“Compassionate Phrases in English (#3): Comforting Someone Who Was Told ‘No'”
Here’s the latest article for my column in “Sakura Shimbun,” a Japanese community paper in DC and Houston. April is a difficult month for some high schoolers in the U.S. (especially those who’ve just gotten or are waiting the results of their college applications, as well as those who are asking their crushes out to prom). This month, I am discussing ways to comfort younger people who were told “No,” being mindful of the fact that rejections may seem a lot more personal and hurtful for them than for adults.
恋愛でも大学でも、今起きていることでその後の人生が大きく左右されると思う人も多いでしょう。そういった人には、 This won’t affect the rest of your life. と言い、人生の先輩として自分の経験を語り、20代以降も数多くの機会や決断があって今につながることを示せます。 This is just a minor setback. という言葉で、一時的な後退であって挫折ではないことも伝えられます。
学校の場合は、その時不合格だったとしても、まずは別のところに入学し、あとから転学できる可能性があります。 The timing just didn’t work out. You can try again once you feel better prepared. と言えば、努力次第で状況を変えられる可能性を示し、もっと勉強しようという意欲を奮い立たせられるかもしれません。
特定の相手や学校しか好きになれない、と本人がその時思っていても、家族や親しい友人から見れば、憧れに基づく思い込みがあり、相性が合わないことが明らかだったりします。 There are so many other options. と言って、理想的な人について一緒に考えたり、 You might end up liking it once you’re there. と合格済みや結果待ちの他の大学の長所について話し合ったりすることができます。
その人自身が否定されているわけではない、という点も理解してもらうことが重要です。大学は大量の願書を捌いていますし、恋愛でも、表面的な部分だけ見て断ってしまう10代の子は多いでしょう。 It’s nothing personal. と声をかけ、They’re only judging you based on what they think they know about you. と説明することができます。本当にやめるべきと思われる相手や学校なら、 You wouldn’t want someone who doesn’t understand your qualities anyway. と終止符を打つことができます。
“Compassionate Phrases in English (#2): Responding Politely Even When You’re Wavering”
Here’s the latest article for my column in “Sakura Shimbun,” a Japanese community paper in DC and Houston. This month, I touch upon the “Hot N Cold” (a la Katy Perry ♬) temperature in early spring–and then discuss ways to respond to someone politely even when you’re uncertain about your feelings or your schedule.
3月上旬の春先は三寒四温で、気温が大きく上下し、気が抜けません。この季節になると、Katy Perryの「Hot N Cold」が思い起こされます。その歌は恋愛に関するものですが、熱意があるのか分からないような優柔不断な態度は、仕事や社交など他の人間関係においても失礼にあたります。そこで今回は、何か申し出や誘いを受けた時、迷っていたとしても相手に悪い印象を与えないような回答の仕方を取り上げます。
回答に迷うことを言われた場合、即答できないことに意識が行ってしまいがちですが、断る可能性があるのであればなおさら、まず感謝の意を表明することが重要でしょう。パーティーへのお誘いであれば、 Thank you so much for thinking of me. と言えますし、仕事関連のオファーであれば、 I very much appreciate being considered for this opportunity. などと言えます。
次に、回答を待ってほしいという言葉です。即答できない理由は様々ですが、内容に関して迷っているというよりも、日程の問題の場合もあります。既に仮押さえが入っている場合は、 I may have a potential conflict that day, but please let me check with others and respond to you soon. などと言えます。仮押さえが確定か否かの判明に時間がかかりそうな場合は、 I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back. と付け足し、できる限り急いでいることを示せます。
就職や転勤などの大きな決断や、何か心に引っ掛かることがある場合などは、回答にもっと時間がかかるかもしれません。いつまでに返事が必要か聞いてしまうと、あまり関心がないと思われる可能性があるため、 Would you please allow me to respond by the end of the week? などと自分から締め切りを提案する方がよいでしょう。転勤など、他者も巻き込む話の場合は、 I’d like to consult my family. などと補足できますし、迷っている場合は、 Because this is such an important decision, I’d like to think about it carefully. などと言う表現で理解を求めることができます。
日程調整をしたり決断を下したりした後、最終的な回答をする際は、 I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. や Thank you very much for your patience. といった言葉を添えると良いでしょう。先方からの誘いを受けるために予定を動かした場合は、 I adjusted my schedule and am now available. と率直に伝えると熱意が伝わるでしょう。いろいろと迷った後、最終的に断ることになった場合は、真摯に This was a difficult decision for me. と言って理由を説明すると、次にまた声をかけてもらえるかもしれません。
“Compassionate Phrases in English (#1): Welcoming Someone Back After a Long Absence”
“Sakura Shimbun,” a Japanese community paper in DC and Houston, is back this month after its COVID hiatus. With my new column, “Compassionate Phrases in English,” I focus on ways to connect with, reach out to, and support others–which is especially crucial when we struggle with wars, disasters, and other hardships. The first episode celebrates the return of “Sakura Shimbun” by exploring how to welcome someone back after a long absence.
The article is also online here. (And I also have a little ad for my company now! Can you spot it? 😉)
まずは、今回の復刊に絡めて、復帰した人にかける言葉を取り上げます。やむを得ない事情でしばらく休んでいた人が職場などに戻ってきたとします。同僚に迷惑をかけたと罪悪感を感じたり、溜まった仕事を心配したりしている人も多いでしょう。そのため、最初に会った時に It’s good to have you back! と笑顔で歓迎すると、先方もほっとするでしょう。親しい人には We missed you! と言ってハグしたり、最初の挨拶の終わりに Let’s catch up over lunch. と言って後でゆっくり話を聞くこともできます。
こじらせてしまった風邪など、休んでいた理由が周知されている場合は、 I’m glad to see that you’ve recovered. と付け足すこともできます。松葉杖をついていたりと負傷していることが明らかな場合には、 Let me know if you need help with anything. と申し出ることもできます。家族の事情など、理由が周りには知らされず、親しい関係の自分にだけ教えてもらった場合は、二人きりになった時に I’m so sorry about your grandmother. などとそっと声をかけることができます。
職場復帰においては、仕事についてもやり取りがあるでしょう。代行してくれたからと謝罪や感謝の言葉をもらったら、 I didn’t do much at all. や You also helped me when I was away. などと言って安心させることができます。溜まった仕事を処理し、いつもの作業に再び慣れるのに時間がかかっている場合は、相手が部下であれば、 Do you need more time to work on this?などと声をかけ、締め切りをずらす提案をすることができます。同僚であれば、 What can I do to help? と単刀直入に聞き、先方が遠慮しないように I don’t have any deadlines right now. などと説明して、手伝う余裕があることを明らかにできるでしょう。
This was hands down my favorite activity in Shizuoka! As a big fan of trains, I was thrilled to learn that Oigawa Railway, a local train company, still runs steam locomotives. I expected the ride to be more bumpy, but it was just as smooth as electric trains–the only difference were the puffs of smoke we could see from the window and the slightly smoky smell! It’s usually an hour-long ride on the Oigawa Main Line running alongside the Oi River. After a typhoon last fall, the ride has been cut to 30 minutes, but it was still well worth it!
Great train rides should always be enjoyed with food, and I was super excited to find cute train-related sweets. I particularly enjoyed one called “SL (steam locomotive) food,” a pack of peanuts coated in a mixture of black sesame powder, soy bean powder, and sugar. It’s meant to look like the coal that’s “fed” into the steam locomotive–and I thought that concept was so cute! I melted upon seeing the back of the package: it has an illustrated disclaimer (probably meant for little boys) that warns, “unfortunately, eating this won’t turn you into a steam locomotive”!
After enjoying the steam train, I switched to the Ikawa Line (a regular train also run by Oigawa Railway), which goes further up the Oi River. I really wanted to visit Okuoikojo Station, which is on a tiny piece of land jutting into the riverbend. The isolated station looks like it’s on top of an island, and the contrast of the greenery, the turquoise water, and the red bridge is absolutely gorgeous. Part of the bridge is walkable on foot, so it’s easy to cross to the other side of the river and head to the vantage point where you can take in this incredible view.
Okuoikojo Station is the tiny structure in the middle of the bridge
Okuoikojo Station is so remote and free of light pollution that on weekends during the winter, Oigawa Railway runs special roundtrip trains to the station at night. Passengers spend an hour gazing at stars before the train heads back. This sounded really nice, too (it reminds me of Kenji Miyazawa’s story, “Night on the Galactic Railroad”), but it was fully booked that evening. Maybe some other time!
A view of the walkable part of the bridge stretching from Okuoikojo Station. I love the dramatic straight path and the light streaming from the clouds–a nice metaphor for a better tomorrow!
While I’ve already discussed various locations within Shizuoka City (such as Kunozan Toshogu and Miho no Matsubara), downtown Shizuoka has many other locations to sightsee.
One of the main spots is Sumpu Castle, which Tokugawa Ieyasu built. While only part of the castle remains today, the premises have been turned into a park, so it’s a very nice place to walk around, read the descriptions, and learn about history. The park is surrounded by a moat, and crossing the bridge to enter the park feels like you’re traveling back in time!
Sumpu Castle in the evening–a beautiful place to walk around
The lobby of my hotel displayed the replica of an armor that was worn by Ieyasu. The Japanese restaurant in the hotel served Ieyasu specials based on dishes that he apparently liked!
Another highlight is Shizuoka Sengen Shrine, which is just a 10-minute walk away from Sumpu Castle. It’s a collection of seven shrines, each with distinct buildings that enshrine different gods.
One of the shrines sits atop a mountain, and behind it is a hiking trail. On that trail I found this fascinating set of stairs. I thought it could serve as a metaphor for the many different paths we can take before reaching a goal: shall we climb steep stairs quickly, go up more gradual steps slowly, or give up and and go back down?
Another place worth visiting is the Shizuoka City Museum of Art. It’s a compact but modern space atop a building in downtown Shizuoka, less than a 10-minute walk from Shizuoka station. I enjoyed an excellent exhibit on Sugiura Hisui, who was a pioneer in modern Japanese graphic design.
A social media booth based on Sugiura’s poster (1927) commemorating Japan’s first subway system
Setsubun was not the only seasonal event celebrated. In the lobby of my hotel was a wonderful display of dolls for Hinamatsuri (Doll Festival or Girls’ Day), which celebrates the health and development of young girls. I, too, grew up decorating hina dolls, but have never seen dolls hanging down like this. They are apparently called tsurushibina, and I was delighted to learn that Shizuoka is one of the prefectures that has this tradition. Because hina dolls tend to be expensive, family members and friends would apparently visit girls together, bringing pieces of cloth and sewing them to create dolls.
Shizuoka is a dynamic city with many different faces. Apparently it is also known for plastic models (major toy companies like Bandai have factories here). I was delighted to come across this cute sculpture in Shizuoka Station: a plastic model of payphones!
8. Yaizu City
Yaizu is a port city where a lot of the seafood Shizuoka is known for is caught or processed.
A fishmonger Hello Kitty welcoming visitors to the Yaizu Fish Center
The Yaizu Fish Center is a big fish market with several eateries. The lunch I had there packed so many Yaizu / Shizuoka specialties: tuna and bonito sashimi, shirasu (whitebait), a kakiage of tiny sakura shrimp, and miso soup with crab.
The fish market had many gacha (capsule toy) machines or simple arcade games. That in itself isn’t surprising, but upon closer inspection, I found that the prizes were related to seafood! This included salmon roe, frozen lobsters, and even a 3kg tuna delivered to your home. The gacha machine that offered the tuna grand prize was expensive, costing a cool 1,000 yen to enter (although there are consolation prizes of seafood-related trinkets)!
A bingo machine with prizes of tuna, lobsters, and salmon roe A gacha machine whose ultimate prize is a 3kg tuna
I also loved this sign encouraging visitors to maintain a social distance worth the length of two bonitos (but I wonder how many people know how long bonitos are?!).
9. Yui (Shizuoka City)
Yui is another area in Shizuoka City that has its own distinct flavor (literally!). It’s known as the place where sakura shrimp are caught, and I very much enjoyed seeing quirky shrimp sculptures everywhere.
Yui Sakura Shrimp Street, lined with many eateries and shops specializing in tiny shrimpBoats at Yui harbor (just a short walk off the Sakura Shrimp Street)
The subject (shrimp!), the stringy appearance of the shrimp sculptures, and the blue tiles that look like the bottom of pools make this one of the quirkiest works of public art I’ve ever seen!
Yui is also part of the old Tokaido Road that connected Tokyo and Kyoto during the Edo period (early 1600s to late 1800s). It was a post station where travelers could rest, and has maintained historic buildings such as honjin (large local residences where traveling samurai stayed), some stores, and even water troughs for horses.
The honjin that now houses the Hiroshige museumThe beautiful water trough for horses
The main reason I was in Yui was to visit the Shizuoka City Tokaido Hiroshige Museum of Art. As Yui makes an appearance in Hiroshige’s masterpiece, 53 Stations of the Tokaido (a series of ukiyo-e highlighting post stations along the old Tokaido Road), this seemed like the perfect place to appreciate both Hiroshige and Shizuoka.
The museum was fairly small, but I loved the comprehensive permanent exhibit that explains the history and technique of ukiyo-e. It makes interesting comparisons to modern equivalents, describing how scenic ukiyo-es (such as 53 Stations of the Tokaido) were like travel guidebooks, while portraits of kabuki actors were like entertainment magazines.
I thoroughly enjoyed the Hiroshige prints on display as well–I love the subtle humor he exudes in the expressive body language of tiny people and animals.
“Fukagawa Lumberyards” by Hiroshige (from “One Hundred Famous Views of Edo”). I love the tiny puppies showing their cute butts on the lower left!
One of the best parts of the museum was a small station that allows visitors to make their own ukiyo-e prints to take home. The design changes periodically, and on this day it was “Yui” and “Okitsu” from 53 Stations of the Tokaido Road.
The DIY ukiyo-e station for “Yui.” This activity alone is well worth the visit to this museum!
But one of the best discoveries for me was related to unagi (eel). I visited a lovely restaurant (left photo) where they use unagi raised with sashimi. It was so good! And there, I learned about snacks called “unagi bones” (right photo)–fried eel bones! I’d never had these before, and loved these crispy, calcium-rich snacks so much that I bought several packets (in salt and soy sauce flavors).
Pink mochi (sooo cute!) with sweet potato cream (right) and a cookie sandwich with cream (left)
One of the best known Shizuoka specialties, though, is probably green tea. I couldn’t resist visiting Nanaya, a cafe and store that specializes in matcha desserts. They’re well known for their tea-flavored ice cream, which runs the gamut from matcha (in SEVEN different levels, depending on how strong you want the matcha flavor to be) to hojicha (roasted green tea) to genmaicha (green tea with roasted brown rice). I tried genmaicha, black sesame, and matcha No. 7–the latter has a very rich, deep flavor, and definitely worth experiencing!
All in all, I had a wonderful three weeks in Shizuoka. I feel so lucky to have had the chance to explore the prefecture in depth, and would love to revisit again soon!
For three weeks from January to February, I had an interpretation assignment in Shizuoka prefecture. I had visited the prefecture before, but never had the opportunity to explore it in depth. I took advantage of any time off I had to explore beaches, mountains, museums, and shrines–and fell in love with the amazing sights and food the prefecture offers. Here are some highlights, in alphabetical order of location. (The rest will continue in a second blog post.)
1. Fuji City
The view of Mt. Fuji from a local train (the Tokaido Line) heading to Fuji City. Cropped out of this photo are commuters nodding off on the train (it was early in the morning), all with their backs to this amazing view!
Fuji City is one of Shizuoka’s cities that’s closest to Mt. Fuji, and offers great views of the snow-capped mountain. It’s about 30 minutes from Shizuoka station by local train, and a mere 10 minutes by bullet train.
The many daruma dolls at the BishamontensaiAn illustration combining the year of the rabbit with a daruma doll. To me it looks a bit like the rabbits are beating up the poor daruma, but at least everyone’s smiling :p
I was lucky enough to be in Fuji City when a local temple called Myohoji hosted an annual festival called Bishamontensai. This is apparently considered one of the largest daruma festivals in Japan. There were daruma dolls of every size, with multiple color variations that promised good fortune in different aspects of our lives (academic success, health, romantic happiness, etc.). Many local residents had brought their own old darumas to be burned, some so big that they have to be carried in both arms. I bought some tiny ones for good luck. Tradition says that we’re supposed to draw in its left eye when we make a wish (and its right eye when that wish comes true), but they’re so cute that I’ve kept them as is–I worry that I might ruin their faces!
Fujinomiya is another city that is close to Mt. Fuji and honors the majestic mountain in many ways.
Central to this is a shrine called Fujisan Hongu Sengen Taisha. I was drawn to the name because when I lived in Tokyo as a child, there was a Sengen shrine in my neighborhood–I didn’t realize until now that Sengen shrines throughout Japan all honor Mt. Fuji, and that this shrine in Fujinomiya was the main one! I especially loved the pond at the back of the shrine, which serves as a nice oasis in the middle of the city. The water comes from melted snow trickling down from Mt. Fuji, and there are bamboo pipes that capture this water for visitors who wish to drink it or wash their hands.
Plastic bottles are sold on the spot. I filled one and later made tea out of it ☕
Fujinomiya is also home to the Mt. Fuji World Heritage Center. Mt. Fuji and multiple entities related to it (including the Fujisan Hongu Sengen Taisha) were designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2013. This center apparently opened four years later. I fell in love with this gorgeous, modern building that complements the torii gate right next to it. It’s also shaped like an upside down mountain. Visitors first go to the top and gradually descend gentle slopes that wind down. I enjoyed visiting galleries that examined the geology and history of Mt. Fuji, including how the mountain has been revered as a deity and honored in numerous works of art and literature.
I love how, when reflected upside down into the water, the building looks like a mountain
I then took a 30-minute bus ride to visit Shiraito Falls, which is also part of the Mt. Fuji World Heritage Site. The falling water that comes from Mt. Fuji certainly looks like a bunch of white thread (the meaning of “shiraito”) and is very pretty. I was especially amazed at how blue the bottom of the waterfall was. The one unfortunate aspect was that the trees and grass were a disappointing brown. Of course that can’t be helped during the winter, and I suspect everything looks even better during the warmer months.
3. Hamamatsu City
While Shizuoka City is the prefectural seat of government, the biggest city is actually Hamamatsu. It’s at the edge, almost bordering Aichi prefecture, and about an hour away on the local train (20-30 minutes on the bullet train) from Shizuoka City.
My guidebook suggested several places to visit, but as a fan of all things related to art, I made a beeline to the Hamamatsu Museum of Musical Instruments. In contrast to similar institutions in the West (such as the Musical Instruments Museum in Brussels and the musical instruments section at the Met), there was of course a big emphasis on Asian instruments. This included traditional Japanese instruments that are used for gagaku or kabuki performances, as well as several grand instruments from other Asian countries.
Colorful instruments from Indonesia (foreground) and Korea (background)
I also made a quick visit to Hamamatsu Castle, a replica of the castle Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa shogun, had spent his youth in. It was too late for me to tour inside the castle, but I enjoyed walking around and examining the exterior of this compact but elegant building.
4. Kunozan Toshogu (Shizuoka City)
This beautiful shrine in Shizuoka City is a short train and bus ride away from Shizuoka station. It’s a smaller version of the Toshogu in Nikko, and where the grave of Tokugawa Ieyasu lies. It’s up on a mountain (Mt. Kuno) by the ocean, and has about 1,000 steps to the top–but the breathtaking view is definitely worth the hike.
While a thousand steps is a bit of workout . . .
. . . this view makes it all worth it (and there are cable cars available for those who don‘t wish to or are unable to walk)
The bright colors of the Toshogu looked especially beautiful against the blue sky. Plums trees (including a tree that was supposedly planted by Ieyasu himself) were blooming nicely on this late January day.
Incidentally, this area is also known for its strawberries. Since they’re grown in greenhouses (which can be seen in the photo above, lining the beach), strawberry season had already begun in January! I bought a box as well as some desserts like strawberry daifuku (mochi stuffed with red bean paste).
Shizuoka is also known for its sakura shrimp, or tiny dried shrimp eaten whole. For lunch, I had the biggest, crunchiest, most delicious kakiage (a type of tempura with shredded vegetables or tiny shrimp) I’ve ever had!
The kakiage was as big as the udon bowl (!), and seemed to contain at least 30 tiny shrimps
5. Miho no Matsubara (Shizuoka City)
This is a famous spot on the beach for scenic views of Mt. Fuji, and is also a short bus ride away from Shizuoka station. Mt. Fuji looked a bit farther than I expected, but I caught the sunset in time to see the mountain bathed in pink. The blue waters, black sand, pieces of white driftwood, and gorgeous rocks that were flattened after years of tumbling in the waves made for picturesque photos!
This place is also known for being the location where The Legend of the Winged Robe takes place. The funny thing was that the sign that described the story said that the man immediately returned the winged robe to the celestial maiden. The versions of the story I’ve heard have the man hiding the robe and forcing the maiden to be his wife. I couldn’t help but chuckle and wonder if there’s some local bias that paints a favorable picture of this man . . . (Incidentally, when I looked up the English title of this story, I found that different iterations exist all over the world, including the West. How fascinating!)
The pine tree where the celestial maiden supposedly left her robe. This is the “third generation” tree that’s 300 years old! A tiny shrine a few meters away from the 300 year old pine tree. Visitors write their wishes on flat rocks–a unique and beautiful tradition.
There’s also a beautiful wooden walkway, surrounded by pines, that connects this beach with another shrine called Miho Shrine. While most of the walkway is a straight line, I was fascinated by this one location where the path curves a bit to allow for a pine that leans forward. This seemed like a great metaphor for the journey of life: sometimes unexpected incidents prevent us from going forth in the way we envision, but we must be strong enough to find news ways to keep going.
More Shizuoka adventures are available in Part 2 .
My parents and I at the National Art Center, Tokyo, visiting a Yayoi Kusama exhibit (March 2017)
Introduction:
I lost my father to a terrible disease last November. In the post below, I discuss my memories of my father and what I learned from him. This experience has also become an incentive to resume this blog, which I had been unable to keep up recently.
My father passed away suddenly at the end of November. He had been fighting a terminal disease, but he was supposed to have a few more years. I’m reeling from the loss and am trying to focus on the many wonderful memories I have of him.
Childhood Memories
My father was kind, above anything else. As a child, I looked forward to his return every night. He often came back from work carrying gifts, from little cakes to books by my favorite author. He carried me on his shoulders at our condo swimming pool in Hawaii, and on his back inside our condo unit.
My drawing (when I was 10 years old) of me and my mother welcoming my father home after work
He was a voracious reader. As a child, he had supposedly read every single book in his elementary school library. As a young worker in Tokyo, he apparently brought an empty suitcase to work on paydays, made a beeline to Jinbocho (an area in Tokyo known for its many used bookstores) immediately after work, and bought a suitcase’s worth of used books. My mother loves reading as well, so as a family, the three of us often spent evenings in the living room, sitting together and each enjoying a separate book.
He was a jokester, especially when he had a bit to drink. After he tucked me in bed every night, I always asked for a glass of water. “Why would you say that now, *after* I’ve tucked you in?!” he’d always say, pretending to be annoyed as he came back with water. But we did this ritual every night, passing by the kitchen on the way to my room but never discussing water until I was in bed.
Sometimes he was the one going to bed first. He’d be reading in bed as I came to say goodnight. “I’m done reading tonight,” he would say. “Come over here.” When I’d approach him, he’d reach over and pretend to close the book on my face. “I’ve found the perfect bookmark,” he’d laugh, making a pun with my name “Shiori,” which is a homonym for “bookmark” in Japanese. We did this routine a few times, too.
Support for Education
As I grew older, I began to see his more serious side. He didn’t give out compliments easily. When I once handed him my report card in high school, he looked at it and returned it without saying a word (unlike him, I was not a straight-A student). When I told him one morning that I was nervous about an exam that day, he said, “If you had studied for it properly, you wouldn’t be nervous.” Years later, when I was accepted to graduate school, he told me point blank, “I didn’t think you’d get into Columbia” (I suppose that was a compliment…??).
But he was always supportive, especially in terms of my education. When I was a high school student in Hawaii and his company transferred him to the Tokyo headquarters, he headed there alone, leaving my mother with me for a year so that I could complete my studies. When I wanted to go to Dartmouth as an undergraduate student, he allowed me to do so, even though financially it was a difficult decision. He accompanied me from Tokyo to New Hampshire, helping me settle into my dorm, open my bank account, and run other errands. That night, I felt incredibly lonely after he’d left–other students had attended a multi-day pre-enrollment hiking trip, which meant they had already found friends. In a moment of desperation, I called my father at his hotel. He responded sleepily at first but increasingly took on an angry tone when he heard me gripe about feeling lonely. He told me angrily that it was my choice to come here, and that I cannot be complaining already. Even though his words were harsh, it helped me realize that I needed to stick to my decision to attend college far from home.
With my parents at my high school graduation ceremony (June 2000)
Recent Years
And far from home I was for the following two decades. I studied abroad, went to grad school, and worked in the U.S. and Europe. I only visited Japan once or twice a year, but my parents and I often met up in other countries and traveled together, visiting museums and enjoying the local food. My father, a big foodie who was also a good cook, kept extensive records of what he ate for each meal during those trips.
Our last trip together was to Austria and Hungary. Here are my parents at the Leopold Museum in Vienna (June 2019)
My father’s diagnosis three years ago came as a shock. He was the picture of health, but his speech had gradually started to slur. He went through extensive tests, and it took several months until we found what it was: he was suffering from a rare neurological disease called Multiple System Atrophy. None of us had heard of the disease. He was one of 10,000 Japanese people affected by it. The causes are unknown, there is no cure, and worst of all, there is no way to stop the progression of this terminal disease.
My father began to suffer from various symptoms, from losing his ability to walk and speak, to severe rigidity and blurred vision. Due to this debilitating disease that affects autonomic functions, every few months, a new symptom struck a new part of his body. His back gradually became more and more bent. He had to give up a lot of things he loved at a rapid pace. Driving (he had trouble maneuvering the wheel). Eating with enjoyment (he had trouble using utensils). Cooking (he could not use his hands, and was eventually so bent over that his face was dangerously close to the gas stove). Reading atlases and art books (they were now too heavy to hold). Listening to classical music (he was too tired to turn on his grand but complicated Westminster stereo system). My mother took care of him around the clock, which increasingly took a toll on her, too.
For the past three years, I spent months in Tokyo (the pandemic allowed me to work virtually) and helped where I could, cooking meals, tucking him in bed, cheering him up with sweets and stories from DC, and buying tools that I hoped made his life a little easier. Witnessing moments when he had to give things up one by one was difficult–the opposite of how a joyful parent witnesses a child gradually develop skills like walking and talking. Seeing him made me want to cry–but I couldn’t do that in front of him, when he himself didn’t complain. So my mom and I cried with each other after he had gone to bed.
One of the last photos I took of my dad–celebrating his birthday in 2021 (April 2021)
The Last Advice
When I arrived in Tokyo this past November, I saw that his condition had worsened further. But one day, he was in relatively good health. Unlike other days, he never dozed off, and instead quietly read books. It was easier to communicate with him, so I asked him about some questions I had been grappling with. I was unsure about the direction of my career, and asked whether I should take certain steps even when I felt underqualified. “You should try anything you’re curious about,” he said.
My father collapsed the next morning. He never regained consciousness. And two days later, he passed away.
There’s so much that I regret. I never got to thank him for all that he’s done for me. It was incredible that I got to seek advice on the last day before he collapsed–but I didn’t get to say goodnight, and don’t remember what our last verbal exchange was. When I found him the following morning, he was on the floor, not breathing, and he had no pulse. His breathing and heartbeat eventually came back as ambulance workers rushed him to the hospital. My mother and I like to think that he held on for two days so that we could say goodbye to him. And I also feel incredibly lucky that I was with him in Tokyo during his final days.
In the weeks since his passing, my mother and I received so many letters of condolences from my father’s friends. Those letters include memories they had shared with him, from elementary school to graduate school (he studied architecture) to the workplace. It’s a bittersweet feeling to get to know my father in another way, but not having the chance to ask him about it.
As I look around his room–we call it the “music room,” since it’s filled with thousands of his CDs and books–I marvel at the amount of information he’s amassed. I don’t think I’d be able to read everything, like he did in his elementary school library. But I will try to catch up and learn more about his interests and passions. And following his advice, I want to resume this blog too. I had been busy with my daily work, but I want to find a way to pursue both.
During his final years, I felt a mixed sense of melancholy and happiness when I helped him lie down in bed at night, putting away his glasses and tucking the sheets around his neck as he closed his eyes and smiled peacefully. While he never asked for a glass of water, it was nice to be able to help him rest, just like he had helped me.
I want to say now the words I couldn’t say that final evening: “Thank you, Dad–and goodnight.”
This Japanese blog post celebrates the recent growth in diverse Barbie dolls (including body type, skin color, and gender), which better represent the U.S. demographic. I also discuss other dolls (Licca, a Japanese equivalent of Barbie; Sylvanian Family, a collection of animal figurines; and traditional Japanese hina dolls), exploring the many roles that dolls have, including as communication tools and sources of inspiration.
人形（ひとがた）は人形（にんぎょう）になりましたが、今でも私たちはそこに自分を投影しています。米国の非営利団体「A Doll Like Me」は、注文を受けて、多様な子供たちと同じ姿の人形を作っています。同団体のフェイスブックのページは、皮膚や四肢などが他人と異なる子供が人形を抱えて微笑む写真でいっぱいです。 人形の作者である女性は、「人形は、ストレスの多い状況に子供が対応するときに助けてくれますし、何より、子供に自信を与えます。そのためにも、人形は、彼らを愛してくれる子供たちに似せて作られるべきなのです（筆者訳）」と書いており、人形の料金を取らずに寄付金だけで経営を行っているようです。
–The guides at Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown Settlement
Introduction:
Upon visiting Colonial Williamsburg and Jamestown Settlement (museums that illustrate the history of 17th and 18th century Virginia), I learned about a fascinating profession called historic interpreters. In the post below, I explore the similarities between their work and what language interpreters do.
Historic interpreters on horse carriages at Colonial Williamsburg
Earlier this week, I visited Colonial Williamsburg, an outdoor museum dedicated to the history of the capital of Virginia colony in the 18th century. I also enjoyed visiting Jamestown Settlement, which discusses the history of the first English settlement in the America. I was especially impressed with how the latter carefully sought to highlight stories of diverse people, including indigenous populations, those who were forcibly brought over from Africa, and women.
Everywhere we went, there were costumed guides giving tours, answering questions, giving theater performances, and demonstrating daily life during that time. Some were vocal and friendly, others more reserved and focused on the task at hand–and all seemed dedicated to their role and knowledgeable about the people that they represented.
I was surprised to learn that these guides were called “historic interpreters.” As a language interpreter, I was immediately drawn to this concept. Why are we both called by the same name, and what are the similarities?
An Interpreter lives somewhere between the world of educator and Sherpa and his or her chief aim is to connect our audiences to the many meanings of an object, a story, an event or a place. Not unlike a language interpreter . . . a historic interpreter translates or reveals hidden meanings from our past and makes them relevant to our present.
An interpreter cooking (?) at a kitchen in Williamsburg
Indeed, that sounds very similar to what we do. What seems fascinating to me is that historic interpreters connect the past with the present, forging ties across time. We language interpreters connect those who speak different languages, creating ties across geography.
Historic interpreters at Colonial Williamsburg apparently receive training from the National Association for Interpretation (NAI). NAI’s membership seems to include individuals who work at parks and zoos as well, and not just those who work at historic sites. The former seems very similar to a type of language interpreter called interpreter guides, except it is presumably monolingual. Both types of interpreters are tied to specific geographic areas, welcoming visitors and providing local knowledge. The NAI website occasionally even refers to bilingual interpretation, further blurring the lines.
Etymology and Definitions
I’ve always wondered why language interpretation is called “interpretation.” The word “interpret” apparently came from the Latin word interpretari, which means to “explain.” While we language interpreters should seldom insert explanatory notes into what the original speaker said, this does capture the spirit of what we do, as we always seek to choose vocabulary that is not only accurate but also easy for the listener to understand. “Explain” also seems similar to the goals of historic interpreters and those at NAI. (Incidentally, historic interpreters also seem to fit another definition of “interpreter” that’s listed in the Oxford Learner’s Dictionaries: “a person who performs a piece of music or a role in a play in a way that clearly shows their ideas about its meaning.”)
By contrast, the word “translate” is related to the word “transfer.” Based on the image these words conjure (“explain” versus “transfer”), it seems to me that interpreters can show more of their individuality in their work compared to translators. The former works more directly with people (which requires flexibility to respond to unpredictable actions), while the latter focuses more on words that are fixed on a page (emphasizing accuracy and eloquence rather than quick thinking).
While I enjoy serving as both a language interpreter and a translator, I do feel that I get to be myself a bit more while interpreting. This is especially true while guiding visitors on the International Visitor Leadership Program or interpreting on stage for cultural events. But even conference interpretation, where we are in booths that are a bit removed from the action, seems somewhat personal. The International Association of Conference Interpreters (AIIC) explains that interpretation “makes use of particular linguistic resources, transmitting the original speaker’s ideas with their particular rhythm and intonation, making use of rhetorical devices and yes, even gestures.” Indeed, our ears are our most important asset when interpreting, but we also read lips and expressions. We empathize with the person we are interpreting and mimic their tone, sometimes involuntarily copying their body language. And we reproduce everything that we see and hear with our own voice, which is unique to each one of us.
Some young men were called upon to serve as language interpreters between Native Americans and settlers in 17th century Virginia, according to this panel at the Jamestown Settlement
Between historic interpreters and language interpreters, the difference is that the latter benefits from working with someone who is (in most cases) alive and present in real time, even if they happen to be on Zoom and physically located on the other side of the world. I have so much respect for historic interpreters, who must not only conduct substantial research on people who are long gone, but also fill in the gaps with their imagination and enact what they studied. I look forward to meeting and learning from more of these wonderful interpreters in the future.
–The universal appeal of pictograms, as shown during the 2020 Tokyo Olympics
Introduction:
As a big fan of pictograms (I wrote my master’s thesis on it), I explore in this post the story behind the 2020 Olympic pictograms, as well as the huge success of the performance during the opening ceremony. I also argue that pictograms can play a bigger role in our everyday communications: by embodying common human experiences that go beyond nationality, ethnicity, gender, and more, pictograms may be easier to use than people emoji in this increasingly interconnected world.
I wrote my master’s project (the equivalent of a master’s thesis in journalism school) on pictograms, and have always been interested in these little symbols as a form of language and communication. Based on how much the Olympic pictograms have evolved, as well as the huge success of the performance during the opening ceremony, I feel that we can better incorporate pictograms into our everyday lives. These universal symbols appeal to everyone in an increasingly interconnected world, and allow us to be more mindful of our commonalities regardless of our backgrounds.
The 2020 pictograms were a nod to the original 1964 version, according to a Japanese magazine (Katei Gaho) interview with Masaaki Hiromura, who designed the 50 Olympic pictograms and 23 Paralympic pictograms. While he initially played around with elements such as hiragana, Choju Giga, and Astro Boy, he ultimately decided to use the 1964 pictograms as reference, focusing on the athletes’ physical movements. Studying hundreds of photos and videos for each sport, he aimed to make the pictograms appear as realistic and dynamic as possible. He obtained not only the approval of the International Olympic Committee and International Paralympic Committee, but also the associations of each sport–which resulted in redoing more than half of the designs.
These pictograms were animated for the first time so that they can be used for event broadcasts, digital signage, and social media. An interview with Kota Iguchi, who created the animation, reveals the challenges of working from static images. Instead of forcing the pictograms themselves to move, he animated how they appear onto and disappear from the screen, and suggested that the flow be paused on the pictograms so that audience members could appreciate them for a few seconds. He, too, spoke with athletes to ensure that the movements looked natural, and animated in different speeds to highlight signature moves of each sport. The animation process was very challenging, but he says he “want[s] the baton to be passed” to future Olympic games. “I’d like to make it open source so that parts can be changed and the movements can evolve . . . and am happy to provide any data for that purpose” (translation my own).
Tokyo must have been searching for a way to honor the history of Olympic pictograms, and I believe that animation (the full sequence of all 73 pictograms is featured below) was the perfect update. The moving figures are endearing, and even though they are animated through technology, they even seem more human than the static versions. And if, as Mr. Iguchi offers, the data becomes open source, the pictograms could have a lasting legacy that impacts users worldwide.
The Appeal of the Pictograms Show
Despite all the work that went into the pictograms, they would not have garnered as much attention if not for the performance during the opening ceremony. Many of the comments on NBC’s video clip of the performance call it “the best part of the ceremony.” The Washington Post wrote that it “stole the show,” and The Cut called it a “hot new sport.” I think there are several reasons for its wide appeal:
Cuteness: While the pictogram illustrations have grace and poise, the people in bodysuits seem to scurry around clumsily with their big heads. After a while, the tacky outfits start to grow on us and begin to look adorable.
Imperfection: Their limbs tremble when they strike poses, and their postures are always somewhat less cool than the original pictograms. The blue man drops the badminton racket, and with the taekwondo posture, needs help bringing his leg up. It almost seems doubtful that they would manage to get through all 50 pictograms–making it seem all the more special when they succeed.
Emotion: With no mouths or eyes, they show emotion through body language alone. Their joy when they complete the fast-paced routine is palpable, drawing a sigh of relief from all of us.
The “analog” humor: Hiropon, the comedian who created the segment and starred as the main blue man, later commented on how “analog” the performance was. And it truly is: from the basketball hoop headband to the badminton shuttle signage, everything looks handmade. It is somehow both an elevated version of the digitally animated pictograms and a nod to the physical dynamism that inspired the pictograms to begin with.
Hiropon’s humble Instagram post that briefly reveals that he created the pictograms sequence. He later made an appearance at a press conference in the blue bodysuit.
Analog humor has long been appreciated in Japan. People have commented that the opening ceremony performance reminded them of Kasou Taishou (“Masquerade”), a Japanese show in which amateurs compete by enacting various aspects of life using their bodies and homemade costumes. One example is the below performance by two men emulating an athlete on a pommel horse, which won first prize in 1997. No one is expected to be a superb actor, stage carpenter, or costume maker. Family members often compete together, brilliantly executing silly but hilarious ideas.
Another commonality the pictogram performance had with Kasou Taishou was the supporter wearing white, who would often blend in the background and help with various props. This, in turn, comes from a long tradition of kabuki and bunraku (puppet theater), where stage hands (called kurogo) dressed all in black (or white, if it’s a snowy scene) carry props or puppets. The Olympics opening ceremony did feature a real kabuki performance by renowned actor Ebizo Ichikawa. But the pictograms performance was so much more accessible–no knowledge of history or culture was needed to appreciate it.
Anyone and Everyone
I think the biggest appeal of the pictograms performance comes from this last point: it can be understood by everyone, regardless of language, nationality, or background.
This spirit comes from the pictograms themselves. Mr. Hiromura says in the Katei Gaho interview that “the simpler the pictograms are, the more open to interpretation they become. Unless they are designed in a way that anyone can see themselves in them, they won’t be appreciated by everyone” (translation my own). The set of pictograms is uniform, only distinguished by the poses and items unique to each sport (be they bats, balls, or boards). The gender, age, or any other characteristic of athletes is invisible. Every swimmer and skateboarder who’s not yet at an Olympic level may see themselves in the pictograms, dreaming of someday competing among the best of the best.
I believe the pictogram performance brought this accessibility to another level. As a clumsy person whose worst grades were always P.E., I could never relate to athletes. I only watch games and competitions in awe of stars who possess skills I could never attain. But striking a pose or two with some props? That seems doable. The whole speedy routine must have taken so much practice, talent, and coordination–but with trembling limbs, handmade signs, and finger puppetry, the people in bodysuits make it seem as though any of us could give it a try. And when they manage to finish the routine, they seem like the ultimate underdogs who barely scrape by, huffing and puffing. Even their victory, unlike those of Olympic athletes, is relatable.
People Emoji: Too Detailed, Too Many
Mr. Hiromura, Mr. Iguchi, and Hiropon each had a huge challenge in bringing these pictograms to life. But one thing that I think makes their work somewhat easier is that the designs had a framework: they were limited to sports that were part of the Olympic and/or Paralympic games.
Having a framework and using simple designs work. I think this point is evident when we compare two types of emoji: smileys and people emoji. I’m a big fan of the round yellow smileys that only show facial expressions. Cute and fantastical, they are a simple representation of how I feel. I know they are abstract, and don’t expect any visual resemblances with my face. Like pictograms, they are uniform (yellow circle, a mouth, two eyes) and have a straightforward design.
I love these smileys (courtesy of Apple) because they are a fantastical representation of how I feel
But I have never felt comfortable with any of the more realistic people emoji that show body language, professions, family, and more. Those turn me off because I subconsciously look for (and fail to find) myself in them. I appreciate the recent diversity in skin tone, but five tones is not enough, and I am more than my skin (for starters, maybe I wouldn’t want to wear such a bright purple shirt every single time).
These people emoji (also from Apple) now come in various skin tones, but I still don’t see myself in them
Customized tools like Apple’s Memoji are meant to resolve this issue, but even those seem strangely over the top with exaggerated expressions. No matter what tweaks I make, I can’t identify with the little avatar.
People emoji and Memoji fall into the too-realistic-but-still-unlike-me trap
I–and I suspect many others–can never be satisfied with people emoji because people are endlessly diverse. Yes, it is very exciting that we may soon have emoji for pregnant men. But it also brings up new questions about many others who are not represented. I’m sure it’s a quagmire for developers and other authorities, who are likely contending with one complaint/request after another (here’s the list of emoji requests made to Unicode, not limited to people emoji). The more representation there is, the more problematic it becomes for those who are not represented, because we cannot help but wonder: How long does it take to get to my turn? How is my identity taking a back burner to zombies, mermaids, and twin bunny girls/boys? And from a practical standpoint, if, many years into the future, there happens to be a single emoji that comes close (say, a Japanese American woman interpreter), how many hundreds would I have to sift through on my phone to find it? People emoji seem to be trapped in a difficult situation where they will have to continue to grow in volume, which in turn will decrease their usability.
I think this is all because pictures that are too detailed end up highlighting differences. Indeed, as Mr. Hiromura said above, “the simpler they are, the more open to interpretation they become.” That must be why pictograms have such a strong appeal. Since the opening ceremony, many Japanese people have been designing their own pictograms and tweeting them. Here’s one that’s been particularly popular (dubbed “2020 Mamalympic (Papalympic) Sports”), even prompting media coverage. I think it’s clear to anyone, even without reading the Japanese captions, what “sport” each pictogram represents. These are universal struggles for many parents, regardless of language or culture.
So here’s an idea for those people emoji. How about designing them as pictograms instead? Olympic pictograms were originally created to reach an international audience for a special occasion celebrating top athletes. But now that our world is so interconnected, all of us need to communicate with diverse audiences everyday. Symbols that are more vague, where we do not have to worry about skin tone, facial or physical features, gender, etc., would appeal to more users, ostracize fewer people, and clutter less space on our phones.
And more importantly, with pictograms, we would have an easier time seeking our own identity. Instead of focusing on what we look like, we can perhaps focus on what we do, like playing basketball, raising babies, or writing. People of different backgrounds may use the same pictograms, which in turn helps us find commonalities with and compassion for others. We don’t want a competition where only a few people are represented, and others have to vie to have their likeness preserved. With pictograms, all of us can be champions in our own unique way.
This post discusses a recent article in The Washington Post that explores our identities online, and in which I played a small role. I touch upon the difficulties of translating kaomoji and slang, as well as the challenge of tweeting publicly in front of anonymous readers.
A few days ago, The Washington Post published a wonderful article by Drew Harwell, technology reporter. It centers around Soya no Sohi, a biker who tweets using FaceApp, changing his gender and age. Soya (whose real name is Mr. Nakajima) is a fascinating, vivacious, and upbeat individual, and it’s no wonder that fans love him all the more now that he’s revealed his true self. The article is a great exploration of identity and how we project ourselves on social media, examining the issue from multiple angles, be it gender, age, relationships, or cultural/societal norms. It’s a unique and positive look into social media and AI, standing apart from recent dystopian takes on tech and our future.
I was honored to play a small role in this article, and through Drew’s kindness, even be recognized in the byline. I interpreted the online interview with Mr. Nakajima, and translated additional information and general communications. The hardest part of this process was something I never expected: translating tweets.
Short, Unconventional Messages
Two characteristics set Twitter apart from other social media platforms: anonymity and brevity. And I think these go hand-in-hand.
There are many Twitter users, like journalists, authors, politicians, and other public figures, who use their real names. Because social media is part of their personal brand, they tend to be measured in what they write: purposeful, cautious, and often in complete sentences (there are exceptions, like those who write inflammatory tweets to stay in the public discourse).
But users who remain anonymous have no obligation to write in a formal manner that follows conventional grammar rules. While online writing is already short, I think tweets that are restricted by character count are more prone to slang, abbreviations, and emoji (which are not only fun but also save valuable space). This is where translation becomes a challenge.
Emoji and Kaomoji
Soya’s tweets are filled with cute emoji and kaomoji (Japanese emoticons which, unlike the western equivalent, we can appreciate without tilting our heads!). Here’s a tweet right after the WaPo interview:
When I translated this tweet, I marveled at how emoji have totally become a universal language (in fact, this NPO uses emoji to allow children from different countries to communicate with one another). They needed no explanation.
The kaomoji were a different matter. These little pictures are meant to defy words, but I wasn’t sure if they were visually clear to everyone. For the three kaomoji here (5th line, 6th line, and last line), I wrote notes saying: “shows a sigh of relief,” “shows nervousness (looking left and right, sweating and panicking),” and “shows happiness.”
Then there was this tweet, which Soya had posted right after Mr. Nakajima’s appearance in a Japanese variety show in March. While I felt bad reducing tiny, adorable pictures into blunt, boring words, I explained them like this:
(/ω＼*) Covering face in embarrassment; feeling flattered
(*´▽`人) Blushing and putting hands together in gratitude.
While the other kaomoji might be easier to understand, I was certain the one below (from this tweet, after Mr. Nakajima deliberately revealed his real face in the handlebar mirror) needed an explanation:
(ﾉ≧ڡ≦)☆
I initially started writing “sticking tongue out mischievously; slapping one’s own head after admitting to mistake.” But realizing that a lengthy explanation on the “tehepero” manga trope was probably too much information in this context, I settled with “kaomoji meaning ‘oops.'” (Again, what a boring way to describe this cute face!)
From Slang to Slang
The article incorporated the tweets of other Twitter users too, to gauge their reaction to Soya’s big reveal and what they think about Soya in general. Aside from pictures, the trickiest thing to translate was laughter.
In Japanese, laughter is shown even in somewhat formal contexts (e.g. magazine interviews) with 笑, the kanji for “laugh.” Because that character is read as “warai,” that was abbreviated to “w,” and that’s now become more common among the younger generation when they text each other. A few years ago, that evolved even further among some hardcore netizens, who now use the kanji for “grass,” or 草 (because the letter “w” looks like grass growing on the ground).
Some tweets only had one “w,” which I translated as “LOL.” Other tweets with multiple w’s (like this one, referring to Soya’s handlebar mirror tweet and joking that Soya’s dad was accidentally included in the photo) were translated as “ROFL” to signify a bigger laugh. Thank goodness there wasn’t a wider variety, because those are the only two laughter slangs I know (“LMAO” seemed inappropriate for obvious reasons–and I honestly don’t know if that’s a bigger laugh than ROFL)!
Just for fun, I tested how AI translation services like DeepL and Google Translate might translate these tweets. DeepL ignores all the w’s (probably seeing them as typos), and Google Translate just includes the w’s as is. “Grass” remains “grass.” It is ironic (but a relief for professionals like us!) that humans are still needed to understand internet slang.
Of course, there are other elements that are lost in translation. Soya refers to herself with a feminine pronoun. She also occasionally mixes in the local Ibaraki dialect (as in the tweet below, thanking followers for reading the WaPo article), and that’s probably another factor that makes her so lovable and approachable. It’s unfortunate that there’s no way to convey the spirit behind these tweets aside from clunkily adding a side note to straightforward translations.
Working on this WaPo project made me rethink my relationship with Twitter. I first got an account a decade ago, when I was a graduate student studying journalism. We all learned how to market ourselves on social media, which was especially important because the media landscape was rapidly changing, and jobs at media companies were decreasing.
But I just could not get into Twitter. I had difficulty chiseling what I wanted to say into a perfect haiku of 140 characters (as was the limit until a few years ago). And more importantly, I found the Twitter space scary. Every post was open to the public. People didn’t have to show their faces or their real names. I felt–and still feel–much safer on Facebook, where I’m only connected to people I know and trust.
In the WaPo article, Drew quotes researchers and points out that in the past, many people “with ‘stigmatized social identities’ . . . saw online anonymity as a way to act like themselves without fear of offline consequences.” He continues: “It wasn’t until the rise of giant social networks like Facebook — which used real identities to, among other things, supercharge targeted advertising — that this big game of pretend gained an air of duplicity.”
This made me realize how lucky I am to have an in-person community where I feel at home. It’s a luxury, and I shouldn’t be whining about leaving my comfort zone online. And either way, we all create online identities to an extent. I chose my profile photo out of others that I didn’t think were as good. Even when blogging about my weaknesses or struggles, I try to reach a positive conclusion. It’s possible to find a good balance between being authentic and not revealing every flaw.
I’m very much inspired by Soya and Mr. Nakajima: full of energy, always upbeat, and not afraid to try new things. During the interview, Mr. Nakajima said: “Unless you start, you’ll come to regret it. People will say, ‘I’ll do this once things settle down or once everything is in place.’ But by the time everything is in place, your life will end.”
That really spoke to me. I hope I can be more courageous and post more frequently, be it through this blog or social media, rather than overthinking everything.
At the very least, it’s comforting to know what to do if I make a mistake. I’ll simply post this:
