Band of Bros

Friday night, John and I spent hanging out at the Chaplain Youth Center. John has volunteered, bless his heart, to help the youth of the neighborhood stay off the sauce. The Center sponsored an alcohol-free barbeque to lure the young enlisted soldiers out of the bars. The two of us walked around the dorms like tow-head Jehovah's Witnesses trying rescue 18 year-old service members from the tempting Japanese nightlife. We asked them to join a few men of the cloth, JAG lawyers, mentors, and sober fiancé (yours truly) for burgers, cappuccinos, scrabble and good conversation.

I didn’t know just how much I wanted a drink myself until I realized that these boys were literally only 1/2 a year older than my second youngest brother, Francis. Francis is a 17 & 1/2 year-old boy whom I still call “cutie”…. whom I still picture as a little boy, whose diapers I changed...for whom I babysat when he was only one week old. He is presently about 4 inches taller than I and a junior in high school. See the carefree cutie below:


It was hard for me to relate to these 18 year old boys…. fresh to the island, never been away from their families. (And I’M the one who needs a drink?!) I have 6 brothers… you’d think I’d be at ease with them. With my own brothers (ages 14-23) I dance a fine line between irritating, irrelevant older sister and cool, been-there-done-that aunt (the latter is probably just my own deluded self-perception). So I went with the cool, "Aunt-Barb" vibe and regaled them with stories of escapades in Tijuana, Polar-Bear jumps into freezing New Hampshire lakes, bonfires and Homecoming Carnivals. Okay, perhaps these impressionable "yutes" were not the best audience for those stories, but I definitely convinced a few guys that college life was worth looking into. Perhaps if the GI Bill paid for more than 60% of a public college education these days...and if they had the time and means to while away the best years of their lives on sunny San Diego campuses, they would have taken me seriously. They come from a very different paradigm than I or my fortunate brothers do.

The "In" Crowd

When I was young, I wanted nothing more than for my mom to go to PTA meetings. I didn't know what happened at PTA meetings, I just know that all the moms were there, and my mother was not. Never mind that she had anywhere from 3-6 other children (besides moi) at home to take care of, I wanted her to be part of the "mom crowd." Maybe just hang out in the parking lot after school? "Come on Mommy, there's ______'s mom, don't you want to go over there and talk to her? Maybe she can fill you in on the PTA meeting you missed." My mother is not a joiner - far from it. The more I wanted to assimilate, the more she stood apart from the crowd. This is not to say she was uninvolved in my school life. It's just that when she gets involved in an activity, the sheer force of her personality and abundance of talents usually has the gravitational pull of Juptier. Like when she volunteered to help us create a school newspaper in 8th grade. Under her tutelage, we invited over 10 schools for a valley-wide catholic school seminar on how to interview, write articles, proofread, layout, art direct (all taught by her). Then, all the students went to lunch, and she went to Kinko's. 2 hours later, she had 200 copies of our finished product ready for the kids to take home. Mom does not need committees. Jupiter works alone.

However, priorities in my juvenile and insecure mind always came back to assimilation. I didn't want my mom to be different (although, admittedly, better), I just wanted her to be the SAME as everyone else. It disturbs me how much I used to want to just fit in, just be like everyone else. Maybe this is how most young girls are? As destiny would have it, I've turned into my mother (shocker) and I avoid "joining" like the plague.

And here we've arrived at our current problem. There is one group open to me on this island, and that group is "wives." It's actually my group by default, I have no choice but to join. We were at a restaurant the other night and I asked one of John's female coworkers "who is that woman" and she said, "oh, that's a wife." Like that's all she gets to be. She does not have a job in the military, therefore, she is just a "wife." I never realized what a feminist I was until I entered a situation where my identity was defined so completely by my future husband's place in the world. I had my first "JAG wives luncheon" at the officer's club today. Yeow. It was actually not the fantastic, blog-worthy disaster that I would write about in a novel someday. (Sorry kids, I know you were hoping for Stepford Wives meets Army Wives.) The women were very nice. There is only one other woman (besides myself) that does not have a child, so birthday parties, grammar school supplies, and crying babies were definitely hot topics. They all live on base and prefer it that way (meaning, why be immersed in Japan when you can live in an American enclave?) They move every two years. They are all very conversant in the acronyms of military life that are as foreign to me as Japanese. One of the wives is actually a licensed lawyer. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking her how she gave it all up to follow her man to Japan.

And here I am again. Same girl as the 8th grader, although my knee-jerk reaction is to separate myself from these joiners. "I am actually not a military wife, I actually take Japanese, I eat with chopsticks not a fork, I am still earning a living while I'm here, I have no current plans to procreate.....(thankfully I fought the urge and did not say this out loud.) From where do I get this insecurity? Needing to "define" myself as NOT a joiner is just another form of caring what people think about me, isn't it? I often wish I could visit my 13 year old self and say "chillax girlfriend... your mom has the right idea, just go with the flow, stop trying so hard to fit in." What will my future self wish to say to me? "Hey, you So-Cal Liberal Feminist know-it all.... why don't you shelve your opinions and take it all in before deciding who THEY are so as to define who YOU are not." That's the funny part of being a Californian... we are sooo open-minded and yet can't understand how the rest of the country lives the way they do. And yes, sometimes Californians do need a reality check. And maybe I could use some friends the likes of whom I would never meet at home?

Wax On, Wax Off

John and I began our Japanese class last night, along with friend Clayton. Brandon Walsh will be happy to learn that we are attending his alma mater, University of Maryland. Go Terrapins. Our teacher's name - no joke - is Mrs. Miyagi. The Japanese language is both quite easy and pretty difficult. I was not blessed with Camilla's ear, and when called on to read, I can barely get the words out. We are going to learn Hiragana, which is one of the THREE writing forms that the Japanese use. Sentences contain all three writings, so I have no idea how learning Hiragana is goign to help me read anything.

The funniest part is the "helpful hints" that she gives us to help us learn the symbols. According to Miyagi Sensei, the symbol for the letter "Na" resembles a nun on her knees in front of cross. "Na" for "Nun." Bit of a leap, but okay, maybe. Now get a load of the symbol:

Really? Do you get cross and praying nun from this? I have some serious work to do.

In addition to learning how to communicate in Japanese, and writing Hiragana, we will be learning how to properly wax cars, catch fruitflies with chopsticks and defeat a school bully in Karate despite a broken foot.

Niche

MLK Eve, we went to see a Japanese jazz band play at a local club called "Niche." The band was outstanding, the place was intimate, very mod, and it was a pretty great time overall.

The jazzy-swankness of it all inspired some expirimental photography....




Niche is the first place I've been to on the island where flip-flops were considered "underdressed."
"Booster," an airforce pilot, was our award-winner for fashionista of the evening.

Singapore Sling

Our buddy Clay informed us last night that we are all taking a trip to Singapore in March. Sounds good to me! I'm looking at LonelyPlanet.com to learn more how to make the most of our trip, but I was hoping to get some personal insights. Have any of you been to Singapore and have "must-see's" or "must-miss's" for me?

So Sorry

John has a habit of apologizing for things that are not his fault. Like the fact that the US Postal Service is holding three fifths of all my worldly possessions hostage. Or that I ordered something to eat that turned out to be less than delicious. He is very sincere about it, and truly concerned. Like if he'd only had the foresight to guide me away from that ordering that dish, I would have had a more enjoyable dining experience. Then he offers me his dish to make up for his blunder. The idea that he takes my happiness to heart even in the smallest details makes me happy.

The Japanese are similar in a way. Apologies run amok in dialog with the locals. "Please forgive us, so sorry, so ashamed, full of disgrace, that we ran out of rice for your sushi order....please accept our sincerest apologies and our first born." Something similar happened to me the other night at Zen Sushi, and while consoling this poor waitress, I assured her that it was no disgrace, and I would happily have the sushi, sans rice, sans child.

Verbal apologies were never much a part of our household growing up. We just sulked until the other party forgot, and then the egregious behavior dissipated over a good family meal. It's good to not hold grudges, but sometimes words can be necessary, admitting you've done something wrong can often completely cure the harm you've done.

The Japanese use the term "gomen nasai" to apologize, which actually means more along the lines of "I'm so, so sorry - but it ain't my fault." Well it's probably not quite like that, but it is an apology without claiming to be the cause of the injury. It seems excessive, but now makes me wonder if I'm being rude by NOT offering such condolences. There was a German girl I knew as an acquaintance who seemed so cold and unfeeling because she never offered any sympathetic words, and it made me feel that she couldn't care less how my life was going. But now I think it may have just been cultural. Cultural relativity if you will. I think sympathy in any degree is welcomed, as long as it's genuine.

North of the Island

John and I took a little drive up to the north of the Island, which is a lot less developed. If you stare at the mezmorizing blue sea for long enough, you can almost forget that your fiance is wearing black socks at the beach.