Toshi’s Struggle: Alone in a Group Culture

On Wednesday afternoon I took some time to meet a friend from California. My wife Annie met Toshi when Annie was earning her Masters in Psychology at California State University at Hayward. Toshi was studying the same discipline while on leave from a training company in Japan.
We invited Toshi and his wife for dinner. Kokoro entertained Annie and my daughters by teaching them Origami, making small cranes of different colors. She was also interested in beer making — a domestic hobby of mine. I invited her to the next brewing, where she took pictures and later presented me with a photo book of our enterprise. I hoped she would initiate the ritual in her own kitchen.
On my first trip to Japan, Toshi and I had walked along the water near the Emperor’s Palace. The day had been pleasant; the cherry trees showed their budding promise of the coming bloom. On this day, the February snow remained in spots, the depressing gray of sky and land reminding me of Minnesota toward the end of winter. As we talked of his personal life, Toshi’s situation appeared to match the weather.
He had separated and then divorced Kokoro — a very unusual act in Japan, I gathered. She wanted to stay married, willing to do whatever he would like. He wanted her to explore her own identity, not be an adjunct of his. They never worked it out.
Now he was living with his parents. I couldn’t evaluate whether this was a social plus or minus. He had been unemployed for more than a year and seemed emotionally stuck. I surmised that he felt repressed by the burdens of the culture — a man, wanting to fly free, overwhelmed by an intense gravity.
Toshi spoke forcefully, vehemently, against the forces that held him back, held others back. Freedom of expression was very limited. One could talk but not say anything private, not tap into deep emotions.
He was interested in counseling others so constrained, but that wasn’t a well accepted career or practice in Japan. Was self-help or self-actualization considered impolite or selfish in a group-oriented society? A far cry from California.
“Japanese are taught to avoid looking inward, to dismiss the personal. We do not seek psychological counseling. We are not supposed to question, only to identify the social norms for any situation and conform to them.” He paused a moment, then added, “It is hard to be an individual in Japan.”
As we rode the JR train to a restaurant, the sullen skies colored the conversation. His intensity was getting a little scary. I hadn’t seen this confusion expressed with such emotion by anyone in Japan. I suspected it’s existence — like a secret that everyone agreed to keep. Perhaps with a “fellow Californian” unconstrained by the culture, he could openly share his feelings.
After lunch, we found a nearby park. Strolling through the well tended trees, he became more philosophical. “The Japanese are changing. In some ways, we are inflexible.” Surely I knew lots of those. “But also Japanese are flexible — they go along with pressures upon them that are inevitable, or at least beyond their control.”
As he spoke, I recalled the the “grin and bear it” endurance that Robin had mentioned. Muddle through and keep the complaints to yourself – that kind of “flexible” responsiveness. This was a long way from the initiation and self guidance an American would associate with the term.
The floodgates opened as Toshi voiced his angst. His culture would not address deeply personal issues. There was little mechanism for or tolerance of psychological problems. Personal problems remained personal. Their resolution was left to the individual to correct.
I viewed this as a lost opportunity of tragic proportion. In a society where the collective had such reverence and power, where were the therapy groups so common in the U.S.? That immense social resource could be forcefully applied to help the lonely, the estranged, the troubled. Instead, it remained the cold enforcer of a cultural stoicism that was part of the problem.
“Personal” issues. I thought again of my perplexity over the lack of trash cans in central Tokyo. Trash was a personal issue. It was not up to the society to provide a system for disposal of such unattractive things. So too the people must carry their psychological burdens, privately and quietly.
My heart ached to see my friend so depressed. It showed in his face, the spark that I had so enjoyed in California having dimmed with his return home. He was not accepting the acquiescence required of all members of the group “Japanese.” Such resistance took courage — and its toll.
As we rode the train back, I was overcome by an all too familiar feeling: that desperate desire to help someone — a worthy friend — and being abjectly powerless to do so. I wished I could leave him with a call to action, with some constructive options or encouragement.
I remembered many conversations with Annie in which I was doing the “guy thing” of trying to fix what bothered her. She just wanted to express her concern, anxiety, fear, loneliness – whatever it was. It took me years to learn that the best response was often not to “fix” but to listen and acknowledge. In this regard, I was still learning.
Here was Toshi, in a fierce battle with a culture I didn’t understand well, wrestling inner and external demons. How could I advise him? As we rode the train on a bleak day, I simply listened.