Goodnight, Dad

–My Father’s Passing

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.

昨年11月、大好きな父が亡くなりました。下記の投稿では、父との思い出、父から学んだこと、近年は「多系統萎縮症」という病気に苦しんだ父との関わりについて取り上げました。こうした出来事を受け、しばらくできていなかったこのブログへの投稿を再開したいと思います。

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.”

And I really hope we meet again.

人形に見る理想像とありのままの姿

ーバービー人形等の多様性や魅力

Introduction (the full text in Japanese continues below (日本語の本文が続きます)):

米国社会を構成する様々な人を反映し、最近どんどん多様になっていくバービー人形。下記の投稿では、バービー、日本のリカちゃん、シルバニアファミリー、昔の人形(ひとがた)やお雛様などを取り上げ、人形の様々な役割(コミュニケーションツール、インスピレーションを提供するおもちゃ、自己投影をする相手など)について考えてみました。

“Dolls: Another Version of Ourselves”

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.

LGBTQのコミュニティを支援します、という言葉とともにバービーの公式インスタグラムに投稿された様々な人形。

近年の米国では、 小説映画やテレビ番組広告政治など、あらゆる分野においてrepresentation (実社会における多様な人々が各分野においてしっかりと反映されていること)が話題になっています。「白人だらけ」「男性ばかり」ーそういった批判を受けては進歩を遂げることの繰り返しです。

その一環として、子供が幼い時から触れる人形については、バービー人形が大きく進化しています。人種、体型、職業などが徐々に多様になり、その変化がメディアでも頻繁に取り上げられています。ありのままの社会をより忠実に表すべく、変化していると言えるでしょう。私たちがバービーや他の人形からどんなインスピレーションを受け、人形にどのように自己を投影し続けているのかを考えてみました。

バービー人形の変革

ハワイで子供時代を過ごした私は、学校や日々の生活でアジア系の人々に囲まれて育ちました。童謡のテープや童話の本など、両親が日本から取り寄せてくれたものもとても多かったのですが、何もしなくても、日本を含むアジアの文化に簡単に触れられる環境でした。他方、 ドラマ、映画、小説など、米国本土から来るエンターテインメントにおいては、圧倒的に白人が主人公で、ハワイにおける日々の生活とはかけ離れた社会を描いていました。バービー人形も、(実際には既に黒人のものも出ていたようですが)おもちゃ屋さんや友人の家で目に入るものは、背が高くて細い金髪碧眼の女性のみでした。

それから30年が経った今、バービー人形は驚くほど多様になっています。 多様性に関するバービーの特設ページによれば、現在35以上の肌の色と9つの体型のバリエーションがあるそうです。 職業やジェンダーなど、いろいろな形の多様性がありますが、古くから発達していた分野からごく最近変化のあった分野まで、時系列順に並べると、米国の社会における各時代の変化をとてもよく反映していることが分かります。

コロナ禍でマスクをしつつ、Black History Month(黒人歴史月間)の2月にデモに参加する人形たち(左から二人目は白斑のある人形)。称賛しているコメントが多い中、「こういった活動には白人のバービーやケンも参加しなくては意味がない」と言う指摘も。

多様性に強い関心がある私としては、こうした選択肢の広がりがとても嬉しいです。もちろん、こういった変化の裏には商業的な理由がありますし、「少し進歩があったとしても、バービーは所詮きれいという理由だけで称賛される、典型的な『女の子のためのおもちゃ』であり、女性にとって大きな飛躍とは思えない」「子供の頃丸かった私がふっくらしたバービー人形を人からプレゼントされたら、逆に絶望しただろう」(それぞれ筆者訳)といった批判もあります。また、先日別の投稿で、「人型の絵文字をどれほど作り続けてもきりがなく、作れば作るほど、そこに自分の姿を見い出せない人を失望させる」と書きましたが、人形についても似たようなことが言えるでしょう。 ただ、全体としては、よい方向に進んでいると思います。

人間ではないシルバニアファミリーの魅力

私は本来、そこまで人形に興味がなく、子供の頃も、人からいただいたジェム(当時放映されていたアニメの主人公で、ロック歌手兼レコード会社の社長)の人形を持っているだけでした。通常はおとなしい社長が時折派手な歌手に変身するということで、服も二セットあり、 今考えれば、アーティストとビジネスリーダーと言う二つの仕事を持つ女性はかなりかっこいいと思います。ただ、日本やハワイに縁のない白人だからか、興味のある職業でなかったからか、当時はそこまで感情移入できませんでした。

私は人間よりも動物に惹かれ、シルバニアファミリーがとても好きでした。小さな家具やお皿のセットを徐々に買ってもらって集めては、クマやウサギの一家で遊んでいました。シルバニアファミリーのウェブサイトは、「自己投影できる多彩なキャラクターたち」と遊ぶことが「人と関わるコミュニケーション力を豊かにする」としていますが、私はそれが適度な投影だと思います。つまり、 動物ですので、人間である自分と肌の色や体型等を比較して落ち込んだりする心配はありません( 私は、人型の絵文字よりもピトグラムの方が、人種等を超えて皆が共感できると考えていますが、それと同様です )。また、違う種類の動物が次々に登場し、共生しているシルバニアファミリーの世界は、多様性への意識も育むように思います。

ただ、今再考すると、さらなる進化の余地はある気がします。たとえば、主に日本の子供が対象であるだろうにもかかわらず、シルバニアファミリーの服装、家、街並み等は皆西洋のものなので、なんとなく欧米中心で、日本らしさがあまりないのが残念です。また、「ファミリー」というブランド名からして家族の大切さを示している半面、セットとして売られている各ファミリーにはお父さんとお母さんが一人ずついて、子供も親と同じ種類の動物であるようです。シングルペアレントの家族、お母さんが二人いる家族、動物の種類が混じった家族などはないため、実世界のいろいろな家族の形を反映したい場合には、複数のファミリーを買って組み合わせるしかなさそうです。

数年前にデパートでシルバニアファミリーの特別展に通りかかり、懐かしくて等身大(?)のショコラウサギファミリー一家とパシャリ。気付けば後ろには5歳くらいの女の子が順番を待っており、恥ずかしかったです💦 (2019年12月、新宿小田急デパートにて)

リカちゃんと解釈の強み

日本の人形で一番知られているのはリカちゃんでしょう。趣味がファッションやお菓子作りということで、どのリカちゃんもお洒落でおしとやかなイメージです(スポーツも趣味だそうですが、あまり行動が伴っていません)。バービーに比べるとバラエティが少なく、多様性と言う意味でそこまで進化がないようです。

他方、リカちゃんのイメージを覆す面白い試みをされている方がいます。ある20代の会社員の女性がずぼらなリカちゃんの写真や動画をインスタグラムに挙げており、それがとても話題になっています。NHKがインタビューしたところ、その女性は「自分がリカちゃんだったらどんなんだろう、自分を投影してみようと思った」そうです。また、「家の中くらいこんなんでもいいじゃんって自己肯定感を高めている」とも語っています。私も各投稿にとても共感し、毎度細かいインテリアに感嘆しています。人形そのものは変わっていないのに、服装や周囲のもので解釈を変えることにより、ありのままの世界を示しています。だらしないリカちゃんは、 多様なバービーよりもさらに親しみやすく、温かみのある人形に見えてくるから不思議です。

数ある「現実を生きるリカちゃん」の投稿の中でも、私が最も共感したものの一つ。

人形への投影

人形は、少なくとも日本では、元は自己を投影するものでした。病気等を避けるため、自分の災厄を人形(ひとがた)に託して川に流したのがお雛様の起源であるというのは有名な話です。神事においては、自分の代わりにお祓いを受けてもらうこともできます。コロナ禍を受け、鶴岡八幡宮などは、自分でお祓いができるように、紙の人形(ひとがた)と、それを納める箱を常時設置しています。

今、鶴岡八幡宮では茅の輪をくぐり、人形(ひとがた)を納めることができます。(2020年2月)

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。

同時に、人形の発達を受け、私たちはいつの間にか、人形の姿からインスピレーションを受けるようにもなりました。人が人形に投影していたのが、人形から人へも投影するのです。昔の人が病を託していたお雛様は、今では少女の成長を祝い、結婚や家庭を象徴するめでたい道具となっています。(素晴らしい伝統ですが、これまた、明確なジェンダーロールや結婚に対するプレッシャー等が今後問題になって、変わりゆく可能性はあると思います。)

ウエストが恐ろしく細かった昔のバービーは、少し強制的な理想像でした。今のロールモデルのバービー人形は、実在の大人に似せているので、ある意味ありのままの姿ですが、同時に、将来を夢見る子供にとっては理想像でもあります。 また、ずばらなリカちゃんを見ると、同じ人形でも、環境や服装をどう変えるかによって、ありのままと理想像の間を行ったり来たりできることが分かります。

いずれの場合も、人形はコミュニケーションツールだと言えるでしょう。人形の作者、人形を買って子供にあげる大人、社会の風潮などがすべて織り交ざって、人形をもらう人に対して、各々のメッセージを作っています。「こうなったらいいよね」、「こんな夢も君なら実現できるよ」、そして、「ありのままの君でいいんだよ」、と。

小さなシルバニアファミリーにも、さらに小さな人形(写真右下)が出てきます。ヒツジの子供がウサギの人形を持って育つとどうなるか、考え出すと興味深いです!

今の社会は、どんどん自分らしさを前面に出す風潮となっており、そのため、人形にも多様性が反映されていると言えます。全体として、日本の人形はバービーをはじめとする米国のものに遅れていますが、今後状況は変わっていくと期待しています。また、ずぼらなリカちゃん、車椅子に置かれたバービー、家族が混ざったシルバニアファミリーのように、出来合いのものを買ったとしても、そこから先の解釈は、私たち自身が変えることができます。

人形を見た時、私たちは、今の自分、もしくは将来なりたい自分を無意識に探してしまいます。常に共感したい気持ちでいっぱいで、自分との共通点を見つけた時には、思わず嬉しくなってしまいます。もし今後誰かに人形を買う機会があれば、その瞬間に気に入ってもらえるかだけでなく、どうすれば長期的に心が休まる空間を提供し、自信やインスピレーションのリソースとなってもらえるかも考えたいと思います。

Let’s All Be Champions with Pictograms

–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.

下記の投稿では、私が以前から強い関心を抱いてきたピクトグラム(修士論文のテーマでもありました)について取り上げました。2020年東京五輪のピクトグラムが作られた経緯を辿り、開会式におけるパフォーマンスが世界的に評価された理由を分析しています。また、国籍、人種、ジェンダー等にとらわれることのないピクトグラムは、世界中の多様な人々が瞬時につながる今の時代、日々のコミュニケーションにおいても、人型の絵文字以上に使いやすいのではないか、と論じています。

From the pictograms performance of the opening ceremony: emulating the skateboarding pictogram

The 2020 Tokyo Olympics has shown us some amazing athletic achievements so far. But for me, the most memorable performance has been the pictograms show during the opening ceremony. It was a great tribute to the previous Tokyo Olympics in 1964, where Olympic pictograms were first officially designed in order to overcome language barriers. As the first Olympic pictograms to be animated–and of course, the first to be performed live by people in blue and white bodysuits–the 2020 pictograms made history in their own way.

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 Olympic Pictograms

The story of the 2020 Olympic pictograms has several layers. At its foundation is the 1964 pictograms, which in itself carry older Japanese traditions of ukiyo-e (flattening three-dimensional images into two dimensions) and crest designs (little uniform symbols). Every Olympic host city has since used its own version of pictograms, from bright tones that reflect the country’s vivid colors (Mexico City, 1968; based on my interview with designer Lance Wyman for my master’s project in 2010), to universal and inclusive figures that deliberately moved away from Nazi-era history (Munich, 1972), to symbols inspired by ancient carvings in a Norwegian cave (Lillehammer, 1994), and characters inspired by old seals (Beijing, 2008).

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.

Internet Slang and Anonymity

–A WaPo article on online identity

Introduction:

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.

先日、フェイスアプリを使ってツイートしているバイカー、「宗谷の蒼氷」さんへのインタビュー記事をワシントン・ポスト紙が公開しました。その取材のお手伝いをさせていただき、記者のドリューさんのご厚意で、私の名前も掲載して頂きました。宗谷さん(中島さん)は本当にエネルギーにあふれ、前向きで、かっこいい生き方をされている方で、私も多くの刺激を受けました。下記の投稿では、ツイートを翻訳することの難しさや、見ず知らず、かつ匿名の人たちの前で投稿することの勇気について触れます。

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.

The Courage to Tweet

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:

(ノ≧ڡ≦)☆