by Ioana Lee
An hour into my talk I noticed that my audience started getting agitated. Only later did I discover that many Japanese were “preset” by their educational system to focus for just 50 minutes. As a result, in Japan all classes, tutoring sessions and seminars lasted for only 50 minutes. Out of that period of time, 10 minutes were used for a warm-up before the session, or for relaxation after the session. After 50 minutes my teaching effort increased substantially, especially since my talk didn’t debate topics such as business or technology. However, during my talk I knew none of this and I started to panic… I thought to myself: “Perhaps I make mistakes that I’m not aware of and they don’t have the patience to listen to me, or they don’t understand what I’m saying, or maybe the problem is the subject or my way of presenting is boring… As if to confirm this last point, a gentleman in the front row fell asleep.
The whole situation was too much and too uncomfortable for me to take, so I turned it around. Looking down, I kept silent for a few seconds … The audience got so silent that you could hear a pin drop. I looked at them and said: “I’ve noticed that I bored you with my subject, so let’s change the strategy. Instead of me talking and you falling asleep, just like the gentleman in the front row (everyone started laughing when I said that), I propose that you ask me questions about my country based on your areas of interest. I will try to answer all of them to the best of my ability.”
The Japanese, usually characterized best by extreme shyness, acted the same way as my seminar students from Romania. Whenever I asked my students who wanted to translate a text they put their heads down, got red cheeks and remained silent until I would address them with my next question…
No one said a word.
“Ok, I’ll pick a person to ask me a question” I said.
Their heads went even lower and their humility became even stronger… At least my desired psychological effect was taking place—I was the one dominating. I was able to pull them out of their boredom and numbness. I refreshed their interest. Hence the breaks during a talk aren’t just moments of relaxation, they could become moments of tension as well. At last, I heard a few questions coming from some of the people in the room: “What is the educational system like for the children of Romania?” A woman from the audience wanted to know “If Romanian women have jobs, and if they do, then who’s educating, dressing, washing and helping their children with their homework?”
What answer would you have given had you been in my place? I thought that my personal experience was the only thing that had the highest credibility there, half a world away in distance and mentality. Therefore, to answer the question I used myself as an example of a “finished product.” I explained to them that my parents were able to educate me, in the true sense of the word, while both of them held full-time jobs. Their jobs required of them much responsibility and competence. Despite all of this, my two sisters and I never lacked being cared for, never missed our parents’ affection. I told them that our parents focused especially on our education and growth in the educational and social system that we were a part of. How did they do it? I don’t know because I’m not a parent. I only know that they did it well to their great credit. I know that it was much harder than if my mother would have been a stay-at-home mom. Yet in Romania, and generally speaking, in any society where both parents hold full time jobs, they find ways and resources to make the best out of the situation, with all the responsibilities that come with it.
I took exception to my family helping me with my homework; I didn't agree with this at all. Other children were helped by their parents, yet I found it unfair to get high grades on work that wasn't done by me. I felt very proud whenever I would obtain a lower grade, based solely on my work, rather than the grades obtained by my colleagues through "cheating." My sisters and I did all of our homework on our own, a testament to our strong will.
However, there were a few exceptions. When I was in 5th grade my older sister Iulia used to draw for me, for which I always got an A. She was a lot more talented than all the other mothers of my colleagues. My other sister Sorana helped me a few times with my homework for the English class, and my mom gave me suggestions for the compositions that I had to do for my writing class.
I don't remember the whole answer I gave to the Japanese woman, yet I think I was able to portray and explain the strength of Romanian women to handle everything, stoically I might add. In comparison to other women, located in different parts of the world, some with comfortable and relaxed lifestyles, the Romanian women play several roles: employees, career women—some very successful, with skills and professional achievements—mothers, wives, daughters, grandmothers, etc. Most certainly, my eloquence didn't fully convince the Japanese women in my audience, who were expecting me to conform to their provincial mindset, which involved being a housewife, cleaning the house and raising children. It also involved waiting for the afterlife and the reincarnation in trees, rabbits, grape leaves or perhaps being a woman again, with hopefully more luck, depending on the way one managed to live her previous lives.
I was thinking to myself, with no intention of offending their religion, but rather like Moromete, (a-famous Romanian fictional character from the classic “Morometii” by Marin Preda) who landed on this Nipponese island, "is this why the Buddhists have plenty of time and are so relaxed? Is it because they know that they have many lives to live after this lifetime?" I respect and know well Buddha’s teachings, yet I prefer to find my own application for them, not as a religion because it wouldn’t feel natural since I was born and raised in a different religion. I take from Buddhism the wisdom that can largely be found in all the major religions of the world.
During my talk I was also asked about agriculture, which was unexpected. I was lucky enough to have been a translator for a day for a Japanese-Romanian company that was in the agricultural business. Because of that experience I was able to handle their questions well... Meanwhile the audience warmed up and started asking more and more questions, and not only about my home country. My answers were filled with the excitement of experiencing a new culture. I was hoping wanted to be able to face all the intellectual challenges and triumph. I didn't know how far they would go... The questions continued: How tall are you? Is it true that you are a fashion model? What is your real eye color? Do you wear black contacts? Is that your real hair or you have extensions? How long is your hair (I had it in a ponytail then)? Did you have any plastic surgery?
I answered all of their questions. They shocked and disappointed me at the same time. I still have the same feeling, even after so many years. I was applauded and acknowledged for which I thanked them, yet in my heart I was crying. For me everything was a huge disappointment, which I took personally. I was blaming myself for not being able to impress them with my words, for not being deep enough... I felt like I was in an environment characterized by superficiality that couldn't be combated through anything... Then I returned to my old bias that followed me wherever I went. My bias from the beginning was that a decently pretty girl could not also be intelligent and educated. If she dared to prove that she is gifted, that she has skills and knowledge, she would be brought down and treated as if her only advantage was her appearance, despite her best efforts to flirt with culture, wisdom and knowledge. This mindset proved useless, regardless of the society it came from.
Once I arrived home that day I got lost in my own thoughts and unhappiness. I started crying out loud...
“Doo shita??? … Ioana-san doo shita no desu ka?”[x] Otoosan, Okaasan, Obaachama and Ken asked me.
I was 25 years old and had already graduated from a well-known university (in Bucharest, Romania) with high grades. After graduation I was a professor for two years and was appreciated for my work and admired for my profession. Yet there I was, giving a talk on Romanian culture and no one had the patience to listen to me, being interested instead in my physical appearance, in my “packaging”… To judge someone based on his or her physical appearance can be humiliating, no
t only if one’s appearance is precarious, but also when one is attractive. It is humiliating when one’s appearance comes before his or her heart, as if physical and spiritual beauty couldn’t coexist in the same individual.
I think that this attitude, common to many people, of seeing just one’s exterior appearance without appreciating their real, spiritual qualities, comes from a pettiness that prevents them from genuinely enjoying that such people exist. They refuse to give them credit. If, however, they would acknowledge them, what would their advantage be compared to these people? The mediocre person denies and refuses all that is better, because it is inaccessible to them. Modesty would dictate that I not include myself in this “better” category, yet life taught me to value honesty and authenticity more than hypocrisy. On top of this, life also offered me significant personal certainties—This is who I am and what I’m capable of, what I wish to perfect in myself and how I can evolve. I thank God for this. I tried and am still trying to perfect my spiritual side as well as my physical appearance. I deeply believe that anyone who’s not doing this is refusing to be a part of the evolution process. I’ve always desired to excel in everything and I believe that it is motivating and mobilizing to think in this way; to always strive to achieve the highest measure in everything good that exists in life.
I also find it ennobling to appreciate the qualities of the people around you. When they “exceed the usual measure”, in the best way possible, we ought to honor and appreciate human nature even more -- and also the gifts that Divinity offered us. The Japanese culture illustrates this idea very well and rallies negative feelings, such as hatred, jealousy and envy. There is a leading motif in their culture—the battle between envy and love, acceptance and resentment. When it comes to women they believe that the dark effect of envy could turn them into demons (oni), which could transfigure their soul as well as the features of their face. There are Japanese masks that illustrate the dramatic changes of a soul that goes through these destructive feelings when one surrenders to them. It is said that regardless of how you look and how beautiful you are, your face becomes ugly when mirroring bad character.
Keep in mind that the Japanese’s attitude is to not show feelings through facial expressions. They are supposed to hold their feelings back discreetly, unexpressed and unshared, closed in the privacy of their own being.
Going back to my talk on Romanian culture, which failed miserably with oblivious questions about my “packaging,” I can say that I found one small saving consolation. I took comfort in the idea that regardless of how elegant and erudite my talk would have been, it would have been impossible to listen to it. This didn’t come from the subject of my talk being irrelevant, or from me falling short as a speaker. Even if I would have shared the depth of Romania’s best minds, only the length of my legs, hair and fashion model “curves” would have caught that audience’s attention. I was far away, on the other side of the world, where system of values, just like everything else, seemed terribly different and…foreign.
Other socialization events
I gave my next speech at a school, on. Five speakers from around the world were invited to give a talk: two Americans, a Chinese woman, someone from Australia, another person from South Korea and me. The theme for our speeches had to answer this question: What does it really mean to be a foreigner in Japan and how are our native countries in comparison?
So, we had to talk about gaikoku. I now realize how hard it is to find the real meaning of the word gaikoku. It can be translated as the foreign country, yet the deeper meaning of the word would be “a country other than Japan; the country from abroad.” The word itself has a deliberate focus on the exclusivity of Japan, as a unique country, as the center of the world. Koku means “country” and gai means “from the outside.” The word that defines a foreigner in Japan is gaijin, which comes from the word gaikokujin, where jin is the Chinese pronunciation of the word hito, which means “human”… Therefore gaijin is any person that is not Japanese. The Japanese language doesn’t have singular and plural, nor masculine and feminine. Because of this, it begs the question: In this case, why is it being said that Japanese is a difficult language?! Well, let me tell you that it is…
At the conference, only the Chinese woman and I spoke Japanese. All the other speakers had translators. The structure of the talks was pretty much the same for all of us. It seemed that the same thing surprised all the other speakers that were visiting Japan: the audience proved to be more interested in the way we all looked, rather than what we were saying. The Japanese were fascinated by our physical differences; for them it wasn’t just about another culture, mentality, language, country or continent, it was about a different race. The criteria that defined Japanese beauty were meant to flatter a vast variety of foreigners. I could even make a therapeutic recommendation for anyone who has an inferiority complex when it comes to their body and physical appearance: if you are still young, thin, relatively tall and look at all like a normal person—yet you have an inferiority complex when you compare yourself to the people around you—go to Japan. I promise that you’ll return thinking that you look like God… It’s a guarantee! I’ve never met any foreigner that wasn’t able to fit in their generous criteria without being considered a rare beauty. All the more, if you are a fashion model. Your ego would expand uncontrollably…
I am now thinking of an embarrassing detail that might contradict one of my previous statements, in which I claimed that one should love thy neighbor as thyself. Well, perhaps this love shouldn’t be there for all the people, as even the word neighbor suggests a certain commonality between you and the person next to you.
That being said, I feel the need to distance myself from those Romanian women who created a shady image of my homeland. They were known in Japan as “dancers.” Since Mother Nature was a bit generous with many Romanians, some of them pretended to be models, lying shamelessly to the untrained eye. Most were rather low class and left a bitter taste in the mouths of the Japanese people. All those “dancers” and escorts were flying to other continents in search of a better and more select market for their services. In 1999 in Tokyo alone, there were 3000 of these women—a number that disadvantaged the 100 Romanians studying in Japan for their masters or PhDs. They were also doing an injustice to the few Romanian women who were married to Japanese men. Given this situation, one could easily understand how hard it was to upgrade the Japanese perception of Romanians, especially in Tokyo.
Returning to my talks and lectures, I was paid for most of them, even though this wasn’t my reason for doing them. At that time I wasn’t the one who had control over my “working” agenda. What I noticed over time, based on how intensely they were studying me, is that I could have been a good subject for their anatomy classes or the ones in which the evolution theory was explained; or the involution from the Japanese homo sapiens to the east European chimpanzee with a human face.
I was once invited to an association of Japanese women where I was asked to talk about femininity, style and elegance in Europe, as well as a comparison with the Asian culture, especially the Nipponese one. Hopefully I did a good job elaborating on the subject, as the audience’s reserved reactions could not be easily decoded.
After that event, I was invited to another one that was organized around the concept of a ‘Romanian evening.’ There, I had to talk again about my home country. I was also asked to cook a Romanian dish. The organizers of the event had to buy Romanian wine and wine glasses at extremely high prices. You may remember that I’m not gastronomically inclined, so you can imagine who cooked the main Romanian dish: Ken and Otoosan. They added some secret herbs and spices to it. The day of the event I woke up with a sore throat, achy muscles and a runny nose. I tried to treat myself the old fashion way, with ginseng tea and nasal and throat spray. I wanted to be able to handle the intensity and the demands of the event.
It turned out to be a very successful evening. Everyone enjoyed the Romanian wine. The crystal Romanian glasses
were especially admired. The photo albums that I prepared for the audience were long analyzed. I talked a lot about Romania and also answered their questions. Although I enjoyed doing it, I couldn’t wait to arrive home and jump into bed, as I was starting to feel worse and worse. The guests savored the Romanian beef soup. The secret of the Romanian cuisine that night was that two Japanese men made it. The only Romanian ingredient was my gaze at the soup pot once it was done. Unfortunately, after the tasting, the moment of truth came. That was the moment when I thought that the whole Kurosawa family would suffer from a collective heart attack: “Ioana-san, could you please tell us the recipe for this delicious soup!? …Silence”
My fever kept on going up. I answered calmly and confidently something that I had lived to repeat many times while in Japan: “Because I don’t know all the ingredient words in Japanese, I’m afraid that all I could dictate to you would be a recipe that would upset your stomach. With this being said, I’d like to ask my husband to tell you the full recipe for the soup and also how to prepare it. He’s the one who assists me whenever I cook.” Everyone started laughing. My Japanese family got their pulse back and Ken explained elaborately how I made the delicious soup.
The whole situation made me very unhappy, because if I would have been the only one involved I wouldn’t have had a problem admitting in front of everyone: “I’m embarrassed because I don’t know how to cook. I’m not interested in food at all, to prepare it nor to eat it, and if it would be up to me, I’d live on water.” It was impossible to say that since I no longer belonged to myself. I had to say what needed to be said, when it needed to be said and it all had to happen in a certain manner. At any given moment I was doing what I was told to do. I was the one executing it. Once in a while, when my histrionic personality was engaged, the whole thing was enjoyable. It was just like having a role in a play or a film—the role of a Japanese noble woman.