a group of children across the ocean and helped them envision a world of friendship-making.

Please accept these 1000 cranes. After reading about you, the students decided this was the one thing they could do to thank you. The students worked on them throughout the winter and spring. They recruited friends, family and classmates. They shared your story and started the healing process for other families in their community. Although only a few have read your story, it has reached so many people. You have become such a large part of these students' lives in a way that has forever transformed them into leaders, peacekeepers and global friends to you and Nagasaki.

Thank you so very much for doing what so few can.

Many of my students do not enjoy reading. But most students read Sachiko in one night. One stayed in for Halloween so he could finish it. I cannot communicate how much these kids loved and appreciated the story of Sachiko-san's life. Some students wrote her letters that Keiko also translated. Fumiko-san read those too. We did not stay long, but it still makes me feel lightening bolts of excitement when I think about it.

The journey of the cranes was a worrysome one. In Ueno, I had to send the cranes ahead to Nagasaki in a flimsy travel bag with the rest of my luggage due to the limited space on the trains between Tokyo, Kyoto and Nagasaki. The man working for the delivery company came to pick up the bags, but spoke absolutely no English. The one person in our group who could interpret was drowning in questions by the other travel members.

After an increasingly frustrating conversation between two people who did not understand each other at all, I finally just ripped the bag open and showed him the paper cranes. The carrier nodded, took the bag from my hands and put it on his pile.

I wasn't sure we were able to communicate our thoughts. But when we arrived in our hotel room, on the table sat a box. I opened it and there was the bag of cranes in perfect condition. The delivery guy had packed them for us, free of charge.

I'm not sure what it is about paper cranes. They are just folded pieces of paper but create so much understanding that it doesn't matter if anything was ever spoken at all.

The cranes now hang in Sachiko-san's shared room.

Sunday, June 28, Morning with Perry

My first post of this morning did not save, so I had to write it again. Forgive me for being short.

This morning we went to the Nagasaki Peace Park. It was already hot with 80% humidity at 8:30 AM. But it was sunny. It wasn't raining so the park was perfect. I forgot my umbrella back at the hotel in Ueno, which seems like months ago now. I finally bought another on our first day in Nagasaki. It was one for both rain and sun. And, since I forgot my sun glasses at a restaurant back in Kyoto, the umbrella provided some shade for my eyes this morning.

We got "Nagasaki ice cream." It was so good! The man scooped it in a way that, by the time he was finished, it looked like a rose. Then he made a second one for Perry. It was just a scoop. He smiled and said, "ladies only."

We walked around the the park, looking at the different statues and structures that were donated to the city of Nagasaki as a symbol of friendship. The one from the US was made by a St. Paul artist. He made two identical structures: One for Minnesota and one for Nagasaki.

We approached one statue in the park. It had a drawn color picture taped to it. There were two vases of flowers next to it. There was a bucket of water beside the vases. An old man, who we assumed was a gardener for the park, approached the display. He smiled like he was happy to see people stopping to look at the picture. In Japanese, he said "good morning."

From the little Japanese I know, this is what I think he was telling us. The statue was made for him. He survived the atomic bombing because of some metal poles that mostly shielded him from the blast. The posts on the statue represent the ones that saved him. The picture was something that he created to show what he most remembers of that day. He was outside walking to work when it happened; he just happened to be next to the poles that mostly shielded him, but was knocked out. When he woke up he saw every building around him in flames. People's clothes had been burned off or melted into their skin, if their skin had not melted off of their bodies already. He was 15 years old when it happened.

He said he comes every day to water the flowers. He invited us to water the flowers too. We were lucky to have met him and to have heard his story of survival.

Saturday, June 27, with Perry

After the dance recital, we went to the Atomic Bomb Museum. Perry went through it twice in one day: Once on his own, and once with me. It must have been hard to go through it alone, yet I think it's something that must be done alone. But knowing there are familiar people nearby sharing the same experience is comforting.

On his second tour, we went with a couple other people, including an 11 year old. Even she stayed as long as she could. She said the most important part for her was listening to the survivors of those who were exposed to radiation. They had interviews of Americans who were exposed to radiation during the Cold War too.

I don't know if the second time around was just as difficult for Perry. He is not great at expressing his thoughts and feelings with me. But it was something, I think, that he was still processing. He did say the science and technology exhibits were most important to him.

It is interesting that in America we feel the need to protect children from historic violence. They never grow up fully understanding the full depth and effects of real violence. We don't read narratives of survivors of WWI and II or the Vietnam War (aside from The Things They Carried, which is usually read in 11th grade). We say it is too scary for them. Their first and closest exposure comes from the joy and satisfaction of graphically violent video games. Globally, the US, for other reasons as well, has a shocking amount of violent crime.

In Japan, students are exposed to the historical trauma of war at very young ages. We saw many elementary and middle school age students at the museums. My Japanese friend, at a workshop I co-lead on peace education, told us that she was five years old when she went to an atomic bomb museum for the first time. Japan, for other reasons as well, has one on the lowest crime rates and they play the same video games our children play.

But Japan is a very different place compared to the US. It is not so simple. One of the biggest challenges I faced the first time I visited was all the questions. To Japan, peace is a way of life. To the US, it is an old and impossible fantasy.

I think it will be a while until Perry is able to fully communicate his ideas and response.