Goodbye, Mai-chan

 "I’m thinking of finally getting rid of your old study desk. Could you come home and sort out what you want to keep?"

It was just the other day that I got that call from my mother. My parents are in their seventies now, and they want to start decluttering the house to tie up loose ends for their twilight years. My old bedroom at my parents' house was eerily quiet, looking exactly as it did the day I moved out, as if time had simply stopped in that one specific square of the world. The afternoon sun spilling through the gap in the curtains hasn't changed a bit. My bookshelf and the CDs crammed into it are completely untouched. Seeing them brings a rush of teenage memories; oh right, I used to listen to that stuff.

My wooden study desk sat quietly in the corner of the room. I sat in the chair I hadn't used in decades and ran my hand over the slightly dusty desktop. I pressed the large red, green, and blue buttons for the desk lamp, but it didn't turn on. It was unplugged, of course, but I didn't want to plug it in and see if it still actually worked. Faded prize stickers from old snacks were still clinging to the edge of the desk, no doubt slapped on there by a much younger me. When I pulled open the drawers, a haphazard assortment of relics peeked out from the back: an old purikura photo-sticker book, worn-down pencil stubs, and a tiny glass bottle of those scented beads that were all the rage in elementary school. Feeling like I was unearthing a time capsule, I took them out one by one. The black pencil smudges staining the bottom of the drawer and the smell of aged wood instantly transported me back to the air of my childhood.

Among that pile of junk was a single old postcard. Dog-eared and slightly smudged with pencil, it was from "Mai-chan," a friend who had moved away to a distant prefecture when we were in elementary school. The address on the front and the writing on the back were both penned in that distinctly round, childish handwriting. On the reverse side was a horse drawn painstakingly in colored pencil, accompanied by a brief message: "Take care." This year is the Year of the Horse. This postcard was from exactly three zodiac cycles ago. This slightly faded piece of paper had been sitting here for thirty-six whole years.

Mai-chan was a petite girl, but so active she could easily hold her own against the boys. When the lunch bell rang, she was always the first one sprinting out, her fine, short hair bouncing. We used to play together on the playground equipment in the schoolyard and collapse into fits of laughter over the silliest things. Yet, regardless of the season, those small hands of hers were always clad in white cotton gloves. Perhaps it was hand eczema. A few times while we were playing, I caught a glimpse of raw, red skin painfully peeking out from the cuffs of her gloves. Even so, I never once asked her what was wrong. In my child's mind, I think I sensed it was an unspoken boundary. I was too young to truly understand the pain she carried, and more than anything, I was terrified of stepping into whatever shadows might have lurked behind her bright smile.

She lived in the company housing complex that spread out at the foot of the mountain. Alongside the road leading to the complex ran the tracks of the old copper mine railway. It was a landscape steeped in the atmosphere of the Showa era, with uniform rows of identical wooden terraced houses. I visited her home there a few times. Stepping up over the raised wooden threshold from the entryway, we would spend hours chattering endlessly in her room, a small but incredibly cozy, south-facing space soaked in sunlight.

Taking detours on the way home from school was another of our great joys. Still wearing our yellow school hats and carrying our red backpacks, the two of us often frequented a tiny candy shop everyone called "Okiya." It was a decrepit wooden building that looked like it might tilt over at any moment. By late afternoon, blocked by the mountain's shadow, the rather dim interior was crammed wall-to-wall with cheap sweets. It was run entirely by a quiet old woman who lived alone, always sitting in the tatami room at the back of the store. I remember one time we played the bouncy ball lottery there. You'd pull a paper slip out of a plastic container, and depending on your number, you'd win a bouncy ball of a certain color and size. We used to play with those bright lumps of rubber all the time, dropping them onto the gritty 80’s asphalt and watching them ricochet wildly into the air. That day, I drew a dud, a completely ordinary, tiny, solid-colored ball. While I was sulking, Mai-chan managed to hit the jackpot: a beautiful, marble-patterned bouncy ball as big as a child’s fist.

"Here, you can have it!" 

Her eyes crinkling with joy, she didn't hesitate for a second before pressing that massive ball into my hands. I can still vaguely remember the slightly stiff texture of her white cotton glove, the feel of her small but strong fingers, and the proud, triumphant look on her face.

By the time I left for university, my hometown had undergone massive redevelopment. The company housing where she lived began to be demolished shortly after the year 2000, and today it’s been entirely paved over by new scenery, leaving not a single trace behind. The townscape has changed so drastically that I couldn't even tell you where "Okiya" used to stand. Much later, well into adulthood, I learned that the word okiya historically referred to a geisha or courtesan boarding house. That dark, old building where the old woman quietly minded the store alone... Could it be that she herself was involved in that line of work in her youth, and the name of that little candy shop was a lingering echo of her past? The truth is lost to time now. Only the dimness of that shop at dusk remains etched in my memory.

Mai-chan moved away to a distant prefecture at the end of the second term, on a bitterly cold, windy day in December. It was the kind of freezing day where the sky was a heavy, leaden gray and your breath bloomed white in the air. Not long after that, this New Year's card arrived in my mailbox in January. That slightly clumsy, colored-pencil horse, and the words "Take care." The New Year's cards we exchanged that year were the very last things that connected us.

I lifted my eyes from the postcard and looked around my childhood room once more. Under some sky, somewhere in Japan, what kind of adult has Mai-chan become? What kind of life is she living? Has she finally been able to take off those white cotton gloves? I have no idea where she is or what she's doing. But those memories from back then still remain at the very bottom of my heart, glowing with an undeniable warmth.

I stared quietly at the old postcard for a little while longer. The faded drawing of the horse seemed to be staring right back at me from the past. 

"Take care," 

I murmured softly, returning her own words to her across a gap of thirty-six years. And then, I gently dropped the card into the trash can.

Goodbye, Mai-chan.

The Beauty of Decay

 According to the preliminary figures from the latest five-year national census released late last month, Japan's population has shrunk by 3.09 million compared to the previous count. It's the largest drop on record. Here in my home prefecture of Ehime, we've lost about 75,000 people (a 5.6% decline).

Take a look at the graph below. It shows the long-term population projections for Japan released by the government back in 2011.

「国土の長期展望」中間とりまとめ 概要 平成23年2月21日 国土審議会政策部会長期展望委員会

("Long-Term Vision of National Land" Interim Report Summary)

Year	Population	Aging Rate
2004	127.84 million	19.6%
2030	115.22 million	31.8%
2050	95.15 million	39.6%
2100	47.71 million	40.6%

Since government demographic forecasts practically make a sport out of being overly optimistic, the reality will likely be even sparser.

While it's generally best to separate the macro, the national economy, from the micro, individual living standards, considering the yen's relentless depreciation and the continuous drop in real wages, the financial reality for most Japanese people is going to be incredibly grim.

I could write endlessly about the myriad social issues destined to arise from a rapidly shrinking population in a domestic-demand-driven economy. But I’ve beaten that drum plenty of times before. So today, I'll step away from the soapbox and lean into my personal, perhaps overly sentimental, feelings about Japan.

Ehime's rural landscape

I love the Japanese countryside. For me, nothing beats the rural scenery of my home here in Ehime.

In late April, the rice paddies are flooded. Planting happens in May, and as the temperatures rise, the stalks shoot up. By midsummer the paddies, once a reflection of the sky, become a green carpet of rustling leaves. But the best time, I think, is in late September, just before the harvest, when the heavy, golden ears of rice bend low. The contrasts are just breathtaking: the vivid red of the spider lilies growing by the paths, the bright gold of the rice and the rich green of the foliage all around.

Spider lilies blooming in late September

My husband's hometown of San Francisco is postcard-perfect from virtually any angle. Yet, as a country girl at heart, I have a deep affection for the unpolished, rustic landscapes of Japan. It’s not the curated, look-at-me beauty of a theme park, it’s an unapologetic, frugal lived-in-ness. You can feel the traces of human lives, a raw, breathing humidity of the place. I can even find genuine beauty in the rusted signboard of a roadside shop that probably went out of business twenty or thirty years ago.

Japan will undoubtedly continue to fade alongside its rapidly shrinking population. A few years ago, the local 24-hour convenience store started closing its doors at 9 PM. As someone who clearly remembers the glittering, neon-drenched streets of the 90s, it's undeniably lonely watching the nights grow steadily darker. But the decay of regional cities didn't just start yesterday. In hindsight, the rot had clearly set in thirty years ago, right in the middle of all that glitter.

For me, the charm of the Japanese countryside isn't tethered to economic indicators. While our modern conveniences will drastically plummet year by year, the unpolished, decaying beauty that I hold so dear will likely only multiply.

Now, having waxed poetic about my love for rural Japan, let me offer a massive caveat: I do not recommend moving to the middle of nowhere. When I sing the praises of the countryside, I’m talking about the suburbs of mid-sized regional cities. I am absolutely not talking about "marginal settlements" (限界集落) deep in the mountains.

In those dying hamlets with only a handful of households left, everyone is essentially "family." Because of that, they can be brutally exclusive to outsiders, even to fellow Japanese. Since everyone views each other as kin, the boundaries of personal space are wildly different from the norm. An acquaintance of mine who married into one of these extreme rural areas told me that a neighbor once waltzed into her house uninvited, rummaged through her drawers, and casually helped themselves to groceries from her fridge.

And honestly, she was one of the lucky ones because she was at least accepted as "family." I’ve lost count of the stories I've heard about families moving from the city to the deep country, only to be completely ostracized and driven out by the village.

At the end of the day, people leave places for a reason.

We Are All “sort of” Flat-Earthers

 “How the maps we grow up with quietly shape our sense of the world.”

I grew up in Japan, and the world map I knew as a child looked very different from the one most people abroad are used to seeing.

Japan sits proudly in the middle, the Pacific Ocean stretches wide to the right with the United States beyond it, while the vast Eurasian continent unfolds to the left.

In middle school, I was fascinated by the late Edo period, the turbulent time when Japan opened its door to the world. The arrival of the Black Ships, the slogan "Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians," the battle between isolation and modernization—all these things seemed alive to me.

During lunch breaks, I would bury myself in the library, devouring books about that era. Through those pages, I could almost feel the heat of that age, the pulse of young men waiting for dawn with swords in hand, even the scent of iron and blood in the air.

…Until I got used to something.

That “something” was a different kind of map —
the Eurocentric world map.

this is what’s considered the “standard” world map.

In that version, Europe sits at the heart of the world. The Americas spread across the center like a great axis, and Japan appears as a small scattering of islands at the far right edge of the sea.

 Once I became accustomed to that image, something in my perception changed.

The era I had once felt so vividly — the passionate chaos of Japan’s transformation — suddenly seemed like a minor skirmish that took place on a tiny island at the edge of the world. When I realized how easily that feeling had shifted, I was genuinely frightened by the power of maps.

Let me be clear, I don’t mean to say that Eurocentric maps are unfair or discriminatory. What I realized is that the human brain seems to perceive the world as a flat map, not as a globe. And the impression we form from that flat image is far stronger than we imagine.

Most American children, for instance, grow up seeing a very different map.

notice how the perception of Greenland completely changes.
To most Japanese people, Greenland feels like a remote corner of the earth, to Americans, it’s an enormous northern extension of their own continent, a presence that feels much larger, not even comparable.

Our heads are shaped like a globe, and yet what fits inside them is only a flat map. It’s strange, isn’t it?

The Myth of Jiatama – A Word That Comforts the Uneducated

 In Japan, there is a curious term that has become something of a buzzword: “Jiatama” (地頭).

It’s often used in the phrase “He’s got good jiatama,” meaning “He’s smart, even though he doesn’t have an academic background.”

At first glance, it might seem similar to the English term “street-smart,” but in truth, it is the exact opposite. Street-smart refers to practical intelligence, the kind of wisdom one earns through surviving real danger and uncertainty. It belongs to those who have truly faced the world and learned to navigate it.

“Jiatama,” on the other hand, is a form of wishful thinking, the belief that one is secretly intelligent, despite any evidence to support it. It is, in essence, a comforting illusion for those who never applied themselves.

After graduating from a national university, I worked for a publicly listed company in Tokyo. The work was demanding but fulfilling, until relentless harassment and overwork wore me down. Eventually, I left and returned to my hometown in Ehime.

At my new job, I encountered a kind of employee I had never seen in Tokyo. It was there that I first heard the word jiatama from someone’s mouth.

“I’ve got good jiatama,”
one middle-aged male coworker declared confidently.

Yet it was I who constantly fixed his mistakes and carried the weight of his unfinished work. If that was what “good jiatama” looked like, I wanted no part of it.

In Japan, people often say, “Some folks are quick-witted, even if they’re not well educated.” But more often than not, such claims serve as a consolation prize for those who despise learning. To study is to confront one’s own ignorance, and that can be an uncomfortable act. Perhaps that is why the word jiatama was invented: to justify not learning, and to turn laziness into a virtue.

Few expressions are as convenient — or as hollow — as “I’ve got good jiatama.” 

If someone were truly intelligent, they would have no trouble mastering the structured knowledge of formal education. Only those who persevere and continue learning can ever see the larger systems that shape the world. Thus, while good grades may not be a sufficient condition of intelligence, they are almost certainly a necessary one.

People are not born equal. But in a developed country like Japan, the opportunity to make an effort is equally available to all. If someone could not study properly as a child, there are still countless chances to learn as an adult — through languages, professional qualifications, or any serious pursuit of knowledge.

To abandon those opportunities and still boast, “I’m smart — I’ve got good jiatama,” is not intelligence at all. It is simply proof of one’s cluelessness.

To learn is, in the Socratic sense, to know that you know nothing. I believe true wisdom begins not with pride, but with humility, the quiet courage to face one’s own ignorance, again and again.

Living in "Ruitomo" Bubbles

 In Japanese, there’s a saying 類は友を呼ぶ (rui wa tomo wo yobu) literally, “like attracts like.” It’s often shortened to ruitomo. English has a similar expression: Birds of a feather flock together.

Last month, a self-proclaimed loner YouTuber with a massive following made headlines for having an affair with a married man. A month later, she resurfaced on YouTube, and it was picked up by Yahoo News.

According to the report, she said, “Everyone I meet is fooling around. Everyone’s cheating.” Reading that, I couldn’t help but think: yep, ruitomo really is a thing. In my own circle, I don’t know a single person engaged in such behavior. About ten years ago, I did know someone who was having an affair, but our values clashed, so I chose to distance myself.

It made me wonder: perhaps we humans live inside smaller bubbles than we realize.

Gamers may recall the controversy around the game Stellar Blade, where the female protagonist’s physique was slammed by certain journalists as “unrealistic.” One article even claimed: “Eve from Stellar Blade is just bland. A doll sexualized by someone who has never seen a woman.”

To me, it’s clear the writer has barely encountered Asian women.

I myself am baby-faced, slender, and tall (5’7”). Whenever I’m out, I notice women with figures similar to mine—or even taller. So from my perspective, I cannot understand why anyone would call Eve’s physique “unrealistic.”

The truth is, people unconsciously build their own ruitomo bubbles. Anything outside feels alien, sometimes even threatening. And when they project the norms of their tiny bubble onto the entire world, that’s when we hear statements like “Everyone’s cheating” or “a doll sexualized by someone who has never seen a woman.”

On social media, echo chambers are often criticized. But at the root, all human societies are simply clusters of echo chambers. We gather with those who share similar opinions or lifestyles, and that gives us comfort and solidarity. Yet when it goes too far, these echo chambers harden into bubbles that reject the outside world.

Which is why we must acknowledge that echo chambers are the default state of human society. The key is to ask ourselves, “Which bubble am I in right now?” and to cultivate the flexibility to occasionally look outside.

That said, adopting the worldview of “Everyone’s cheating” is one bubble no one needs to step into.

When Test Scores Trump Honesty: Reflections on the TOEIC Proxy Scandal

 In Japan, the TOEIC exam is practically a rite of passage for job seekers and career changers. For many, a high TOEIC score opens doors—so it’s no wonder the test has become big business. But in recent years, it’s also become big news for all the wrong reasons.

Lately, there’s been a surge in so-called “proxy test-taking” scandals, where someone hires another person—a ringer, if you will—to take the exam on their behalf. The headlines this spring were particularly striking: a graduate student at Kyoto University was arrested for taking the test in someone else’s place, and dozens of people who hired him or used the same shady services were also charged.

According to the news, entire networks of brokers operate on social media, advertising things like “guaranteed high scores” and “you’ll never get caught!” Since a TOEIC score can make or break a job or study abroad opportunity, desperate clients fork over tens of thousands of yen for the chance to outsource their exam—and their integrity.

In May 2025 a Chinese national at Kyoto University attempted to take the TOEIC on behalf of someone else. AI facial recognition and vigilant test staff soon caught on. Police traced his application records and money transfers, and discovered some forty clients linked to the same address. A number of these clients were formally interrogated and charged with inciting forgery of documents and other crimes.

It’s easy to see why a high TOEIC score is tempting, but I have to wonder: does cheating really pay off? Wouldn’t your boss eventually notice if your English doesn’t live up to your impressive score? I can’t help but imagine some awkward office moments—“Wait, I thought you spoke English?”

On a side note, there’s a familiar refrain in Japan that “Japanese people can’t speak English because our education system is terrible.” Personally, I don’t buy it.

In my view, there are two main reasons Japanese people struggle with English.

First, Japanese and English are worlds apart in terms of grammar and structure. The Foreign Service Institute (FSI) actually ranks Japanese as a Category V language, the toughest for English speakers to learn. There’s even an asterisk next to Japanese in their rankings, saying “Languages preceded by asterisks are usually more difficult for native English speakers to learn than other languages in the same category.”

In other words, the feeling is mutual, English is one of the hardest languages for native Japanese speakers, too.

Second, there’s simply no pressing need for English in daily life here. Sure, a high TOEIC score is a nice boost when job hunting, but most Japanese people can get through life—and even academia—without ever having to use English. Practically every textbook, from psychology to medicine, is available in Japanese translation, so students can become experts in their fields without mastering English.

And yet, if so many people are willing to pay serious money to cheat on their English exams, maybe the stakes are changing. Maybe English is becoming less “optional” in Japan. But honestly, I hope we never reach the point where you can’t get by in your own country without a foreign language. There’s something wonderful about living in a society that’s self-sufficient in its own language.

For what it’s worth, I took the TOEIC once, just out of curiosity, without any practice or preparation. My score? 920, far from perfect, I know.

Never Become a Politician’s Fan

On the 20th of this month, Japan will hold a national election that could dramatically shape our country’s future. I’ve already cast my vote at an early polling station.

Looking at the state of Japanese politics these days, I can’t help but notice how some politicians are worshipped almost like religious leaders, with devoted “followers” hanging on their every word. Honestly, I find it all rather unsettling.

Supporting your favorite idol or celebrity, what’s now called “推し活(oshi-katsu)” is, at the end of the day, just a harmless hobby (though, truth be told, I’ve never understood the urge to chase after entertainers or collect their merchandise, but hey, to each their own). Politics, however, is a whole different animal. The actions of politicians have a direct impact on our daily lives, for better or worse.

Let’s not forget: in a democracy, the people are the true sovereigns. Elections are simply the process by which we temporarily entrust enormous power to a handful of representatives. Our job is not to become fans or followers, but to serve as cold-eyed judges—scrutinizing these politicians, holding them to account, and swapping them out whenever necessary.

The more uncertain the times, the more people seem to long for a “strong leader” or someone who will “fight for Japan.” There’s comfort in clinging to the idea that this person alone can be trusted, or that that politician is on our side. But this mindset, I would argue, is the very definition of dangerous complacency for any citizen in a democracy.

We are not meant to be cheerleaders for politicians. No matter how impressive their résumé or how sweet their promises, we must maintain enough distance and clarity to see the interests and calculations behind the mask.

After all, why place blind faith in the words of a complete stranger—someone you’ve never lived with under the same roof—who’s ultimately saying whatever it takes to get elected? The only things we should put our trust in are their policies, actions, and the results those actions produce.

Our role is to keep scoring them, dispassionately, methodically, and if they come up short, to replace them at the next opportunity. That, in my view, is the true responsibility of a democratic citizen.

Everybody’s Right, Nobody’s Responsible

 I'm fed up with modern society. It's like a broken record, endlessly repeating "rights, rights, rights!" Of course everyone has rights—that's obvious, everyone knows that. But along with rights come responsibilities, and I think it's utterly irresponsible to brandish rights without considering anything else. In my view, rights are inherently something that should be limited to some extent by the impact they have on others, as well as by the duties we must fulfill. Yet when you say something like this, you risk being labeled a bigot, a racist, or something along those lines. These days, the word "discrimination" has become so convenient—just call something discriminatory and you can push through any argument. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's sick of this sort of thing. Society is supposed to extend a helping hand to the vulnerable, but when a handful of extreme activists abuse the "discrimination card," even those who genuinely need protection end up being resented. Isn't that a loss for society as a whole? I really don't like this trend...

Arcades that aren't too crowded are calming as hell

On Having No Friends

I don’t have a single friend.

That might sound surprising, but it really comes down to how you define “friend.” For me, a friend is someone you keep in touch with for no particular reason—just because you feel like it.

I’ve never been the type to have lots of friends, even as a child. And now, as an adult, I realize I don’t have anyone I’d truly call “my friend.”

Of course, in San Francisco, my husband’s hometown, I’ve been lucky to meet wonderful people through him. They’re friendly, kind, and I genuinely enjoy their company. But let’s be honest—they’re still friends “by association.” I wouldn’t, for example, ask any of them out for coffee, just the two of us.

There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude. Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you’re lonely. In fact, it’s all too common to feel lonely in a crowd.

Some people like to boast about how many friends they have, but for me, having lots of so-called “friends” I can’t really open up to just makes me feel more isolated. I’d much rather be alone than surrounded by people I don’t truly connect with. I don’t mind doing things by myself; in fact, I prefer it. Life’s too short to spend it putting on an act, just to keep up appearances and fit in with a group.

Honestly, I barely have time as it is. My days are full—there’s housework to do, interesting things to read, precious time to spend with my husband—and before I know it, it’s time for bed.

Everyone has their own rhythm, and trying to coordinate schedules just to meet up feels like more effort than it’s worth. Maybe I’m missing out, but the truth is, I don’t have anyone I’d go to all that trouble for. Even if I did, life happens—people move, change jobs, and drift apart. That’s just how it goes.

TV dramas love to show friendships that are stronger than family ties—intense, passionate bonds that last forever. I won’t lie, there’s a part of me that envies that. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure I’d really want that kind of relationship. Sure, having a best friend closer than family would be nice. But could I actually commit that much time and emotional energy? I doubt it.

This might seem off-topic, but there’s a Japanese children’s song called “When I Become a First Grader(一年生になったら)” The lyrics go, “When I become a first-grader, I wonder if I’ll have a hundred friends. I want to eat rice balls as a hundred on top of Mt. Fuji.”

As a contrary little kid, that line always puzzled me. As a hundred? Does that mean a hundred people in total—including me? Or should it be a hundred friends, plus me? Even as a child, I thought, “Wait, shouldn’t it be ‘with a hundred friends,’ not ‘as a hundred’?”
… That odd phrasing stuck with me for decades.

But now, I think I finally get it—or maybe I don’t. Either way, I’d still rather enjoy a rice ball alone than force myself to eat with a hundred people I hardly know.