Monthly Archives: April 2017

Learned Helplessness

by in Culture, Feminism, Luminous Aether, Politics, Science | 14 Comments

It was a nice morning, and the local March for Science was modestly well attended. I walked the mile-and-a-half route along the highway with a couple of friends from the local college while a group of enthusiastic leaders cleared any wildlife from the area by waving signs, chanting and generally making noise.  A little back from the excitement, we conversed between intermittent reminders to the bunch of face-painted kids in tow to stay safe. Thinking about it later, I wondered if that was really good advice.

After reaching the town where I’d left the car, I excused myself to drive down the hill for another event with a group of Japanese families. With an eye on the future, Panasonic has made a multi-billion dollar investment in Tesla’s “Gigafactory,” a massive lithium-ion battery production facility built in the Nevada desert to the east. As several hundred Japanese engineers, specialists, consultants and executives have moved into the region in support of the operation, the ethnic Japanese population of the area has swelled.

In exchange for the approximately 6,500 direct jobs that Tesla is projected to create, Nevada attracted Tesla’s Gigafactory by agreeing to a twenty-year tax-break that will likely amount to well over $1-billion. Since then, the jobs have appeared, though rather more slowly than anticipated. And much of the work in the highly automated factory requires skills simply not available in the local work-force. At last report, about a third are being filled by Japanese-nationals.

Nevada was already known as a tax-shelter state when Tesla arrived. It has no state income tax, whether for individuals or for corporations, nor any inventory tax on real goods. For this reason, many wealthy Americans have built their largest homes in Nevada in order to claim primary residency in the state. It’s also no secret that wealthy individuals from around the world as well as multi-national corporations shelter large amounts of money in Nevada, through trusts, or loans or investments to Nevada-based corporate arms. There’s nothing illegal about any of these activities. In fact, one of the attractions of Nevada as an international tax-haven is that it exists within a “stable and well-regulated environment” — at least that’s the pitch.  Nevada is the “Switzerland” of the West.

This is perhaps fine for those who invest in Nevada, whether through a PO Box and some corporate letterhead, or by the construction of a sprawling estate… or a battery factory. But it means that the state itself, while capital rich on paper, is manifestly rather poor. This was something of a joke among Californians driving to the Nevada side of the lake this winter, often commenting that they could tell the state-line by where the potholes started, or where the snow simply wasn’t being cleared anymore. But to those Japanese arriving, they rather quickly ran into something rather more troublesome than the local Whole Foods frequently running out of organic soy beans.

Nevada hosts some of the worst public education systems in the US. Depending upon the source consulted, the state overall ranks anywhere from 44 to 50 out of the 51 states and DC. And this is despite some districts within the state that do fairly well when evaluated on their own.  Unfortunately, however, the local public school district is one that doesn’t.

Supposedly infrastructurally overcrowded, local taxpayers only recently chose to impose one of the highest sales-tax rates in the US upon themselves in order to pay for new construction and renovation of old buildings.  Regardless, the school district decided to increase classroom sizes anyway, citing a $40-million shortfall due to “under-enrollment.” And this is in a state that’s already ranked 47 overall for student-to-teacher ratio. Combined with low test scores, high dropout rates, poor investments in technology, weak local college opportunities, and a number of other concerns, this has Japanese parents looking for alternatives.

There are already a number of corporate and private school opportunities in this part of the state. But they’re costly, and the types of populations they’re serving don’t address what most Japanese parents are seeking. Generally speaking, Japanese culture views education as an entitlement only to the extent that it’s a functional expectation. That’s to say that it’s undertaken with an ethic of personal responsibility. In Japan, the pursuit of a usable education is considered a difficult but meritable personal challenge, and its acquisition is seen as both a personal obligation and a kind of right-of-passage.

The mood in the afternoon was pragmatic and positive, and complaints were conspicuously absent. It seemed that much of the solution had already been crafted.  The meeting proceeded quickly as a source for Japanese textbooks and support materials was agreed upon, a math program was adopted, and a store-front location for a Japanese-style extension school was financed. My own contribution was merely to connect the group with some science and technology resources available through UC Davis and an associated private college at the lake. These immigrant parents had already empowered themselves to accomplish what an entire state could not.

Of course, this doesn’t excuse the state or its institutions from their mismanagement of pubic education any more than it excuses government officials who conveniently ignore science whenever it suits their purposes. But I do think it exemplifies how we’ve reached such a place in the US that people even feel the need march in an effort to point out that science is indeed a real thing. It’s easier to complain than it is to actually do something. And understanding the world we live in requires some significant effort.

I had a friend many years ago who called it “Oprah Winfrey Syndrome,” referring to a common theme among the apparently once popular daytime program’s guests. My friend characterized it as a way to justify inaction by claiming to be a victim of something beyond your own control. In effect, my life sucks because someone else fucked it up. Whether or not that’s true, my friend observed, it simply excuses not doing anything to improve one’s own condition. It’s a form of learned helplessness.

My own upbringing instilled in me an expectation that I could be my own person, self-supporting and independent to whatever extent I chose to express that independence. Neither state nor family welfare were ever presented as options, though I expected difficulties and set-backs. But I also never questioned or doubted the idea that I would achieve whatever was important to me in this life on my own, and not through some form of subservience.  So to be honest, I’m dumbfounded by the numbers of people who don’t feel that way about themselves as Americans — and especially women.  And this really bothers me.

Repressive cultures, and especially the kind apparently existing at FOX, are only able to thrive because enough individuals don’t expect more for themselves. This recently left me in the ironic position of agreeing with Sarah Palin, who said that the women involved in these kinds of things need to be willing to do something about it as opposed to simply enduring the suffering and then complaining about it later. And yes, there’s a risk involved. But it’s pretty difficult to improve your condition if your only goal is to stay safe, and especially when that safety is an illusion.

It’s fine to go out and march, although I’ll admit to being a little less than moved by all of the gratuitous noise-making. And I’m frankly more than a little disturbed to see such a profoundly important universal discipline as science reduced to but more rhetorical spit in a match between two hollowed and anachronistic political factions.  As Americans, we have opportunities others in the world can only imagine. But we still have to be willing to take hold of them, and to work to make them our own.

So better promoted, I think, is an ethic of personal responsibility, and one grounded in the learning of something worth knowing.  Practical knowledge, things like an understanding of how the world around us really works provides a form of access to wealth and to security, and to an ability to participate in a society in ways that promote one’s own self interest.  So the denial of an education, whether by lack of access or through personal negligence is an inexcusable individual and social injustice, though one that few Americans seem to recognize.  But I suspect that somehow, if more did, the whole issue of whether or not science is a real thing would simply sort itself out in the process.

 

Labels

by in Hmmm... | 9 Comments

Nothing is made in America anymore… that’s what I hear, anyway.  So while unpacking our shipped luggage from recent travels, I tried to take note of a cross-section of the labels in or on some of the outdoor goods that traveled with us.  Worth mention…

label-wmAmong “big-ticket” items, my husband’s Western Mountaineering sleeping bag… Made in USA, in San Jose, California.

I had mine made by Mountain Hardware many years back.  Oddly, it doesn’t have a “made in” label anywhere I can find, but I know it was put together in Portland, Oregon, USA.
label-lowe
My Lowe Alpine heavyweight, base-layers were made-to-measure… “Manufactured in U.S.A. for Lowe Alpine.”

label-ffMy husband’s Feathered Friends down parka was made-to-order in Seattle, Washington, USA. .

My own down parka is rather older, and from REI.  The photo I took of the label was too blurry to read, but it says, “Made in the USA.”  I had it made over-filled in Seattle in the late 90’s.  I don’t think REI offers the service anymore, but Feathered Friends is right around the corner (and they use better quality down, anyway).

label-nfMy North Face, “hardshell” outers (jacket and bibs)…  Both were made in the USA.  To be honest, I don’t think they make these, or anything like them anymore.  NF still has a custom service, but I think they’ve become more outdoor fashion oriented, and moved production off-shore.

label-mh1Mountain Hardware’s generic windblock softshell is, “Made in USA.”  This is their general-issue item for Search and Rescue, and it’s been a staple item in their clothing line.  Only about $100… but not something you’ll find in the local mall.  To be honest, I also have some outdoor fashion clothing from Mountain Hardware that was made in China… and no less expensive.

label-rei1And though I’m probably cheating with this one, my ancient REI, rag wool shirt was also made in the USA.  Originally my dad’s, it somehow got thrown into the washer.  Afterward, it fit me perfectly.  Still a great shirt, though mostly a camp item.

Sorting through some of the hardware that accompanied us, there’s also US-Made gear from SMC (Seattle Manufacturing Corp.), Sterling Rope, Bluewater Rope, Omega Pacific, and some Black Diamond.

To be fair, there are also plenty of foreign labels…

label-salewaBoth my Salewa and Scarpa boots were made in Romania.  For whatever reason, that seems to be where nice boots are made these days.

label-hhMy two high-end Helly Hansen technical rain/snow shells were made in (rainy) Thailand.

label-taiga I bought my TaigaWorks helmet rain cover from their shop in Vancouver, Canada.  Rains a lot there, as well.

As for foreign-made hardware, there’s DMM from Wales, Camp, Grivel, and Climbing Technology from Italy, Stubai from Austria, Petzl from France and Malaysia (Petzl also outsources to various manufacturers), and some Black Diamond that was made in China.

___

My main take-away from all of this is first that there’s still much being manufactured in the US, and that most of what’s made in the US is also high-quality.  And of course, anything individualized or made-to-order is probably going to be locally-manufactured.  However, when considering foreign sources, I also notice a scarcity of developing-world production in this cross-section.  While I found a few things made in China and Vietnam, this mostly accounted for small, inexpensive, synthetic soft-goods like caps or gaiters (with the notable exception of one really nice, and *expensive* pair of Chinese-made gloves).  Even my good wool socks were US-made.   And most of the truly high-quality, foreign-made clothing and equipment was sourced from economies more on par with that of the US.

Of course, most of what I was looking through wasn’t mass-produced, and so doesn’t represent the bulk of what one finds in a shopping mall, or even a closet.  However, cost doesn’t necessarily equate with quality.  Rather, American-style commercial capitalism adds a profit-margin component, and that means that more cheaply produced imports might also cost just as much as sometimes better-made, US-manufactured products.  So, you might ask, why would someone pay more for less?

In a word, “fashion.”  An example is that Mountain Hardware softshell (5th label down).  MH started as a small manufacturer of serious outdoor and mountaineering soft goods.  However, as the label became sufficiently recognized for its high-quality products to appeal to a mass-market, it was bought out by Columbia Sportswear (2003).  Afterward, most production was gradually moved to less costly overseas facilities in order to boost profitability.  MH‘s sole, US-made shoftshell simply remains as an advertising item with which to adorn firefighters, SAR, and ski-patrols.

This pattern has been repeated many times over by other clothing labels, such as North Face, Marmot, and Patagonia (which interestingly claims a certain moral high-ground for doing so).   Even less quality-oriented labels, like REI, and hardware manufacturers aren’t exempt from the trend toward corporate profitability by selling more cheaply mass-produced items under labels that appeal to fashion through a veneer of “quality.”  Where the “C” inside a diamond once symbolized innovative products forged at Ivan Chouinard’s, Great Pacific Ironworks in Ventura, California, it now appears on Black Diamond carabiners that are mass-produced in China.

I won’t argue that this necessarily means that overseas-manufactured products are any lower quality than their American-made counterparts.  But it seems pretty clear that where manufacturing is located so as to be significantly less costly, the difference simply goes into shareholders’ pockets.  Moreover, whether boosting profits or cutting consumer costs, I question the very ethic in taking advantage of labor conditions that in many cases would never be tolerated in the United States, if not declared outright illegal.  And overseas manufacturing can come with its own quality-control and intellectual property issues.

Offshore manufacturing is a hot topic these days, but for all the wrong reasons.  Where foreign products from modern, industrialized countries (some with higher standards-of-living than our own) are simply better designed and better made than those produced in the US, American production either needs to step up to the plate or look for another game.  But where it’s simply a lack of environmental or labor regulation that allows a product to be more cheaply mass-produced, I think it’s entirely fair to ask whether or not that represents our own values.

ivankalabel

Photo: Japan Times

But it also wouldn’t hurt for Americans to recognize that the exploitation of cheap foreign labor in mass-production is primarily intended to increase investors’ profits — that is, to make the rich richer.  Whether with regard to mountaineering equipment or that designer-brand blouse, it’s simply a means to fleece consumers while exploiting labor conditions that would likely never be tolerated in any developed country.  So if you wouldn’t want to be seen wearing the label hidden under the collar of that designer shirt, what makes the label up front any better?

The Spirit in the Tree

by in Culture, Japan, Philosophy | 6 Comments

Shinto is a uniquely Japanese religious practice. Perhaps surprisingly, however, it’s not really all that well understood by most Japanese. In some cases, it’s traditions have become intertwined with Japanese forms of Buddhism. Or, due to the fundamentally secular nature of Japanese society, many people have simply lost an interest in anything beyond a superficial recognition of its traditions as “Japanese.” The subversion of Shinto by the Imperial Japanese government also resulted in the practice losing much of its luster and spiritual credibility in the years after WWII.

The name, “Shinto,” is derived from the kanji, 神 (shin) meaning “kami” or “spirit,” and 道 (tō) indicating a practice or philosophy. It might thus roughly be translated as, The Way of the Spirits.  Contrary to most religions, Shinto has no original founder, system of worship or practice toward enlightenment, body of law, or formal organization of clergy.  Shinto also doesn’t address an afterlife, and it has no formal moral code.  Instead, Shinto is based in a pursuit of living in harmony with natural energies and influences that are seen as neither “good” nor “evil,” but simply as amoral forces of nature.

Like most religions, it exists in several forms. Most commonly, Shinto is encountered as Jinja-Shintō, or its state-supported “Shrine” form.  Across Japan there are approximately 80,000 (no, that’s not a typo) Shinto shrines ranging in size from square meters to square kilometers.  They can often be recognized by the “Tori Gates,” or squarish, sometimes red arches under which visitors must enter.

Jinja-Shintō shrines are usually associated with an officially recognized shrine network.  Iconography, as well as nuances within rituals may vary depending upon the network that supports a particular shrine.  For example, “Inari” shrines are characterized by bright red tori and stylized statues of kitsune, a fox deity or “kami” associated with rice, sake, agriculture and fertility.  “Hachiman” shrines are dedicated to a Buddhist entity or “daibosatsu,” also treated as a Shinto kami associated with learning and strength in battle, and by extension the samurai tradition.  Hachiman iconography includes the stirrup and bow, and visitors to Hachiman shrines during Hatsumode, or the first three days of the New Year, may acquire ceremonial arrows as blessings in the confrontation of challenges during the year.

Prior to the Meiji Restoration, or the restoration of imperial rule to Japan starting in 1868, Shinto was loosely administered according to various interpretations by individual Buddhist temples. However, the Meiji Emperor established an official form of the religion by standardizing its doctrines, declaring it separate from Buddhism, and giving it state support. Jinja Shinto remains officially state-supported in Japan, with many large Shinto shrines across the country maintained as public works.

Parallel to Jinja-Shintō is the more rarefied Kōshitsu-Shintō, or “Household Shinto.” It consists of rites and ceremonies performed only by the Imperial family at any of three shrines on the Imperial Palace grounds. While the Emperor renounced his “divinity” after WWII, the family still holds a special position within the hierarchy of the Shinto spiritual pantheon.

Kyōha-Shintō refers to Shinto sects officially separated from the state-supported Jinja form in 1882.  As of 1908, there were thirteen recognized sects.  However, there now exist at least 75 splinter or offshoot organizations commonly divided into five groups according to a general philosophy: Revivalist, Confucian, Mountain-Worship, Purification, and Faith-Healing.   In addition to recognized Kyōha-Shintō, there also exist various unrecognized small or independent regional Shinto offshoots, cults, and even far right-wing reactionary groups who continue to deify the Emperor. Various folk versions of the religion also exist as more isolated and sometimes esoteric forms, usually in the countrysides. And there has been a movement, especially among some aboriginal groups, to approach Shinto in a more ancient, pre-Buddhist form.

Fundamentally, Shinto is based upon the idea of “kami,” which are spirits or life-energies that occupy places, objects, or even living things. Shinto recognizes that an uncountable number of such spirits may exist, hence the sometimes heard description of Japan as, “The land of 10,000 gods.”  “Kami,” however, generally refer to spirits that make themselves known to people through some special or powerful sensation. Consequently, they are frequently attributed places or things that elicit strong emotions, such as fear, awe, beauty, or a recognition of something profoundly unusual or mysterious. A small shrine might be constructed at such a location, or an object may be marked with a zig-zag of rice-paper, straw rope, or even signage.

Larger Shinto shrines, such as those that most travelers might visit, are usually constructed at locations where it has been determined that some extraordinarily powerful kami resides. This might be associated with natural phenomena, such as water sources or landforms, or an effect of nature upon some significant event. Or, it might be a place in which priests have simply divined that such a spirit exists.

All Shinto shrines, including small household shrines are considered sacred spaces. They are customarily treated with respect and approached according to various traditions. Many of these traditions reflect an ethic, mostly focusing on the purity of one’s will and intent.  With very few exceptions, anyone may enter a Shinto shrine.  However, watch for a “temizu,” a water basin for visitors to rinse their hands and mouth.  The temizu will be located at the entrance to the shrine, and its use is considered both customary and respectful.

Amaterasu is the Shinto Goddess of the Sun, and central to the Japanese creation myth.  The lineage of the Emperors of Japan is traced directly back to Amaterasu through five subsequent generations of gods and the legendary first Emperor of Japan, Jinmu-tennō.  According to Japanese mythology, Amaterasu hid herself in a cave in anger over the behavior of her brother and husband, the God of the Moon, plunging the world into darkness. After many attempts by the other gods to lure her out, she emerged only after seeing the beauty of her own reflection within a mirror. This is the origin of Japan’s “rising sun,” and central to the Japanese philosophies of holding truth and natural beauty in high esteem.

The Sacred Mirror or “Yata no Kagami” is one of the “Three Sacred Treasures of Japan,” and is said to reside within the inner shrine, or Kotai Jingū, of the immense Ise-jingu shrine complex.  The Ise-jingu shrine complex is known as “The Grand Shrine,” sometimes called simply “Jingu,” or The Shrine. Unlike other shrines, its high priest and priestess must come from the Imperial House, thus forming a connection between the House and Shrine forms of Shinto. The complex is consequently understood to be at the spiritual center of Shinto, and so is a point of pilgrimage for many Japanese.

Shrine buildings within the 7th-century, Ise Grand Shrine complex are traditionally constructed using only wood joinery, and built exclusively from cypress. However, there are no ancient structures within the complex, as they are entirely reconstructed every twenty-years per Shinto tradition. Located on the Ise Peninsula in Mie Prefecture, the Grand Shrine isn’t directly adjacent to any major Japanese cities. However, the nearby town of Ise can be reached directly by light-rail from Nagoya, Kyoto, or Osaka. For visitors to Japan interested in a cultural perspective not often witnessed by outsiders, the Ise Grand Shrine and surroundings might be a worthwhile day-trip.

Shinto is actually a historically complex collection of traditions extending far beyond the scope of this article, some dating back well over 1,000-years, and others reflecting the influences of Buddhism.  It has its own unique artistic and architectural forms.  And its philosophies and ceremonies address a wide variety of practices, from purification rites and weddings, to spiritual performances such as a form of yabusame, or mounted archery.  It provides a rich, traditional backdrop to Japanese culture.

Japan is a country where overt displays of religious belief by laypeople outside of shrines, temples or other religious gathering places are generally seen as socially dysfunctional. However, the observance of both Buddhist and Shinto traditions are quite common, providing a kind of social grounding for many Japanese. Visiting a larger Shinto shrine during “Hatsumode,” or the first three days after the New Year, is a common practice. Shinto weddings also provide a traditional approach to ceremonies that can be as elaborate as desired, although Christian-style weddings have become popular in recent years.

As for the degree to which the Japanese actually believe in the spiritual aspect of Shinto, this is more difficult to assess and perhaps open to some interpretation. A friend from Japan who visited with me in the US last summer was curious about Americans’ ideas of “faith” as central to Western religion, and queried whether as an American I was also a Christian. In return, I asked her if she had any beliefs that she followed. Her reply, “No. I’m Japanese.”

Of course, my friend was generalizing.  But for the most part, the modern Japanese conceptualization of “religion” doesn’t exactly parallel the faith-based approach of most Western systems. Practices tend to be perceived more as philosophical ideals as opposed to matters-of-faith. Belief, consequently, takes a back seat to ceremony, and perhaps ideally to some amount of contemplation. “Faith” is simply tangential to the point of a practice, something that’s achieved merely through the practice itself.  There’s a saying that seems to sum it up in a pragmatic sort of way…  If you think there is a spirit in the tree, and there isn’t, then it’s just a superstition. But if there is a spirit in the tree, then it’s a fact.

Photos:

  1. Tori Gates at the entrance to the Gojoten Shrine in Ueno Park, Tokyo.
  2. Conferring Hatsumode blessings to ceremonial arrows at the Akasaka Hie Shrine in Tokyo.
  3. An enshrined kami-occupied tree near the Musashi-Koganei Station in western Tokyo.
  4. Crowd waiting to enter the inner shrine of the Ise Grand Shrine.
  5. Traditional shrine structure within the grounds of the Ise Grand Shrine.
  6. Shinto wedding couple at the Itsukushima Shrine in Miyajima.

Sanzaru

by in Culture, Death, Family, Loneliness, War | 8 Comments

A few years back, I was asked by an aunt on my mom’s side of the family to write down a story that my grandmother’s youngest brother had told me when I was fifteen-years old.  I was sitting in the covered patio of my grandmother’s house, taking a break from working on a school assignment about the Apollo-11 moon-landing while my great uncle recalled his memories of the time.  But stories have a way of wandering.  And this time they worked their way around to one that, over the years, my great uncle had evidently chosen only to revisit otherwise unaccompanied.

I’m still not really certain why he shared the story with me, and apparently never with anyone else in the family. Maybe he just knew that I really liked him, and that I valued what he had to say. Or maybe he felt some closeness to me because he was only a few years older than my mom, and never had a family of his own. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

At any rate, my great uncle died many years ago from emphysema, probably as a result of cigarettes. He once told me that he had started smoking during his youth while enlisted in the US Navy, and that he’d never been able to quit. I recall thinking it a terrible way to die, laying in a hospital bed almost unrecognizable, swollen from steroids and with an oxygen tube in his nose. But that’s not the image he left of himself in my memories.

Instead, I recall his vivid stories. I remember descriptions of little islands and of faraway cities and of roads through high mountains. He had traveled on ships and trains and planes, and driven himself across Mexico and the US and Canada. He had learned to speak German, and drove a truck through northern Europe. He described Balinese dancers, hula in Hawaii, and geisha performers in Japan. It seemed as though he, along with his trademark, little brass casting of a “san-zaru,” the three-monkeys modeled after a wood-carving in a facade at the Nikkō Tōshōgū shrine in Japan, had been everywhere.  For whatever reason, the little artifact always traveled with him, announcing his presence from some corner of wherever he stayed.

My great uncle was a wandering traveler, seemingly never in one place for very long.  He would get some wild-hair to see a place, the South Pacific, or Sweden, or Oklahoma… and suddenly the little brass monkeys would disappear.  Every now and then, a card might show up in a mailbox, but that would be it. I think that in one instance, no one heard from him for almost a year. My father once said that he thought it irresponsible toward the family, but my mom was a little more forgiving. She said that her uncle had never been quite the same person after returning from service during WWII.

My great uncle had white hair. It wasn’t gray, or light blonde. Rather, it was as if it simply had no pigment at all. It was distinctly, and rather peculiarly… white. It had always been white, so far as I knew as a kid. So I never really gave it much consideration, though I thought it looked rather cool as I got older. And as I recall, it was a comment about his hair that initiated the story.

His hair, he explained, hadn’t always been white. Rather, it had grown back that way after having fallen out when he was exposed to radiation during one of the South Pacific atomic bomb tests. He had been a sailor on a tank landing-ship, or “LST.”  His ship had been assigned to tow another decommissioned test ship into the blast-zone, and then to recover the test ship along with various animals afterward — assuming anything was still afloat.

My great uncle described how the sailors stood on deck with their backs facing toward the heat of the blast, waiting to be told when they could turn around and watch without being blinded. Eventually, the shockwave reached the LST and nearly knocked the men off their feet.  Several minutes later, fragments of rock and coral from the sea-floor began to rain onto the deck. The men picked up the curious bits, stuffing little trophies into their pockets. They didn’t know anything about radioactive “fallout.”

To the chagrin of those in charge, radioactive debris apparently ended up pretty much contaminating everything… the test ship and its cargo, the transport ships, the sailors… The sailors made attempts at washing things down with sea-water, but it too was contaminated. So eventually, the test ship was scuttled, and the sailors were sent off to a medical facility. And that was where my great uncle had lost the hair of his youth.

He was very matter-of-fact about the whole story. But I was fascinated that my great uncle had been witness to such a spectacle, and so I asked him how he had managed to be a part of it. And that was when he began the story I had been asked to write, starting with how he had joined the navy

In the waning days of the war in the Pacific, my great uncle had decided that if he didn’t enlist quickly, that he would miss having any part in the war at all. So he lied about his age, and enlisted in the US Navy. Within just a few weeks, he was assigned to replace one of three casualties on an LST in the Pacific. And on his third day aboard the ship, it beached near Ie-jima in central Okinawa, discharging a contingent of marines and their equipment.

The Japanese knew that with the loss of Okinawa, that there would be little hope of stopping an American invasion.  All of Japan would then be within easy range of American heavy-bombers.  So for three days, the Japanese threw the last of their air-power into an all-or-nothing battle against the Americans.  I didn’t know it at the time, but my great uncle was describing the start of what the Japanese called, Tetsu no ame, “The Rain of Steel.”

Around noon on April 6, 1945, riding light and high in the water, the LST was making its way back into open seas on the rising tide when the sky suddenly blackened with Japanese aircraft.  That day alone, 355 military aircraft would make more than 1,500 attacks on US ships.  Pilots were told to return home only if they had destroyed their targets, and then only if their aircraft were undamaged enough to return and destroy another.

Amidst the melee, my great uncle watched as a destroyer to their port side, the USS Newcomb, was attacked repeatedly by large groups of aircraft.  A few of the planes were shot down by the Newcomb’s overwhelmed anti-aircraft batteries.  But to my great uncle’s horror, several of the pilots simply flew their bombs and torpedoes directly into the ship.  And then, a Japanese dive-bomber appeared in the sky, falling rapidly toward his own ship.  The pilot’s intent became alarmingly clear.

Intending to carry the 500-pound bomb attached to the aircraft’s undercarriage directly to its target, the aircraft flew at full-speed toward the ship’s bow.  The LST’s anti-aircraft gunners expended the last seconds of their lives raking the plane with gunfire.  My great uncle recalled seeing the flashes where rounds struck the airplane’s engine, and pieces of the wings disintegrating into the air around it.

There was no time to react.  My great uncle said that it had been fortunate that the Marines that had been aboard just hours earlier had already landed.   The plane and its bomb hit directly below the bridge.  The impact and the massive explosion that followed warped the superstructure, jamming bulkhead doors and trapping men inside while starting a terrible fire.  A gaping hole was blown out of one side of the ship, and it immediately began to list.

There was nothing he could do to help his shipmates as the remaining crew fought to get the crippled vessel out of the channel where its wreck would be an obstruction to other ships. Eventually, most of the surviving sailors were ordered into the sea. And for the next few hours, my great uncle floated in water covered with a thick layer of bunker-oil, waiting helpless and terrified for something to set it alight.  For him, it was the end of the war.

Years later, I would find a war documentary photograph taken from the USS Newcomb, itself hit by five aircraft, showing the moment the plane struck the LST.  Looking at the image, it’s difficult to imagine that anyone at all survived. In that regard, my great uncle was fortunate. But I’m not sure he ever looked at it that way, and I think I understand why he never discussed the experience with anyone else — at least not in the family.
Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil…

It was the last thing I remember him saying that day, before he stepped outside.  Looking at me contemplatively, as though he was replaying a moment in his mind while instinctively knocking another cigarette out of its box, “I always wondered about that Japanese pilot, if he was just a kid fighting for his country… like me.”

 

Ghost, or Just the Shell

by in Culture, Hmmm..., Identity, Japan, Philosophy | 7 Comments

In general, Japanese approaches to film and to literature are quite different from their American counterparts.   As a result, Japanese and American story-telling doesn’t necessarily transfer well between cultures.  This often becomes apparent at the end of a story, especially in films since they are more likely to be encountered cross-culturally.  Where Americans expect a satisfying conclusion, Japanese expect to be left with something to ponder.

To at least some extent, this makes sense when considering each society’s different underlying social perspectives. Americans are, broadly speaking, a “goal-oriented” people. Society is modeled to work toward a particular end, some achievement or objective — from a paycheck to entry into Heaven. That which tends to move a story is thus a series of challenges, a sequence of events that lead to some intended conclusion.

The scenes in an American-style narrative consequently tend to be ordered and action-to-action oriented, and may focus on the individual. Conflict tends to be external, and the sides in a conflict well-defined in an epic where a “hero” overcomes obstacles on the way to an unambiguous ending.  And to be honest, this predictably repeating pattern is the main reason why I don’t watch many American movies anymore.

Japanese society, however, is “aspect-oriented.” Ends are seen simply as the natural result of the ways in which individual moments are addressed. Such ends may or may not be as individuals desire, regardless of one’s actions. However, they reveal an identity in the sense that they reflect actions compelled by an individual’s character.

Society thus defines personal identity through these momentarily revealed aspects of self — from “losing-of-face” to “honorable.” Japanese stories, consequently, may wander, moment-to-moment through various perspectives of carefully constructed imagery, and leave the reader or viewer to decide what it all means.

Every now and then, however, something Japanese-like will at least attempt to enter the American consciousness, usually through film. But productions as deep and contemplative as Stanley Kubrick’s, 2001: A Space Odyssey, are a rare occurrence in the US. And of course, they beg for a sequel with which to give their American audiences a conveniently convergent ending.

Or, such endings are simply added to the original film, as when Philip K. Dick’s, “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” became the neo-noir/proto-cyberpunk film, Bladerunner. In the original version’s final scene, director, Ridley Scott, attempted to challenge audiences to discern their own truths. However, a well-defined, fully-narrated, happily-ever-after ending was added after American screeners expressed dissatisfaction with the film’s ambiguous conclusion.

Conversely, Japanese audiences tend to view such endings as superfluous, if not disagreeable. The Western, “Hero’s Journey,” simply doesn’t translate well into the Japanese psyche, where personal conflict and individualism run counter to East Asian ideals of identity through social reflection. Instead, destiny emerges naturally as a backdrop within which a multitude of interactions reveal the true nature of the characters who inhabit its space, aspect-to-aspect.

In a beautifully cinematic epic, Ang Lee’s, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, exemplifies this tradition. Viewers are carefully guided through a sometimes disjointed collection of beautifully rendered scenes, and ultimately left to pull them together in order to make their own decisions about right and wrong, the nature of love and the place of passion, and about power and the rights of individuals. We leave the theater with a deep understanding of the main characters, but still having to judge for ourselves whether they have found peace, or simply self-destruction.

 

My motivation for writing this emerges from an American director’s recent attempt to render a Japanese, adult-oriented anime film into an American live-action version. The original film, released in Japan in 1995, was itself adapted from a cyber-punk epic based on a “seinen manga” series.

Manga aren’t simply “comics.” Rather, they comprise a serious, complex and uniquely Japanese form of graphic novel, portraying everything from kids’ stories to deeply philosophical epics for adults, and from college textbooks to some truly disturbing pornography. In short, they’re a stylized, graphically-enhanced equivalent to Western text. Seinen manga refers to works created primarily for an audience of males in their late teens and twenties who can read kanji well enough to follow a complex plot.

The manga series, which was created by Masamune Shirow starting in 1989 under the subtitle, The Ghost in the Shell, follows the lives of a group of police officers in a near future, post nuclear-war Japan. It takes place in an urbanized world in which technology has become interwoven with humanity, where human bodies can be repaired with prosthetics superior to that which they replace, and where the human brain itself can be cybernetically enhanced.

Through the interactions of various complex and well-developed characters, from an almost entirely un-augmented young officer who unapologetically chooses to carry an old revolver and who goes home to his wife and daughter, to a woman who grew from childhood in an entirely artificial body, the manga explores the idea of “identity.”

When the manga was made into an animated film in 1995 by the director, Mamoru Oshii, it was done with great attention to the original story’s deeply philosophical narrative, as well as to its richly rendered visual environment. The film presented a serious exploration of the gray areas of transition between past and present, mind and body, and the paradox of a dynamic identity and individuality.

The film’s magnificent and haunting soundtrack, and complex backdrops into which characters might literally disappear allowed viewers a space in which to consider the meaning of what was being revealed.  It challenged audiences to immerse themselves in long, pondering and complex scenes, to tease out thoughts, and to question.

The result remains among the greatest anime films ever made, and what I would consider to be among the most significant movie productions of any kind. Its success spawned several Japanese, made-for-late-night-TV anime series, as well as two subsequent anime film productions, and even a novel about one of its characters. And it has since been emulated and copied in various manners by a number of subsequent films, most notably including, The Matrix.

However, Ghost in the Shell itself has now been rendered into a live-action film for American audiences in a production directed by Rupert Sanders. Initially criticized for “White-washing” by casting Scarlett Johansson in an originally Japanese leading role, this issue frankly pales in comparison to how the entire film was reinterpreted for Western consumption.

Unfortunately, Sanders also chose to reinvent his version of the film as a formula sci-fi/action flick with cutout characters including a standard “hero” and the usual villains, a plot-line altered to appeal to the convergent tastes an American mass-audience, and a script plundered by trite and clichéd writing. The result has been an epic backlash of terrible reviews by disappointed screeners familiar with the original film, and a steady stream of, “Meh… What was the big deal?” reviews from others.

As I said at the start, Japanese and American story-telling doesn’t necessarily transfer well between cultures. However, I think the wholly intentional trashing of this particular Asian artwork reveals something deeper about the American way of presenting ideas in general.

Where Japanese culture accepts that there may be no simple answers, it’s become an American tradition to present nothing but simple answers, even when there are far more rewarding alternatives. According to many now in charge of the message, shallowness has become a virtue, and moments spent in deeper contemplation yield nothing to justify the effort. But it’s an approach that removes the color from a far more vital reality, and that renders the world as a mere line-drawing. It’s as a cartoon is to manga, or a formula movie is to a deeply thought-provoking anime.


Photo: Scene from the 1995 anime film,
Kōkaku Kidōtai Gōsuto In Za Sheru.
(US Release: “Ghost in the Shell”)