So sad.

The tragedy that struck Japan last Friday is unimaginable. Sure, they're used to earthquakes but not a 9.0 that causes a 30-foot tsunami. Watching the videos of the water destroying the lives of so many broke my heart, and knowing that this is only the beginning for the country is unfathomable. 

Japan has a special place in my heart. My dad worked for Dupont, which had a textiles manufacturing facility in Shiga, Japan. When I was very young, one of the Japanese engineers came to Virginia to work at the facility in Waynesboro. Shin brought his wife, Atsuko, and daughter, Emi, who was a few years older than me. My mom and Atsuko became fast friends. From what I remember, Atsuko had a son while she was in America so he was a little older than my sister. We had many play dates at their apartment complex because they had a pool! One time, we had the family over at Easter to hunt for Easter eggs. Emi quickly learned that the best way to get the eggs was to follow me around because I had a terrible habit of tipping my basket. All my eggs would fall out behind me (I didn't notice until the hunt was over) and she ended up with all the eggs! I think there are pictures of me crying with an empty basket and Emi is just smiling.

Atsuko was a classical pianist and taught piano while she was in Waynesboro. When they moved back to Japan, they left their piano with us and I learned to play on it. We still have it, and I play it every time I go home on breaks. When I was in 8th grade, they invited me to visit them in Kyoto, Japan, for two weeks. It was the first time I had ever left the United States and was a ridiculously long plane ride. But I had the best time. I ate sushi and almost threw up. I went to Buddhist temples, ate tofu for breakfast, and did a lot of shopping. 

Throughout the years, we have stayed in touch, and my parents attended Emi's wedding a few years ago. They send us Christmas presents each year, even though most Japanese don't celebrate Christmas - Atsuko fell in love with the holiday while she was in Virginia. Emi and her husband live in Tokyo while Atsuko and Shin live near Osaka. 

We have heard from Shin since the earthquake, and he let us know that everyone is ok. He wrote my dad, "It is my first time that I experienced such large earthquake on the 20th floor of tall building in Osaka but it is really scary." Emi is expecting her second child in a few weeks. 

I wish it did not take this kind of tragedy to make me realize how important this Japanese family was in shaping who I am today.

“When something does not insist on being noticed, when we aren't grabbed by the collar or struck on the skull by a presence or an event, we take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.” - Cynthia Ozick

Cover Story of Wired Magazine

While I was in line at Berkeley Bowl, I was browsing the many magazines at the checkout counter as we waited. I usually pick out the latest Vanity Fair, and I have learned about many topics from this magazine, including Ralph Lauren's ridiculous car collection or Justin Bieber's jam-packed life.

This time, the cover of Wired magazine caught my eye. It said, "1 Million Workers. 90 Million iPhones. 17 Suicides. Who’s to Blame?" The piece opens by mentioning the noticeable nets around Foxconn, the company who manufactures Apple products and was the focus of Mike Daisey's "The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs." As I read the article, I was expecting the author, who toured the Foxconn facility, to say that he was saddened by the conditions in the plant, that he couldn't believe that people worked in these conditions, etc.

Not the case. Instead, he writes:

It’s likely that your job will require you to sit or stand in place for most of your shift. Maybe you grab components from a bin and slot them into circuit boards as they move down a conveyer. Or you might tend a machine, feeding it tape that holds tiny microprocessors like candy on paper spools. Or you may sit next to a refrigerator-sized machine, checking its handiwork under a magnifying glass. Or you could sit at a bench with other technicians placing completed cell-phone circuit boards into lead-lined boxes resembling small kilns, testing each piece for electromagnetic interference.

If you have to go to the bathroom, you raise your hand until your spot on the line can be covered. You get an hour for lunch and two 10-minute breaks; roles are switched up every few days for cross-training. It seems incredibly boring—like factory work anywhere in the developed world.

I was somewhat taken aback. What do you mean the conditions are the same as they are in the developed world? What happened to the terrible, repetitive motion? The 15 hour days? The crammed living conditions? Well, the author asserts that during his tour of the facility, he saw workers laughing together on the "campus" and visited living quarters that resembled a college dorm.

While he writes all this, he also says that our eyes should be on Foxconn because of the overtime they often require of their workers. And comforting ourselves with the notion that our consumerism is making both our lives and the lives of the workers better only causes guilt.

When that small appeasement is challenged even slightly, when that thin, taut cord that connects our consumption to the nameless millions who make our lifestyle possible snaps even for a moment, the gulf we find ourselves peering into—a yawning, endless future of emptiness on a squandered planet—becomes too much to bear.

When 17 people take their lives, I ask myself, did I in my desire hurt them? Even just a little?

And of course the answer, inevitable and immeasurable as the fluttering silence of our sun, is yes.

Just a little.

For me, it is too much to bear, and I will continue my quest for a more thoughtful consumer lifestyle.

The cat came back...

You may have been wondering what happened to the cat in my mother's story. Well, within a day, my mom had a response. Due to the violent nature of this story, reader discretion is advised.

And now I present the prequel to "The Coffin in the Backyard," titled "The Tragic Tail of the Cat."

The white, obese cat sat like a statue on the lid of the next door neighbor's trash can, sniffing the air. Aromas of fish, rotting lunch meat, and other wonderful goodies floated up into the cat's nostrils. Willow often visited the neighbors for a morning snack in the trash. He wasn't supposed to be out on his own, but Betty had forgotten to slam the back screen door shut all the way. Instead, poor Betty stood at the front door watching her husband, Jack, pile up his suitcases.

"Don't look for me, Betty. You won't find me. I'm leaving you and this miserable life behind. You'll be hearing from my lawyer, and I'll want the house."

Betty said nothing, not a word as her husband carried his heavy suitcases outside to the car. Betty went inside to find the cat for comfort. At the same time, the garage door of the neighbor began to go up. The cat, looking for more adventures, darted quickly inside running over the foot of the woman, Debbie, next door.

"Stupid cat," she muttered. "Get out of my garage or I'll make gloves out of you." She kicked at the cat, but it jumped on top of the car, out of her reach for the moment. Jack appeared at her side and hugged her.

"Ready to go? Where are your suitcases?" he asked.

"In the kitchen. Help me carry them, honey. Did you get the money?"

"We'll stop by the bank on the way to the airport. How about you? "

She shook her head. "Ron doesn't have a clue. Drained all the accounts. He won't know what hit him."

Debbie walked up the steps and opened the garage door leading into to the kitchen. "Hello," Ron said as Debbie stepped through the threshold. "Going somewhere?" In a quick motion, Ron buried a long knife in Debbie's chest. She crumbled like paper to the floor, a red stain spreading over her silk blouse. Jack almost tripped over her, his shoes splattered with blood.

"What the hell?" he managed to utter, backing out the door. He missed a step down and fell hard onto the hard cement floor, scraping the car bumper on his way down. The cat landed on his chest, hissed, and dug its claws into his jacket. Jack grabbed frantically at the cat to shake it off of him, but it held tight. Cat hair in his face, Jack couldn't see. He turned over, cat hanging from his chest, and tried to get to his feet. As he leaned on the car, he felt Ron's knife cut through his spinal cord with such force that the cat was impaled on his chest. Neither had a thought after that. They both fell in a heap at Ron's feet.

Outside Betty was combing the backyard, yelling, "Willow, Willow, come home now. I have your favorite kibbles!" She was thinking it was odd that Jack's car was still in the driveway. Why was the trunk open? She'd look into that as soon as she found the cat.

Ron shook his head sadly. Betty was going to miss that cat. He walked around the car and lowered the garage door. The street was empty and all was quiet in the neighborhood. Then he turned to the old freezer he had recently cleaned out and plugged back in. It was a good thing he didn't let Debbie sell it. Now it was going to be a godsend. He reached for the garbage bags on the shelf. After he wrapped and stored the bodies, he would have some cleaning to do.

Later he found the Home Depot card his wife had given him for Christmas and ordered some wood planks to be delivered. He knew it would be the first place anyone would look, but he would bury them in the backyard. Then he would redeposit the money he had found in Debbie's pocketbook. Overall, his day off had been very productive. 

Too bad about the cat.

Story Time!

My mother, Donna, is a member of a writers club, and part of this club includes writing short stories given a prompt. For example, one prompted started with "My mother never..." and my mom ended up writing a great story about a woman who ends up on death row.

So one night, I was walking by a neighbor's yard, and in the back I noticed a man building a large, wooden box. It looked just like a coffin, and for some reason, the prompt came into my head, "I knew the coffin he was building was for me." Yesterday, I told my mom about my prompt idea and she definitely ran with it.

Now I would like to present her short story:

After Jack left me, I had a lot of time to think. I got used to sitting in the dark in my purple lawn chair with a glass of red wine, contemplating the woes of the world and my own personal hell. Jack, my husband for fifteen years, had decided to start a new life with "the other woman" two weeks ago, packed his clothes, and drove away to some meeting point. "The Other Woman" must have been rich because he hadn't deleted our joint bank account, drained the savings, or cashed in our 401K. I wasn't left to struggle with gambling bills, mounting debts, or a foreclosure like Mrs. Yancy down the street. No, Jack had been kind. I missed him, but things could have been worse.

Friday night, all dressed up and no where to go, I was relaxing in a wine stupor in my favorite lawn chair when I was brought back to consciousness by a pounding noise. As I lifted my head up, I realized my neighbor was building something in his yard behind my six foot wood fence. I got up and moved to the fence. Light was coming through the seams and leaned over the hedge where I could see Ron, my neighbor, pounding on some pine boards. He was over by his shed, a portable light hooked up with an extension cord. A pile of pine planks were by his side as well as his hound dog Fred. The front of the shed was flung open and I could see his table saw had been pulled out. Wood shavings littered the yard. Ron was busy nailing a large box together, pulling nails he stored in his mouth to pound into the lumber.

Odd, I thought. It looked like a coffin. Ron, I knew, was a postman. He left before I did, dressed in his blue uniform and hat. This box. Was he shipping something big? I hadn't realize that Ron had been so handy at carpentry. Bang. Bang. The pounding continued as the box took the shape of a long rectangle. Then, as if he realized someone was watching, he glanced up. I felt his eyes meet mine and I pulled back. Quickly I retreated to my screen door. As I locked it behind me, I still thought the box looked like a coffin. Maybe it was the wine talking. Why would he be doing that?

The next night as I took out my new bottle of Pinot Noir and settled in my usual lawn chair on the patio, I watched the sun set. As the darkness came, I noticed that my neighbor had on his back porch lights. The pounding was done. Curious about his project, I crept up to the fence again and peered between the panels. The box was gone, but I saw a blue tarp beside the shed covering a lump. Yes, the box was finished.

Suddenly my eye caught movement in the yard. I strained across the hedge to catch a glimpse of Ron digging a hole in his yard. He was now up to his waist, shovel working at a fevered pace. Again Fred stood like a silent soldier at the edge of the hole watching as the dirt flew over him and landed in a neat pile beside him.

I went back to my lawn chair and opened the wine. Sipping the first glass, I realized Ron was going to bury something in his back yard. Something large. Maybe in that coffin of his. After the second glass, I remembered his wife Debbie. I wondered what she thought about his project in the back yard. I had often seen her out washing her car in her red bikini, walking Fred in her skimpy pjs, and waving goodbye to me from her kitchen window when I left for work. I hadn't seen her lately but I couldn't imagine that Ron and Debbie had problems. She seemed so perfect, so cute, so happy. She was always volunteering to fed my cat when I was gone on a business trip. Jack hated my cat. I'm pretty sure he killed it when he left because it was also missing.

After I finished the bottle, I gave up any lucid thought and went back into the house. I left Ron to his hole.

Sunday night came. Fortified by two glasses of Australian merlot, I again slipped up to the fence. Ron was throwing grass seed from a Lowe's bag over the fresh dirt that now covered the hole. The tarp was gone, the wood put away, and the yard freshly mowed. Fred was rolling a ball around on the ground, hoping his master would soon come play with him. After all, the work was all done.

I gasped and Ron looked up.

"Betty, you there?" he asked, rolling the now empty bag up in his arms.

"Yeah," I answered meekly.

"You saw?"

"I saw," I acknowledged.

"Jack's in there too," he said calmly. "They're both in there. Thought you should know. You can call the police if you want. I would understand."

"Jack and Debbie?" I asked.

"Yes,"

"Thanks Ron."

"You're welcome."

I went back to my lawn chair in the dark and my open bottle. It was going to be a good year after all.

Let me know what you think! You can check out her blog too.

A Little Bit Closer...

Today a friend sent me a link to an interview with one of the Apple founders, Steve Wozniak. He went to see Mike Daisey's "The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs" at the Berkeley Repertory Theatre, and he said "I will never be the same after seeing that show."

It was great to hear that someone in within the Apple corporation was also significantly affected by Daisey's performance. We can only hope that the others like the COO and acting CEO Tim Cook will not dismiss the suffering of Chinese workers for the company's gain. As Wozniak aptly put it, "The emotions and understanding and moral feelings that Mike brings out are very strong and could be a threat to Apple's future, even though they are only simmering now."

Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak (with the beard)