by Ioana Lee
I went to the market and bought everything that looked like a vegetable: potatoes, carrots, onions, broccoli, some green, long things and other unidentifiable products that were popular with the shoppers. All the vegetables were washed multiple times and packaged in plastic wrap. That’s how things worked in Japan.
Once home, I chopped the vegetables, mixed them with mayo and tried to decorate the so-called boeuf salad. I immediately put it in the freezer because it took me five hours to prepare and Adrian’s visit was close. I threw the rest of the veggies in a soup pot on the stove. I waited for a few minutes in order for the broth to come out, but the veggies were frying in the pot. I thought that I had to wait just a little more time, but no. Nothing! Smoke started to come out and the veggies were getting black.
I called my mom in Romania, praying for her to pick up the phone. She answered.
“Mom, I can’t talk right now, but look… I’m trying to make a vegetable soup and it doesn’t seem to work. What’s happening?”
“It doesn’t taste good or what exactly do you mean?”
“No, the broth doesn’t come out of the vegetables at all.”
“Oh, maybe you didn’t add enough water.”
“Water?! What water? I didn’t add any water. I want to make a concentrated vegetable soup, not water with vegetables.”
Yes, I know. Now I know. There is a huge difference between the vegetable soup and the fried vegetables I had just made. Anyway, since I found out that soups are made with water, I rarely touch them… I honestly thought that the delicious and nourishing soup broth comes from the vegetables alone.
Oh well, since that experiment didn’t go so well, at least I had the boeuf salad for Adrian. “Better than nothing!” I thought to myself. It was going to be the piece de la resistance. When I pulled the salad out of the freezer I realized that I had just made the most nourishing and only mayonnaise ice cream in the world. That’s why life is beautiful, because we always have something to learn; some things we learn sooner, some faster or harder, and some other much later in life. Some we don’t learn at all. Never!
At 7 p.m. I went to the subway station to wait for Adrian. I looked carefully around me, searching for a European boy. Nothing. “If I’m not going to find the child, I’m going to be in big trouble” I thought to myself. It was getting dark out. In Japan, at 8 p.m. during the summer time, it’s already dark. All of a sudden I see a tall and handsome teenager walking towards me.
“Good evening Mrs. Ioana! It’s so nice to see you again.”
Yes, that was Adrian. He was now 17 years old and was no longer the little child that I once knew. Adrian was going to a Japanese high school (11th grade). From that moment on he was going to become my best friend and a little brother, although often times I wasn’t sure which one of us was more mature. He was very serious and responsible, considering that he was by himself in Japan. His parents had returned to Romania, yet he had decided to finish his studies in Japan.
There is a poem by Rudyard Kipling called “If”, whose theme can also be found in Norwegian poems, as well as in the poetry of other classics and countries. That poem came to mind when I realized how much I had learned from a young boy like Adrian. I learned from him how to navigate through the public transportation in Tokyo, how to talk to people, where to get my foreign magazines, what fashion agencies I should contact and, last but not least, how to use the internet. He was the shoulder on which I cried many times and gave me courage and hope. Even though he was only a child, he matured early on in life. I’m grateful to him for all these things and I hope that some day I’ll be able to help him in return.
That first evening we met we talked a lot about Romania, Japan, his classmates, modeling (we both became models at the same agency), our parents, food, international trips, foreign languages, etc. At the end of the night we exchanged phone numbers and kept in touch almost daily. As I mentioned before, in Japan people spend countless hours on their mobile devices, and Adrian and I were no exception to this rule. This was one aspect of their lifestyle that we completely got used to. Ken was happy for our friendship because while he was busy, there was somebody to take care of me in case I needed anything.
I tried to take care of Adrian as well, making sure that he went to school daily, did his homework and didn’t neglect his studies because of the television show that was a part of every Wednesday night. I had many reasons to be proud of him, some of them being how well he spoke Japanese and how he wasn’t easily intimidated by people much older than him. I was also happy to notice that he didn’t need me or anyone else to tell him not to smoke and drink or to attend school daily… I was the one learning from him what seriousness and conscientiousness meant in a strict and competitive society like Japan.
The unfulfilled dream
My childhood dream was to become a ninja. I studied Japanese and took karate lessons with a Japanese sensei, on one of the buildings in Unirii Square in Bucharest, to get closer and closer to achieving this dream. I’d have to admit that the karate lessons didn’t last for more than two sessions, but nonetheless I learned a lot about concentration, harmony and force.
Even after I moved to Japan, I still dreamt of becoming a ninja, despite Ken’s explanations based on which only the lower class people were ninja fighters, and that it would be embarrassing for him, as a descendant of shoguns to have a ninja wife. He even said that there are no more ninjas in Japan anyway. I was adamant about my dream. I wanted to reinvent the idea of a ninja, to fight until I became invincible, to be insightful, quiet, quick, dressed all in black with my face covered.
I wanted to refuel the taste for mystery. I think to myself now: How young was I? Emotionally, of course…
I was convinced that I could get a role in one of the Japanese movies with ninjas. Japan taught me that seriousness, hard work and tenacity could get me whatever I wanted. I managed to assimilate all of these character traits (or faults, depending on how you look at them and the culture that you live in). No one told me that even in Japan I had to have realistic goals and dreams.
When I first met Yoshimoto-san, a television producer based in Roppongi (part of Tokyo) we had a very good connection. He saw my pictures and knew my resume fairly well. He confessed right from the beginning that he was much more impressed with me in person. At that first meeting he also told me point blank that I couldn’t show up at the castings for ninja actors because that wasn’t my place.
I took a chance and told him how much I really wanted to become a ninja, much more than anything else that was offered to me at the time. He explained to me politely that what I wanted was impossible and that he saw me more as a bilingual presenter (Japanese-English). He wanted to introduce me to other people in the field as well.
We set up a following meeting in which I had to pass some auditions: linguistic, walking, rapid communication, photogenic, diction, vocabulary, sense of humor (Japanese, of course), etc. Some of the people that I auditioned with were totally impressed; others thought that I still needed training. Two people told me that I had no chance to succeed in that industry because I didn’t understand Japanese jokes; I was too old at 26 years old and was too short. Short! I was 5’7” and this was way above the average height of the Japanese. All these things were thrown right into my face, without any linguistic screening, like it usually happens in Japan. I’d also been told in Romania that I was too short and that my voice wasn’t for television. My biggest disadvantage in Romania was lack of connections to push me up the entertainment industry latter.
But again, “knowing people” seems to be a success factor regardless of the country you live in. My last name, Kurosawa, helped me to set up a meeting with the first producer, through a well-known attorney from Tokyo. The rest came naturally. And if my beloved husband, Mr. Kurosawa, would have truly wanted me to succeed, I could have worked for any television station, without the perfect voice, talent, and even “being too old” as they said I was. The truth is that he never wanted me to wor
k, at least not in that industry.
I stopped judging him for this. Now I understand him. He wasn’t the first or the last man who couldn’t stand knowing that his wife was seen, admired and busy. Very few men are strong and trust themselves enough to accept such things. My beloved husband tried to stop me in any way possible: psychologically, morally, emotionally, etc. He did this directly, by cancelling and rejecting all the auditions that came my way, or indirectly, by “forgetting” to tell me that I was called and asked to be places. The 3rd or 4th time I’m reading this!) He did all of these things deliberately. In Japan, people respected the fact that he was my husband and manager, and none of them dared to call my personal phone to talk directly to me. Only after a while did I understand that he was sabotaging my career. So, I started going to agencies by myself, telling them that I was Ioana from Romania and that I was single. Ken found out and made sure that everyone knew who I was before I’d step foot at their door. One day two Japanese men told me:
“He’s a Kurosawa and we are Suzuki…” and that was the moment I finally understood everything.
I also had a real manager who helped me enormously in my career. He was helping and training me to become the next sensation of Japanese television. This never happened but I got to learn a lot from it. The things you learn by going through struggles are priceless, especially if you have an open mind and the insatiable desire to absorb information, knowledge, and advice—to be like a sponge. And when the time comes to squeeze the sponge, all the experience, apprehension and depth can materialize in a beautiful and well deserved victory that can have multiple forms: being a better human being, becoming more understanding, accepting, wise, generous, nice to be around, morally, intellectually and spiritually evolved. After all, that’s why we go through life isn’t it? We live to get not just wrinkles and illnesses, but wisdom and achievements.
But here I am again getting lost in the amalgam of thoughts and memories. I don’t feel that the prestige of age is to my advantage to talk about these things, nor that I have the wisdom that I’m constantly seeking for. And I’m not a philosopher either…
One day I was with Yoshimoto-san at the television station. We were walking on the hallway of the first floor when accidentally I had the opportunity to watch through the glass window the filming of a movie with ninjas. The setting was superb, with traditional Japanese houses, beautiful Japanese actresses dressed in kimonos—and of course ninjas. I stopped for a few minutes to take in the scenery. Yoshimoto-san was right next to me. Couldn’t he feel my inner tumult when he saw my eyes and hands stuck on the window that was separating me from my dream? Couldn’t he hear my heart beating loudly? Couldn’t he feel me? Couldn’t he understand what I was going through, or was he sadistic? I had all of these questions in my mind, just like a child whose dream couldn’t be understood in the world of adults.
“I have to play in this serial,” I politely told him, forcing myself to stay calm.
“It’s not possible,” he answered me, smiling.
It was a beautiful, sunny day in Tokyo and Mr. Yoshimoto was smiling. Life was smiling at me also, yet I was only able to see a grin from my destiny.
“I must! I told him loudly, as I revolted. I want to audition!
“Ioana-san this is impossible! Why don’t you understand? Not only are you a foreigner, you’re also a woman.”
“So what? You could cover my face. Ninjas have their faces covered anyway and you can’t see anything, including their hair or features. You can only see their eyes. The viewers won’t notice this.”
“Yes, people will see your eyes and your European features. On top of this, women ninjas don’t even exist!”
“Yes they do. I’ve seen them in the movies, sometimes… And even if they haven’t existed until now, there is always a start. Please, allow me to audition. That’s all I ask for.”
I cried for two days. I cried until I finally understood that what I wanted was absurd. Having me play a ninja would have been as if you’d have a Japanese man play the role of … John Kennedy in a documentary about American Presidents.
Narcissism
My life in Japan was composed of two parts: one in Tokyo, living with Ken, and the other in Sendai, north of Japan, where we used to spend our summer holidays with the rest of the family. During my time in Tokyo I kept busy teaching English, modeling, going out with Ken, visiting uncle Koji, dining out, clubbing and visiting Doctor Tanaka. In Sendai, where we spent time with our extended family, things were a bit more interesting: shopping sprees, luxurious restaurants, lots of thought-provoking conversations and tons of gifts from everyone. Visiting members of our extended family and spending quality time with them played a big role during our time in Sendai. I had a family that cared for me enormously, a handsome and loving husband whom I loved a lot, an adorable puppy, two houses, beautiful and expensive things, and money. Lots of money! And everywhere I’d go I was told how exquisite I was!
With all of these things in my life, slowly but surely, I became ugly, hideous and spoiled. I felt entitled to have everything. It was enough just to glance at someone or something to have it my way. I’d do anything to be pleased. I only did whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I couldn’t accept being told anything by anyone. I built up tremendous resentment towards anything that had to do with aristocracy, nobility and obeying the rules. I did things just to prove that I was against everything that I was supposed to do… Oh, how hard it is to write all this and how embarrassed I feel to remember all these things about me!
It’s a big part of Japanese culture to deny someone’s affirmation when they give you compliments. Giving compliments in Japan is almost mandatory. To understand what I’m talking about, I’ll give you an example:
“Your family is very distinguished, with such beautiful daughters and youthful and educated parents.”
One must answer:
“Oh no, my family is very humble and unimportant. My sisters are ugly and there’s nothing really special about my parents.”
Obviously, this play on words becomes very tiring and hard to be accepted by the Romanians, who usually show off with everything they have. In my mind, I was always apologizing to my family because I had to say such horrible things about them. When people would say: “You’re extremely beautiful” (which basically means that this is exactly how they feel, because there are multiple other expressions which can be used to compliment someone, just to be polite), I had to answer accordingly: “No, certainly not. I’m very ugly.” Many times my answers held the truth.
Over time I internalized this attitude towards compliments as if it would have been within me forever, yet despite all this, Otoosan and especially Ken reprimanded me.
“Ioana, when you’re being told that you are beautiful, you have to thank people.”
“Of course Ken. The same thing happens in Romania too. You thank people for the compliment yet you remain modest. Isn’t this normal?”
“No?! Now what? I dared to ask him.
“It’s not like in Romania, Ken explained to me. Here, the same attitude would be inappropriate. Because you are extremely beautiful (at that point I wasn’t even blushing when receiving compliments, as I was convinced that it was nothing but the truth) you can’t answer, “No, I’m ugly.” By answering in this way you’d basically insult the people who gave you the compliment in the first place. What you’d actually be saying is that “Not even me, being that I’m really beautiful, am beautiful. Therefore, you, who are less beautiful than I am, are actually very ugly.”
I tried to understand the logic behind Ken’s sayings, which were also confirmed by Otoosan. Until that moment, I thought that I had to answer by denying the compliments, and all of a sudden everything went to the other extreme. How complicated and confusing everything was for me!
Dear potential reader, when you think of the Japanese language I don’t want you to think of it as a logical language, with a system, vocabulary, grammar and rules. Think of it as a spider web wit
h several fine layers. Japanese has subtle nuances that are not expressed explicitly through words or idioms, but are understood and known through gestures, voice tone and circumstances. That’s why I love Japanese. It’s not an easy language to learn and speak. It’s a total mystery. A mystery that I can untangle; a mystery that brings me tremendous satisfaction because I know that I can decode it. I don’t take any joy in learning languages that are too simple and easy. I can’t do it. Those languages are so easy that I can’t speak them. The hardest language for me to learn was Italian. It is so similar to Romanian that I can’t even take it seriously.
“So it’s just like in Romanian, I answered to Ken, after I had had enough time to rearrange my thoughts. Then why are you answering compliments like “You’re wife is beautiful,” with “No she’s not. She’s ugly.” And you do this even when I’m around.
“This is totally different Ioana. You should be able to understand this. That person is talking to me about someone that belongs to me yet is not part of me. Therefore I can’t confirm what they are saying and blow my own horn with something that’s not part of me. That would mean that I’m prideful and by definition, ugly, even hideous. Since you are not a part of me, I can say that you are ugly because they’ll understand the meaning of it all. They know that through words I can’t answer any differently.”