Guilt Tokyo Style

EARLY SUMMER LIGHT

BLINDS MY KINDHEARTED NEIGHBOR

OY VEY! HERE COMES GUILT

In Japan, the per capita number of CV-19 cases is mind-blowingly low.  Tuning into NHK N-Star Nightly News (a Peter Jennings-esque 30 minutes when the country comes together to bond over the day’s events), we are conditioned to expect fewer than 20 cases a day for a city that accounts for nearly 20% of Japan’s 125M inhabitants.

There are many theories as to why Japan’s numbers are this way.  For one, this is a hand-washing nation.  Even prior to CV, I would fastidiously scrub my hands upon entering work, home or any other transitional environment.  According to my wife,ingraining this hygienic habit into her previously schleppy husband ranks in her top ten life achievements.  

Social distancing is also not really a new thing in Japan.  When I first arrived in Tokyo in 1999 the most intimate contact I enjoyed was receiving my passport back from the immigration officer at Narita.  Our thumbs briefly brushed, causing the border agent to issue a customary apology. Coming from a schmoozy, touchy, kissy AJF (American Jewish Family), becoming comfortable with a hugless existence is still one of my development points.  Beyond my yiddishkeit neurosis, the broader public health benefits of giving people space are notable. 

And then there’s the shame factor, or as my Bubbe Lu used to say, “Love is the most powerful force in the universe with occasional exception of Jewish guilt.”  Japan’s state of emergency officially ended on May 26th, but my rough calculation is that 88% of the public still dawns face masks while out and about.  If you exclude chatty Cathy’s Baby Boomers out for a dog walk and sketchy grown men who ride skateboards, the number rises to 93%. I asked my father-in-law, Mr. Kimoto, about that, and he reminded me of the proverb that “the tall nail gets hammered down,” i.e. going against the masses is nicht gut. 

Tokyo guilt, like font of a great river, flows in many directions.  Another example is something that happened to me this week involving vast quantities of garbage.  In our little neighborhood near Komazawa Park, families take turns setting up our block for recycling and “burnables”.  For the disposable garbage, each week a different family lines the sidewalk with a heavy net to protect our precious garbage from the menacing crows who inhabit much of Tokyo.  

There’s no guideline written in the Meguro Ward Citizen’s manual, Talmud or any other code that dictates exactly when the net needs to be placed out for garbage day.  My best guess, being an early morning runner, is somewhere between 5:30-6:30 am.  This week I was able to get the Monday net out by 6 am.  On Thursday, I errantly elected to linger over espresso until about 6:37 after which I duly commenced to setting out the net. Waiting for me, as if sweet ambush, was one of the kindest oba-chans on our street. 

She immediately issued me a hearty “o-hayo gozaimasu!”, which I warmly reciprocated.

“It’s hot today,” I noted, unfurling the net for her to place a tiny bag of trash.  “The sun rises so early this time of the year, doesn’t it?”

“So desu-ne!”, she quipped.  Indeed it does! “When I was out here earlier, the sun was already up.”

The subtlety of my elderly neighbor’s early morning dig lacked no measure of power.  Indeed, your humble Tokyo Yenta reporter had kept her waiting for the net.  I momentarily considered asking her how long she had been waiting, but realized that would be issuing more oil onto my fire of indolence.

Instead I resolved to make sure the net would be out by 6 am the next time I was on crow duty.