Family Vacation Videos

There’s the sudden realization that my sisters were always cooler than me. Way cooler than me. Simply because I, throughout my adolescence, tried too hard to be cool and they, in the tenacity of youth, didn’t have to try. And yet, though they always seemed deny it adamantly back then, they now attest, unashamedly, to the many ways that they admired, even idolized me. We are watching an old family vacation video and Lindsay says, “I remember that swimsuit. I couldn’t wait for you to grow out of it so that I could have it.” I am shocked. I never knew back then that either Ashley or Lindsay liked or coveted anything I had or did. I wanted them to. I really, really wanted them to. But they always seemed so confident and secure in the unyielding sisterly support that they, as twins, offered one another and I, as the non-twin, was generally exempt from. The news that they, at that age, did indeed see me as someone to look up to is thoroughly surprising.

The debate regenerates from time to time and we still are at an impasse as to who was the more injured party. I felt ostracized by them, the twins, and they felt ostracized by me, the older sibling. At least, as I cannot help but point out whenever the argument arises in conversation, they felt rejected together. I had no ally. In my family, my parents had each other, my sisters had each other, and then there was me.

In the video, a little girl is swinging in a hammock. She is playing with a plastic toy dog and she is singing to herself, a song that she is making up as she goes. I am so outstandingly jealous of that girl, jealous that she doesn’t worry about being too old for her toy, jealous of her unconcern for how much sense her lyrics make and who might hear them. The camera spans right across the family campsite and I can see her older sister, examining her reflection in the minivan’s windows, feeling restless.

I forced myself to grown up too fast, obsessed with winning the approval of others. But part of growing up--as once said a young nun with an uncanny ability to put into words the self-examining questions I had hitherto been scared to ask--is learning to simply accept what is an not obsess over what could be or might have been. No one can ever truly know what others think of her. Slowly, very slowly, I am digesting these truths and learning to apply them.

Science Rules

This morning I participated in history. Or at least witnessed it. But the fact that I attended a local public radio event to observe, commemorate, and discuss NASA’s final shuttle launch, rather than just watching on TV alone at home (or, even more likely, sleeping through it) felt at least nominally participatory.

The momentousness of the last ever shuttle taking off into space gained especial poignancy when I observed it, via live satellite feed, in a room filled with amateur rocket scientists, run-of-the-mill science geeks, inquisitive youngsters, and kindred spirits who simply could think of no better way to spend their early Friday morning. As the flames began to shoot from the rocket and the craft left the launch pad, the entire room erupted into jubilant applause. A glance around the audience would have found several people rubbing the goose bumps on their arms or whipping away a tear. It was, understandably, a very emotional moment to be a human being.

Also in attendance at the event in Pasadena this morning was none other than childhood educational television icon, Bill Nye the Science Guy. I must say, in the face of several challenging and even far-fetched questions posed to him from audience members this morning about the future of the space program, the Science Guy lived up to his title. He proved himself very knowledgeable, yet personable and relatable, and the entire event was immensely satisfying and enjoyable.

Though I understand the melancholy nostalgia that many associate with the retirement of the space shuttle, I am more excited than ever to witness the new directions our space program and the space exploration programs of other countries begin to take in the coming years. There is still so much to be explored! So many conundrums to be solved!

When I was seven years old, my life’s ambition was to become the first person to walk on Mars. And though I’ve since set that goal aside to make room for slightly more realistic ones, the eminent possibility of such an event (once, of course, scientists have devised a new type of craft that can transport humans safely for longer durations and it is an economically viable mission for the country or company that commissions it) within my own lifetime is something worth feeling enthusiastic about.

Dear Meghan teacher,

I’m sorry that it took me so long to write a letter. Meghan sensei, how are you? We are all fine. How is it being back in your hometown? In Japan, it’s the season of beautiful maple leaves. And, it’s becoming cold. What is it like now in America?

Do you remember me?

[purikura of Eri and some of her friends from school]

We all miss you, Meghan sensei. I’m sad I can’t see your cute smile in English class anymore.

At Yamazaki Junior High School, we just had Rindosai [the school festival]. All of the classes did very good in the chorus competition and at “Yama-chu LIVE” [the afternoon talent/variety show portion of the program] and, altogether, everyone was able to make good memories.

And that’s what’s happening here!

I’m waiting for a letter from you, if it pleases you to write one.

From Eri Genta



I received this letter in the mail on Saturday and it certainly succeeded in making my day, if not my week.

To Barbie, or not to Barbie?

Back in our day, my little sisters and I used to play a mean game of Barbies. And, between the three of us, we had quite the collection of dolls and accessories. There was an unspoken agreement that the most handsome Ken doll was Baywatch Ken (although, in my opinion, Aladdin could have taken the prize if it weren't for the annoying fact that his fez was permanently attached to his head). As far as which female doll was the prettiest, I think we each held our separate opinions. My favorite was Camping Barbie, whose dishwater blond hair and tan skin set her apart from her more generic platinum blond counterparts.

In life, there are few occurrences more irritating than when a well-intentioned adult attempts to join in your game of Barbies. This is due to the fact that adults, when they play "make believe" games with kids, tend to assume that the make-believe world is more innocent than it actually is. They try to make the Barbies behave like little kids; Barbies, clearly, are not little kids. At six, seven, eight, or nine years old, my sisters and I recognized that the dolls we were playing with represented adult people, and we, accordingly, imagined adult scenarios to place them in. Our Barbies would fight and even kill each other. They would get drunk. They would have sex. Of course, none of our enactments of the aforementioned events were at all realistic, but they were our speculative attempts to make sense of the befuddling grown-up world. And we enjoyed it immensely.

Of the various games and scenarios we would continuously revisit in our playtime with Barbies, one stands out to me in particular on account of its absurdity as well as its especial popularity: weddings. Our Barbie and Ken dolls would get married all the time. We were constantly partnering them off with new people (hey, it was only fair that all the ladies should get their own crack at Baywatch Ken). We had two wedding dresses and plenty of other formal gowns that would be appropriate for a bride in a pinch, but, alas, we only had one tuxedo; so, our dolls were constantly performing costume changes throughout the duration of our play in order to accommodate the multiple couples who were being paired off that day.

But even more interesting than the wedding wardrobe was the marriage ceremony itself, particularly the last part (and, more interesting yet, what happened after the ceremony). Follwing the officiant's pronouncement of Ken and Barbie as "Man and Wife," he would always, always, declare conclusively: "You may go and get naked!"

At this point, Barbie and Ken would fly (yes, you read right, fly) off into the air together to another end of the room where they would be stripped of their clothes and left alone to do as they pleased. This was the formula for make-believe marriages that we stuck with, and we stuck with it because it worked: it gratified our need to make two wedding dresses and one tuxedo satisfy the fashion demands of half a dozen couples, and it complied with our firm knowledge (gleaned from a ubiquitous comment made by our mother) that men and women saw each other naked after they got married.

Last Sunday I found myself engaged in a riveting conversation about Barbies with two friends whose ideas and opinions I always respect and enjoy. One of these friends has a baby girl and considers carefully the possible concerns of permitting or not permitting her child to have or play with certain types of toys. The other friend was not allowed to play with Barbies when she was growing up. The three of us agreed that, in retrospect, we find the practice of little girls playing with dolls that have adult bodies to be somehow troublesome, if not downright distressing.

But, in the end, what is the real impact of allowing one's daughter to play with Barbies? Or of withholding them? A child in contemporary society will still be exposed to plenty of unrealistic adult bodies on television or screaming from the magazine racks at the supermarket. How much of a difference does it make if the unrealistic adult body is not just in an airbrushed photograph, but is that of her own plaything? Would I have a different self image today if I'd never met Camping Barbie and Baywatch Ken? Would I have a healthier understanding of my own body in relation to others' bodies? Would I have healthier views on sex?

I just don't know. But what I do know is, I can't wait to get married.