Monthly Archives: September 2018

The Chick’s Turn

by in Boundary Behavior, Culture, Existentialism, Feminism, Identity, Japan, Ride | 13 Comments

“Mi”… A self-described, independent-minded, 20-year old
and her riding partner touring through Kyoto.

An older, Japanese friend recently used a term to describe me that I hadn’t heard in a long time (in jest, I think). It refers to a type of Japanese youth-gang member associated with “bōsōzoku”, a subculture of loud, young, motorcycle riders.

Contrary to the typical image of Japanese behavior as polite and orderly, there also exists a dwindling but still visible subculture of young, motorcycle-riding delinquents whose sole aim is to cause public chaos and disorder. Most often encountered on motorcycles or sometimes scooters that have been modified to produce as much noise as possible, they will be seen riding in large groups, or sometimes recklessly swerving through traffic and generally creating as much sense of menace as possible. Rarely, they’ll also engage in damaging property.

Bōsōzoku (暴走族), translated literally as “violent-run tribe”, or more accurately as “rampage tribe” are Japan’s answer to obnoxious teenager-hood, with members usually between 16 and 20 years old. In most of Japan, these are the ages when it’s legal to ride a scooter or motorcycle, but still too young to drive a car. Consequently, the culture has little in common with American-style biker-gang displays of machismo or their association with organized crime. Rather, bōsōzoku are younger, and usually present themselves in an oddly stylized mix of Japanese nationalism combined with classic, 1950’s American images of teenage rebellion.

There are female bōsōzoku members, although the culture is traditionally male oriented. But this typically Japanese male-domination of a subculture would ironically give rise to a parallel among its women. Weary of being reduced to riding on the backs of their boyfriends’ motorcycles, the mid 1960’s was marked by the emergence of a subculture of liberated female Japanese youth-gang members known as “sukeban” (助番). While usually translated as “delinquent girl”, the kanji for the term could also be interpreted as slang for something like, “The chick’s turn.”  These were girls who were moving themselves onto the front seats of their own motorcycles.

Sukeban society was centered around the idea of promoting social self-determination among young women. Beyond their reputations as law-breaking “bad girls”, this was a subculture built around the message that males wouldn’t be allowed to define the boundaries of female lives.  The despised symbol of imposed tradition among sukeban was the sailor-style school uniform or “seifuku”, perceived as “kawaii” in a very Japanese appeal to cuteness.  Consequently, sukeban fashion became associated with some distinct alterations to those uniforms.

The sukeban version of the seifuku included a very long skirt, and sneakers often replaced the usual black school shoes.  Clothing and accessories were left disheveled and loose, with fallen socks and unknotted scarves.  Sukeban girls also used little if any makeup, and sometimes plucked their eyebrows into thin lines or bleached their hair.

After graduation, sukeban would continue to wear this stylized version of the school uniform, but with the addition of embroidered symbols of rebellion and anarchy, messages in kanji, and other displays influenced by British punk. The sukeban style thus represented a direct reaction to male-determined ideas of “female beauty”, as well as an overt criticism of women’s traditional roles in society.

By the mid 1970’s, Japanese girls who identified themselves as “sukeban” throughout Japan numbered in the tens-of-thousands.   The largest sukeban gang, the “Kanto Delinquent Women’s Alliance”, was at one time thought to have included around 20,000 members.  Some Japanese authorities considered the entire movement to constitute an existential threat to Japanese society.  But the same cultural notoriety that had attracted so many Japanese girls to the rebelliously liberated sukeban image would also turn out to be its downfall.

Starting in the mid 1970’s, the subculture and its history were diluted for popular mass-media consumption in the television series, “Sukeban Deka” (スケバン刑事), or “Delinquent Girl Detective”, whose main character sports a weaponized yo-yo.  And in something like the Japanese film version of today’s Internet meme, “Rule-34”, the subculture would become utterly distorted in male-oriented, “pinky-violence” genre films such as, “Terrifying Girls’ High School: Lynch Law Classroom”, and “Girl Boss Revenge: Sukeban“.

By the time I’d graduated from high school in the late-80’s, the “sukeban” image had been reduced to little more than another trope of Japanese manga, anime and cheesy films.  Today, what remains of the subculture’s influence can be found in a few contemporary female bōsōzoku, and in a fairly thriving community of independent women motorcyclists.  And I think that association with motorcycles was what brought about my friend’s comment, after I arrived at a gathering wearing a leather jacket and boots, and carrying a crash-helmet.

Motorcycles and scooters have long existed as a standard of mass-transportation throughout Asia.  And it’s not unusual to see young girls on them, both in Japan as well as in other more or less economically developed countries.  But the association of motorcycles with behaviors at the social boundaries is somewhat more pronounced in Japan, and even more so when considering how such displays might challenge the country’s traditionally patriarchal social norms.

In a country that still has some distance to travel before it achieves any real sense of social equality between the sexes, those independent women who ride their own motorcycles stand as an encouraging display of female self-determination.   And since Japan is a country where it’s no simple task to qualify for a “heavy” motorcyclist’s license (for riding anything over 400cc), this can also amount to a demonstration of officially-recognized technical competence.

So it might seem a little surprising that when compared to the US, Japan today hosts a far more visible population of women riders, often on heavier and high-performance motorcycles.  These include the types of motorcycles that Americans typically associate with masculine displays of machismo or testosterone-driven risk-taking.  And this is despite a tangibly Japanese version of “kawaii” femininity that continues to be promoted through both popular social and commercial channels.

These Harley and sport bike riding Japanese women consequently present a far different perspective of what it means to be a woman in Japan than that portrayed in popular, manga-inspired images of infantilized femininity.  More in step with those early sukeban who simply moved themselves into the forefront, these are women who’ve taken control of their own means in reaching destinations of their own choosing.

A group of women riders on custom Harleys
departing from a shop in Fukuoka, Japan.
(Admitting to a bit of lust for the “cafe” bike on the left.)

Mom

by in Death, Family, Feminism, Japan, Loneliness, Love, Mom | 14 Comments

I’ve never had a great relationship with my mom. To be honest, I don’t remember her being around all that much when I was a very young child. Most of my early memories of familial contact involve either my sister or an older woman who took care of us while my parents were away. I have a vague memory of my mom walking me down a very short, dead-end side street that we lived on in Tokyo – I couldn’t have been two-years old yet. But aside from that, I really have to search for anything.

After we moved to the US when I was five-years old, it seemed like my mom was around more. But by then, I was in school. And my sister, who’s eight-years my senior, had reached an age where she seemed older to me in much the same way as my parents. Consequently, I think I actually bonded to my sister like a mom. It’s something I still feel.

My mom had her 84th birthday just about a month back. My sister and I got together with her for a few days, and took her out of her house for awhile. It’s been a couple of years since my mom has been able to get out on her own. And this last year, she’s become disabled enough that it’s gotten difficult for her to go out at all, even with assistance.  The loss of independence rapidly sucked the life out of her.  This weekend, my younger brother is moving her into a care facility.

We could all see it starting a few years back. My mom began telling the same stories over and over, events from early in her life.  Several times, she told me about a Japanese woman who lived next door, back when my mom was a teenager.  The woman was a lonely war bride who’d found herself isolated in an incomprehensible new country. My mom had befriended her, and they spent hours together learning about each others’ cultures and languages. Their friendship had inspired my mom to write a paper in high-school called, “Kimono in the Kitchen.” But the feminist tone of her writing resulted in trouble, a problem amplified by my mom’s unapologetic attitude about saying things the way she saw them.

Just about the time when America’s occupation of Japan ended, my mom went off to college. I never knew that she hadn’t actually graduated from high school, something she’d always kept a secret until an unguarded moment slipped under the slowly advancing dementia. The family had simply spirited her off to a university in another state where she could pursue her ambitions with fewer ideological restrictions. In the mid-1950’s, she made her first trip to Japan while accompanying a group from the university.

They toured Japan for about three-weeks, moving between Kyoto and Tokyo. But at the end of the tour, my mom ended up parting company with her companions and stayed behind on her own. For the next two months, she slipped through the country by whatever means she could find. I don’t know all of the details or the places she saw; but an old, traditional Ainu doll now in my possession testifies that she made it all the way into the northern island of Hokkaido. And I do know that my mom was deeply affected by the poverty that still afflicted the nation.

When my mom finally returned to the US several months later, she promptly changed her major from Sociology to Business Communications, while also pursuing mastery of the Japanese language. By 1960, she had made herself a place in Japan. From here, with respect to others’ stories, I yield to leaving a void. But suffice it to say that my mom successfully bridged the same two cultures that had ironically bewildered the lonely war-bride who had been her inspiration. My mom would make herself a home in Japan for the next fifteen-years, returning to the US only when it became apparent that it was to the benefit of her children.

Of those three children, I’ve always felt that I was the one with the least connection to my mom. My older sister was my mom’s first child, her first daughter, and eventually the line to a granddaughter and great-granddaughter. For a brief few months before my grandmother died, five generations of mothers and first-child daughters graced our family in an unbroken chain.  Among them, I was the odd imōto, the younger sister, wandering and childless. Yet, I was always welcomed at gatherings of the women in that line of the family. The last time was just a few years back, at an Obon celebration in the small college town where my mom now lives. Late that night, my sister and I listened as my mom uncharacteristically shared her memories of the difficult relationship she had with her own mother.

Oddly, it seems like I’ve had a better relationship with my mom this last couple of years. Watching someone who was among the most self-assured and intelligent people whom I’ve ever known be suddenly confounded by her car’s parking brake perhaps made her more accessible to me. The distance was replaced with a combination of compassion, and the realization that there has always been a human being behind the tough exterior. And this last year, I’ve found myself picking through what’s left of my mom’s memories for stories of my own childhood.

Ironically, it was me who had forgotten the first time I had wandered away from home, when I was just three-years old. From the car window, I had watched the route from the main road to our new house in Tokyo’s southwestern hills. And armed with this knowledge, I set out to see for myself how the outside world connected to this new place that was my home. My mom recalled her worry, and how she had enlisted the help of the local “omawari-san”, the police officers who manned a nearby koban, or community police station, to help locate me. They came upon me most of the way back from my journey, whereupon I recall my mother making a long series of unusually contrite apologies to the police officers.

Nowadays, the guest room of my mother’s home is filled with memories. Photos from other times add color to my own mental images faded through years of wear and happening, reminders of a privileged life, interrupted only by the losses of those who would come after me when I wandered off too far. I look at the frozen moments, and suddenly my life feels like one of those ancient witches in Phillip Pullman’s, His Dark Materials, lamenting that so many of their beautiful and courageous human companions had so quickly grown old and died.

My younger brother doesn’t talk to me much anymore. As far as he’s concerned, I’m simply too irresponsible. To be fair, the feeling is mutual; though, I’ll confess that I’m happy he’s taking care of things this weekend. Next week, I’ll head down to meet my sister and my aunt to decide how to empty out the house. Then I’ll visit with my mom and try to get her to tell me another story. It seems like I’ve learned more about my mom in the waning light of her memories than I did all the rest our lives combined. But I’m starting to realize that it was perhaps because I was looking in the wrong place.

All the distance between us, it seems to me now, is because we were so much alike… determined and independent, tell-it-like-it-is, wandering off to see how things connect. I’m just starting to realize how much my mom saw herself in me – and how hard that was for her. She didn’t see any recourse to the unapologetic rebelliousness of my youth, because she knew there hadn’t been any from herself. And then, just like my mom had… I left.

Meanwhile, the big house from my teenage years emptied. My mom grew older in a place that was less and less the home she’d dreamed of for her children after having abandoned her own ambitions.  And by the time I returned, the people who gather to make a family were nearly all gone.  Now all I can do is invite her to look back for awhile, and to tell me who she sees.

Amplifiers

by in Culture, Hmmm..., Music | 11 Comments

“If you’ve never been rocked back by the presence of purpose, this poem is too soon for you.
Return to your mediocrity, plug it into an amplifier, and re-think yourself…“
— Buddy Wakefield, The Information Man

Bigger trucks, louder motorcycles, super-size the junk-food, enlarge the body parts, more ammo in the magazine… earn more, spend more, have more “friends”, “Go big, or go home”… that’s the American way. So whatever we are, we’re certainly more of it!

Raised on an auditory diet of classical music – Mozart, Haydn, Chopin…, what nowadays holds so much of my American-style, short attention-span includes instrumentals of a rather more amplified, variety. Boris, is among my favorites. Mostly, they’re just known for being really loud in a monumentally American sort of way… perhaps ironically, as they’re actually a Japanese band… although I understand they’re an export product.  Hmmm… probably destined for a tariff.

At any rate, Boris’ trademark sound is a noise worthy of the most American of Harley-deafened metal-heads… granted that it’s gotten them banned from a few more socially accountable venues. Regardless, their style is uniquely captivating and entirely their own, filling a space with distinctive wailing, dark and down-tuned lamentations, heavy drones, long slides and echoing feedback. The amplifiers merely render the expressions into the kind of visceral experience worthy of an American audience… if not a good pair of musicians’ earplugs.

In keeping with that American tradition, I’ll also admit to several guitar amplifiers that rest atop a pair of speaker cabinets on one side of my office.  Each has its own character, but my favorites are a pair of 90’s-era, Russian-made tube amps that just rattle the walls. Usually, they’ll get used together for a more stereophonic aesthesis… though mostly when I know the neighbors are out.

Perhaps it’s just the romance in the idea of using something so associated with the sounds of an earlier time. Tube amplifiers, however, do create a somewhat unique and difficult to emulate auditory effect, and especially when they’re pushed to very high volumes.  Alas, I know they won’t make my playing any better. But, they’ll certainly make it “More!” And that’s enough in America.

A few months back, the “Powerball,” California lottery jackpot reached almost $759-million, and that definitely qualified as, “More!” The amount assumed a jackpot paid-out in yearly installments from a thirty-year annuity. But almost no one chooses the annuity. Winners are far more likely to prefer receiving their winnings all at once, and this time’s winner was no exception.

Deciding to take the payoff as a lump sum reduced the amount to $480.5-million. And after paying taxes at the nation’s highest, 39.6% rate (since reduced to 37%), that left a mere $290-million with which to finance a new lifestyle. Still, that’s enough more to place someone into the top “0.01%” of Americans.

So how much more will $290-million buy? It could certainly pay for a castle/house sufficient for a party worthy of a multimillionaire. And it could probably pay for the maintenance, utilities and taxes on said property… for a few years anyway.  It could also buy a new Ferrari or a blinged-out Hummer, and appropriate Oscar de la Renta or Alexander Amosu attire in which to arrive.

Or I suppose it could just be used to finance putting some relatives (or other deserving people) through medical school, or traveling the world (while making a lot of friends), or improvements to a community, or perhaps just some other mundane contribution to humanity. Or it could simply serve to finance an epic gambling or drug habit.

“Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three-generations,” so goes the old American adage expressing that when wealth is found easily, so does it pass. It’s among the traditional American meritocratic notions regarding an industrious individual’s access to wealth in our society to declare that unearned fortunes never last.  Though I suspect the person who wrote those words never heard the term, “dynasty trust”.

Still, according to the National Endowment for Financial Education, about 70% of Americans who find themselves suddenly in possession of large-sums of money lose it all within just a few years. And among lottery winners in the US who take home $1-million or more, around one in every hundred actually declare bankruptcy in a given year – about twice the national average. And that ignores the utter disasters that better describe others.

So it seems that having money doesn’t necessarily equate with keeping it.  Nor, more importantly, does it change a person’s character.  Rather, it’s merely another of those amplifiers, tools we apply to making ourselves fill more space in this world.  Like so many other things we take as substitutions for character… religion, education, knowledge, skill, power, or just damn good luck… it simply allows for more of whatever’s already there.

Photos:
Top: Wall of Amplifiers portend the coming sound… Boris in Sacramento
Middle: Two old Sovtek Mig-50H Amps (likely built with leftover Soviet military parts)
Bottom: Money via Max Pixel