Shock and Awe

The weird, inscrutable, and mysterious Japan theories begin:

On Akio Toyoda's "apology":

Jeremy Anwyl, chief executive of auto information company Edmunds.com in Santa Monica, noted that in Japan, "guilt and shame are very different things."

"He apologized for inconveniencing Toyota customers and causing them concern, but didn't actually deal with the issue of responsibility," Anwyl said. "In the U.S., for an apology to be sincere, the speaker must accept responsibility and express remorse.*" LA Times



Mr. Anwyl must have read Ruth Benedict's ancient and controversial interpretation of the Japanese, The Chrysanthemum and the Sword---which was based largely on interviews with Japanese POWs. Or perhaps he read a Berlitz guidebook on Japan. I have never understood the supposed huge difference between the two (guilt and shame), nor do I believe that it exists in such an absolute manner. Of course, I am not the first to say that...

I find this one of the most interesting controversies in years because it seems to be a complete role reversal. Now the Japanese are being accused of not apologizing, not apologizing soon enough, not apologizing correctly, not apologizing sincerely, not understanding a foreign culture, appearing cold, unfeeling, and logically dry (the latter is my accusation), all the things that Westerners---especially the US---are accused of in Japan. And it's not even connected to WW2 issues.

I can imagine the shock and confusion some folks must feel to learn that, yes, in the US and elsewhere folks apologize too, and also expect some sort of apology when they feel wronged. Sometimes, even non-Japanese must be apologized to despite the fact that you think you have not actually done anything wrong. Such a feeling is not unique to Japan. Imagine that.

*Is it different here? Is it not mostly form in both countries when corporations send out folks to "apologize?" Does anyone expect real sincerity in a corporate apology?

Descent into an obsessive-compulsive world

Ahhh. A seat on the train that I could get without fighting for. I know that according to some fellow from Melbourne who writes articles boosting bigotry that I should do as the natives do (which ones?), but I cannot fight for a train seat. I sorta feel it is undignified for a healthy adult male---or female---to push his/her way through a waiting line and rush into a train just to grab a seat. And I am one without much dignity left; when I am finally able to leave the job that I have had off and on for way too long, I will have to shovel manure for a year to get some back.

But, at least last night I had a seat. I pulled out my copy of Fooled by Randomness in the futile hope of exercising my few remaining brain cells, when I heard a sound that sent an electric shock through my body. An open-mouth, let-it-all-blow-out sneeze. A quick check. Luckily, it was not in my direction, but the young lady standing in the aisle across from me had let one rip directly on the folks seated in front of her. Then I noticed that she was wearing a mask. Well, that was OK then, especially since I would not be getting a spittle shower from her.

Back to Fooled. Within a few seconds, we arrived at the next station. The sparsely-filled train was much quieter than the more usual sardine can train as we waited for a few more folks to get on.

Then I heard it. It was sort of a slow awakening, like noticing a leaky faucet in the middle of the night. Sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff-SNORT!!!-sniff-sniff-sniff-sniff. I began to search for the source with the same morbid curiosity that people have when they pass by the scene of an accident hoping to see a mangled body.

I located him---a middle-aged guy sitting on the far end of the seat across from mine. I was strangely unable to take my eyes off of him. No, he was not attractive in the way that the freckle-faced woman I had shared a moment of eye contact with a month or so earlier was, but he was fascinating. How would he deal with his severe case of post nasal drip, I wondered. After all, if I am gonna do like the natives (which ones?) I have to learn by example.

He sniffed with every single breath. The lady sitting next to him appeared not to notice. Nobody else seemed to notice either, except for me. Good. It meant that he fit in and was a good subject to observe. He continued to sniff. How long before he uses his fingers, hand, or sleeve? He was obviously not the tissue or handkerchief type.

It wasn't long. First there was a slow wipe with the fingers of the right hand. That wasn't enough, as the sniffing continued. A moment later, the left hand went up. The sniffing did not stop nor slow.

This got me to thinking. I'd seen young guys with similar nose trouble, who while talking to young women, take a big head-clearing 93 decibel snort. The young ladies appeared to take it in stride. I've even seen the singer (and talented actor) Kim Taku do sort of a cool, manly snort on a TV drama. Perhaps the babes like it.

Hmmm. Had I missed my chance with the beautiful freckle-faced lady of a month ago when we made and held eye contact on a crowded train? The sort of eye contact that one does not normally make in Tokyo? I must admit, I hadn't known what to do at the time. Had I been in the States, perhaps just a smile would have been fine, and the world would have gone on as usual. But no, Japan is special. What if I had, while staring deep into her pretty eyes, taken a deep, studly, phlegm-clearing snort? Would the evening have turned out differently? Would I have finally been able to enjoy a mid-life fling with a cute younger gal?

No, I had to come back to reality. Perhaps I cannot always do like the natives (which ones?) do after all. For my wife, being unreasonably selfish about these sorts of things, would have refused to share me with the pretty freckle-faced lady.

I got off the train at my stop trying to figure out when I had started paying so much attention to such things. When I reached my "mansion," I felt an irresistible urge to repeatedly wash my hands with scalding hot water.