By
Akiko Ebihara
Every
year, there are posters advertising for “Princess Experience” event held at
Keio Plaza Hotel in Keio Line. It always made me feel bad, but I recently came
to think about this in a little different light. I began to think that the
widely accepted conception of the princess might be misleading.
Girls
think it would be great to be a princess because they believe it is such a tremendously
lucky position to be in. They might think they get to eat delicious meals and
wear beautiful dresses for free, be loved by sweet and handsome prince, and
people lavish attention on her and respect her. But once we think of the real
princess of this country, the hardship she has been facing is apparent. There
is not even guarantee that the prince is handsome! The New York Times reported
the marriage of Masako and Crown Prince Naruhito with the headline of “A
Reluctant Princess.” It is true for princesses elsewhere. The tragedy of
Princess Diana is still fresh in our minds, and there was a case of suicide in
the process of reporting Princess Catherine’s pregnancy.
The
business of being a princess is no super-celeb full time housewife. Princesses
must be experiencing one difficulty after another. It must require a number of
skills and strengths, including a strong will, generosity, altruism, and the
ability of giving up on things in order to successfully meet her role.
A
long time ago, I taught English as a part-time lecturer in a university in
Saitama. I assigned a short story called The Princess Who Stood on Her Own Two
Feet, written by an American feminist writer, Jeanne Desy, to incoming students.
The princess in a kingdom near the ocean was tall, bright, and cheerful as a
sunflower, and very skilled with horse-back riding, but she had a hard time
meeting an appropriate partner. She decided to marry a Prince based on
political strategy.
The
prince was handsome, but into cutesy girls. When the Princess was riding on a
horse, he would ask if no one has taught that ladies should ride side-saddle.
The Princess thought it was nonsense, but would not say it out loud. When she
offered an insightful remark on history and politics, the Prince became upset
and told her that women should make just a small comment only when they are
asked, because women should be seen and not heard. But the Princess wanted
to marry. So she gave up the horse-back riding she loved, stopped talking, and
spent much time laying down for the Prince who did not like the fact she was
taller than him.
When
she was about to be forced to give up her beloved dog because of the Prince,
however, she made up her mind to break the engagement and walk away from
him. Her parents were concerned with the relationship between the two kingdoms.
The Princess told them that it was not her duty to sacrifice all she had, and
her duties were to stands tall with her own two feet, and not to betray those
who love and trust her.
We
could say this is just another feminist fairy tale, but to me, the line, “A
princess stands tall” left a strong impression. I was tall since I was young,
and my grandmother used to say to me, “You are so tall. It really is a shame
that you cannot even fit in half a tatami-mat.” Feminists have insightfully
pointed out that men tended to occupy physical space as much they could, while
women are expected to occupy a minimum amount of space.
I
decided to think of myself a “Princess of Cancer.” A princess stands tall and
bravely faces hardship. She and those who are suffering from the same disease
support each other, work on campaigns so that younger ones would not have to
suffer from the same disease. She would love herself, try not to be a burden of
people who believe in her, yet at the same time respond to their love, relying
on them at times. She would think what she could do for them, and value the
inter-connectedness of people. She would think of those who are troubled and
suffering. She would stand firm in being always with the weak. She would fight
against the evil and injustice.
*****
In
March 2012, after my retirement, my body could not handle even half of the
anti-cancer drug I was supposed to take. As always, my bone marrow could not
take it and my body didn’t have enough white blood cells. My doctor lowered the
dose by two levels, and said that there was no point in continuing the chemo
therapy if the dose were lower than that.
There
were two times in which I accepted the fact that the death was nearing. This
was the second time. The first time was two summers ago, when I was told that I
might not be able to receive radical treatment. On that day, I wandered around
the underground mall in Shimbashi (mid-Tokyo). It’s been two years. I did live
very well, didn’t I?
I
started reading books again in search of alternative treatment. I ordered
Hasumi Vaccine, which my friend recommended. I also realized the difficulty of
reducing stress, eating well, and exercising moderately. It’s easier said than
done. I also learned that while there are some cases of miraculous recoveries
from cancer with alternative medicine, most of those who used alternative
medicine still died. Even among those who I met after I learned that I had a
cancer, there are people who chose not to receive anti-cancer treatments or
people who decided not to continue the treatments in the early stages. They all
have passed away in about half year.
There are doctors who would say, “Don’t fight
against cancer.” But it is not easy. It doesn’t really help. The weight of
critical decisions I have to make can be so heavy and overwhelming. I decided
that the use of anti-cancer drugs was the most rational way to treat my cancer,
but at the mid-point of my treatment in early June, my body could not handle
the treatment and my doctor and I decided to discontinue the treatment. The
tumor marker was fine. I was in high spirits. I am a strong princess. I will
live and I will stay positive.
It
has been nine months since then. I have experienced multiple re-emergences of
cancer, but I have been staying calm so far. I don’t know how long I will be
able to live, but I am thankful that I was given the time in which I could
reflect on my life. I struggled with balancing work and family life. I have
argued with my husband because of this, but now I think of it as something that
might have been even beneficial for my children. Now I am grateful for my
husband. It is something wonderful about life that I have someone to argue
with. I was lucky to have a husband who is supportive, and who has never
lamented his bad luck of having a wife with cancer.
*****
In
the winter of 2012, I was given an opportunity to give a talk on how I became a
feminist at the Shibuya Women’s Center. I thought about feminism while making
powerpoint slides. That was when I started to think that maybe I should say
something I could not say, something that I can now say. It is something I have
been hesitant to talk about, as soon as I think of myself as a feminist. It is
my deep emotional feeling towards my children.
A
little over ten years ago, I was chatting with a fellow instructor in a instructors’
room in a college in Tokyo. I have two daughters and one son, and she, an
American woman, has two daughters. In the middle of the endless conversation
about children’s school, the challenges of raising teenagers, etc., she said,
“Kids are so cute, you know. The lives of my children are even more important
than my own life. But as a feminist, I can’t really say that out loud; I can’t
help but to feel how much I love them.”
I strongly
agreed with what she said. It really is true. But why? Is it because a
prominent feminist scholar, Ogura Chikako, once famously said “married
feminists are what I don’t like”? I have respect toward her for saying what
most people can’t say. But it also revealed that marriage and children were an Achilles’
heel for many feminists.
People
have different experiences. Some are married and some are not. Some have study
abroad experiences and some don't. Those are just differences. But women
don’t like to hear other women bragging about their experience of mothering as
something so wonderful. Much more so than how some people think of showing off
of study abroad experiences as tasteless. I personally am not fond of women who
do that either, especially full-time housewives. I also hate the cliche,
“adults become grown-ups through parenting.” But wouldn’t this kind of attitude
be considered intolerant to people of the same gender who have no other choice
but to deal with their anxiety about identity through their everyday work of
childcare. It is also problematic that married feminists, including myself, try
to maintain the alliance with single feminists by emphasizing the challenging aspects
of childrearing, while feeling that the joys involved in parenting are greater
than the difficulty and hardship associated with it.
As
someone who has accepted that her life would soon end, what I can say is that
raising my children was what I consider as the most important job I
accomplished, reflecting on fifty-some years of my life. I admit that I am not
a special person, but it was through the existence of my children that I felt
that I experienced the transcendence from my non-special being. It might
provoke the disapproval of my friends and colleagues, but with no sense of
hyperbole, this is my honest feeling.
A
quarter century ago, I had a conversation with a professor of history,
Masatoshi Tanaka, who was working as a part-time lecturer in the college I
worked for, after retiring from University of Tokyo.
He
expected much from me and took me under his wing. When I said to him “I can’t
write articles because I am so busy taking care of kids. I can’t relax because
I’m always worrying about kids. It is a disadvantage to be a woman.” He said,
“Kuwahara Takeo wrote in his CV that there was no academic productivity in so
and so year, because his first son was born. There is no more important job
than raising children. This is same for men, too.”
Professor
Tanaka was always carrying the pictures of his children and grandchildren. When
I sent a new year’s card with my son’s picture in it, he sent me a very nice
letter, which addressed not only to myself but also to my son’s name with an
honorific, something unusual for small children. In his letter, he wrote,
“There is no better expression of peace than your son’s smile.” He was an
advocate for equality, being sensitive to gender, and also an opponent of war.
He was someone had the experience of being drafted as a student while
enrolled in University of Tokyo and losing all of his classmates with whom
he had shared dreams for the future. I respected him so much, and I was touched
when he said to me, “Nothing good would come out when you prioritize career
over children.”
I
don’t know what it’s like not to have children. There must be a sense of
fulfillment, and difficulty at times for them, but I just can’t even imagine
what that is like. The same must be true that only those who with children
understand the ups and downs, happiness and misery of having children. I also
think, for most ordinary people, the way they love other people's children is an
extension of the love they have toward their own children. But feminism
should be something that respects all things that include such a thing. Given
that having a career is an essential for one’s financial independence and self-esteem
and respect, I want to tell younger feminists that it is important to contribute
to issues surrounding parenthood as well. That’s how a healthy society should
be. And it is also true for singles, couples without children, and all men.
Original article in WAN website can be found here.
Translated and adapted by Eiko Saeki
