Hinata-san

Japan is a country of obsessions, and the Japanese do things in an obsessive nature. Even their subtilty is obsessive. Their obsessive nature manifests itself in their dedication to perfectionism. Variables are set aside in this noble pursuit, so much so they are willing to compromise on everything in their insistence not to compromise on quality. It’s undoubtedly a big part of their charm if one considers their obsession with everything cute, or as they refer to it, Kawaii. It permeates through every aspect of popular culture. It’s much more than fuzzy winter slippers, of which I am a big fan. Nothing symbolises their “cute” as the Maneki Neko, a cat figurine with a waving paw, of which I’m not a big fan. This feline has not only invaded cafes and restaurants, it’s in banks, industrial companies and temples. You can’t miss it. A wild contrast to a nation that otherwise takes itself way too seriously.

In celebration of the “Cute Culture”, Japanese TV producers introduced in the early nineties a highly addictive TV show,  “My First Errand”. Children as little as three years old are given a task to carry out independently without the supervision of their parents, though a filming crew follows them. All of a sudden, you find yourself watching a preschooler galavanting down the street to pick up or drop off something. Occasionally, they would have a double task, dropping off something in one place and collecting a shopping item on their way back. There is no amount of cynicism that can resist this level of cute, mine included. A bizarre mixture of low-stakes suspense mixed with innocence, wish fulfillment and lateral thinking. It’s, simply put, wholesome. 

It’s no wonder how excited I was to find that my old friend Hinata went on “My First Errand”. I continue to get softer with age… urgh. 

“No way, Hinata-san!”

“I promise you, Sam-san, I did it. First, I dropped off my little sister to her piano class and then on the way back, I bought something for my mother.”

“Did you complete the task successfully?”

“Yes, I was very brave.”

“Where is the recording, and when can I see it?”

Hinata only speaks of herself in the context of how very Japanese she can be. I’m no Japanese expert, but the only Japanese thing that stands out in Hinata is her dedication to the cute - and not in the fuzzy-slippers obvious. It might be in the way she carries herself, not very seriously, almost clownish at times! It could be the high-pitched, low-volume voice she uses in the not-so-serious discussions that makes her sound more like an adolescent rather than an adult woman. Her tiny figure certainly helps, though her cuteness walks out the door once you’re in the presence of her insatiable appetite. She talks about how very Japanese she can be, and yet I hear how un-Japanese she would love to be. 

My perception of her is likely influenced by how far she has always been from her family. I don’t speak of physical distance, which is the case since she lives in Europe and her entire family lives back in Japan. I speak of an emotional cession made out of a concrete wall enforced with hardened steel that renders the 10,000-mile distance a short stroll in the park. It’s not something she ever admitted to, though she did speak of her father’s struggle with alcohol, her brother’s mental health issues, and her perfect little sister, the archetype Japanese girl Hinata could never be. There is never bitterness or resentment, just facts from afar and a distant observer. She might as well have been talking about her neighbours or people she met in her travels.

Until one day, I finally asked. I asked about that moment we all know too well. It always boils down to a moment. An event that we all experienced and continue to play in the back of our minds. The experience results in a seismic shift in our psyche and becomes one of the pillars that carry our consciousness. 

I was 11 years old, and my dad was drunk. There was nothing new about it. For as long as I remember him, he was always drunk, an angry drunk, a loud drunk. When he drinks, he moves things around, throws things away, and bangs on any and every available surface. I did something. I don’t remember what it was, but it couldn’t have been anything serious. I didn’t realise it would spiral him deeper into anger. He picked me from the collar of my clothes, my legs were dangling in the air, and slammed my body against the wall. I didn’t understand what was going on. I froze with fear. I looked at the rest of my family, my eyes begging them to help me. My mother, my older brother and my little sister, none of them moved. They stood there and watched from a distance Sam-san.

She stretched her legs, they were tightly shut, clasped her hands, and stared at her feet as she concluded her story. I took a breath to say something, to acknowledge her pain when she carried on. 

The next day I wrote him a letter. I didn’t realise the story wasn’t over.

I told him about what he did and how it made me feel. I spoke of his anger and my fear. I spoke of the physical and emotional pain I suffered at his hands. Do you know what he did Sam-san? He tore the letter apart. He shredded it into pieces and spoke of his disappointment in me. At this point, I decided I was to be alone. 

I didn’t know what to say, the weight of her story had me lost for words. But she wasn’t broken. I saw that very familiar look of resistance in her eyes. Had she been standing up, I could imagine she would have straightened her back and looked into the distance. It was her way to contain herself within herself. Not a defiance of her story but a triumph over her trauma. 

What do you say to that? How could I have consoled the little girl betrayed by her father? “Now I understand,” was all I could come up with. I remembered every time she berated those she found emotional. Those who are not logical, practical, or in charge of their mental faculties. She didn’t ask me if I understood. I’m not sure I would have told her. I’m not sure I could have told her. 

Hinata-san, it’s not that you’re not emotional. It’s that there is a volcano of emotions that only a true Japanese can bury that deep. Hinata stood up and walked to the fireplace. She turned around to face me, pulled her coat above her waist and bent forward to stick her bottom as close as she could to the flames. As my mind raced to find the next step in our discussion, she scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out before whining that the lunch we had just eaten counted only as a snack and that I was starving her in my home. How very un-Japanese of you Hinata!