The Opposite of Home

Tokyo is exactly 13 hours ahead of Washington, DC, pretty much the
exact opposite time clock as EST. Japan sits almost exactly on the
other side of the globe from where we grew up. So perhaps it only
makes sense that some aspects of life here are rather upside down from
what my American sensibilities are accustomed to.
For instance, thousands of umbrellas dance up and down in the morning
commute as Tokyo's city streets come alive with activity. Nothing
weird about umbrellas, right? Except that it hasn't rained a drop
since I've been here. At a crosswalk on my third day here, I couldn't
help but give in to the urge to touch the umbrella of the
businesswoman standing next to me. Her umbrella was ivory, a shade
darker than the ivory suit she wore, cinched with a patent leather
belt that matched her stiletto heels.
"Sumimasen," I said, head bobbing in a rather shoddy imitation of the
Japanese courtesy bow. Ivory woman returned my bow, her porcelain skin
cracking ever so slightly around her pink mouth. "Sumimasen," I
repeated, my one Japanese word getting more and more practice as the
days progressed, and I reached up to touch her umbrella. Ivory woman
didn't seem to mind, letting the curious American touch her umbrella.
It was cloth. Cloth like the kind you make a fancy t-shirt out of. As
the light changed and Ivory woman bobbed away into the sea of
commuters, another two, three umbrellas passed me. Both apparently
cloth.
When I got to the bureau, I pelted my producer, Yoko, with questions.
"What is the deal? Why are all these women walking around with
umbrellas acting as parasols? Is it to stay cool? Is it custom? A
throw-back to the geisha days?"
Yoko tilted her head and smiled at me. I like Yoko. She's fiercely
independent and smart and funny to boot. She's also my fixer, my
interpreter, my cultural guide and crazy 8 ball to numerous silly
questions.
"To stay white," she said, her British lilt extending out the vowel in
'white.' Yoko scrunched her nose and pointed at her freckles.
"Japanese women don't like freckles or suntan. They like white."
"So it IS all about the geisha," I joked.
According to Yoko, it sort of is. Japanese sexuality in the culture is
at once repressed and overtly expressive, the way geisha are visible
but covered from head to toe in kimonos and white paint. The white
skin represents beauty. Perhaps that's why my mother, raised in Japan
in her younger years, was appalled at my tanning contest in the third
grade with my childhood friend, RaShawn Bryant, and that I was able to
get darker than my black friend at least twice. This whole white skin
thing doesn't make sense to me. In the US, we love to tan and it's a
sign of vacations and health. I get tan at the drop of the hat much to
the envy of my white counterparts. Yet here, they want to stay as pale
as possible, carrying around a giant umbrella to protect them from the
sun.
"I guess it's handy if it rains," I said to Yoko.
"No, it's no good in rain. It leaks."
So even that doesn't make any sense at all.
As I quizzed Yoko about the silliness of the umbrellas for rain versus
the umbrellas for sun, I dove into a topic I'd been dying to ask her
about.
"So tell me about the toilets. What is the deal?"
Let me explain first, that when I first got to Japan and checked into
my hotel room, I needed to pee really, really bad. I'd been holding it
for so long that it took me a second to get going. In that second of
concentration before I let it all go, a noise came from the toilet.
Not just any sort of noise... a noise like I was already peeing. But
as I said, this was the second before I let it go. It scared me so bad
I lifted my butt off the seat and looked down into the toilet. The
toilet looked fine. Nothing swimming in there. Had jet lag affected me
so bad that my system was literally off time with my body? I
sat down again with some hesitation and the dribbling water sound
reappeared.
"So seriously, what's that all about?" I asked Yoko. I'd already asked
her about why there's no deodorant at the stores, why the cups at
restaurants are so small and why there are no trash cans in the city.
This question was just a evolution of our growing, working
relationship.
"It's so you are not rude. No one wants to hear someone make noise in
the toilet."
I couldn't believe it. Politeness in the culture exceeded even my
colorful imagination. Yoko then leaned over to me as if to tell me a
secret, her eyes getting wide in her small face like an anime
character.
"Have you tried the water?"
I thought she meant did I try drinking from the toilet.
"No," she said laughing, "I mean, have you tried the wash? Most
Americans don't do it."
"The wash. Is that what all those buttons are next to the toilet?" On
Japanese toilets, there are a series of buttons and knobs that sit
attached to the seat. They show pictures of a rear end and drops of water,
but I'd been so horrified by the water noise every time I sit on the
toilet, I'd been too intimidated to hit any of the buttons.
"Yes," she said. Her eyes got even wider. Yoko explained how it
removes the need for toilet paper, thereby being better for the
environment and better for your personal hygiene. "You try, and you
never go back."
Her words rang in my ears every time I used the toilet for the next
several days. I kept thinking about trying it, but too many questions
lingered. Do you hit the button after you flush? Or hit the button
before? But then does it recycle the water in the toilet? The thought
grossed me out.
"Did you try?" Yoko prodded again and again.
"No," I said, repeatedly. I began to dread going to the bathroom
around Yoko. But her question began to wear me down, make me feel like
I was a repressed American refusing to venture into new lands of
cultural exploration. About four days after our "talk", I decided to
try it.
"Okay," I said to my talking toilet. "Here goes."
I chose a moment when I DIDN'T have to use it, to eliminate the question
of where the water originates from. I chose button #1, the rear end with
the drops of water near it. It certainly looked friendlier than button
#2, that showed a behind with LOTS of water splashing it. My finger
hovered over button #1, and then I pressed it.
I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I certainly didn't expect what
I got. A rather urgent, warm stream of water, like the "stream" button
on the windex I use to clean my windows, shot directly into my... y'know. And I mean bulls-eye. I immediately let go of the button and
looked around, as if expecting applause or horror or Reverand Yun from
my childhood to pounce on me.
I'm learning some stuff about myself here in Tokyo. I
don't care if I'm tan in the summer. In fact, I think it's sort of
creepy to be as white as some of these women are. I think the Japanese
are endlessly fascinating so far. What I'm also learning is that some
things, for me, are better left unknown.
I didn't hit button #2.