October 2011 Archives

Growing up, did you ever feel you were hiding your real self from the world?

True, the "growing up process" means you have no idea who you really are, but even back then, I had an inkling I was leading a double life.

As a thirteen-year-old growing up in Los Angeles, I led a hush-hush life my friends didn't know very much about.

At the 3 PM school bell, while the kids at my Southern California junior high school lounged around lockers willing their latest crush to walk by, or dragged themselves to basketball practice (hoping to see their crush on the way), I vanished into my mother's red Ford Taurus station wagon and transform into my "other self". As the Ford headed to its secret destination, I washed down my ham sandwich with a cup of cold mugicha (barley tea—imagine having to explain that to your peers), and put on my "Japanese" face, which I only wore after school and on weekends.

In the car, my tongue switched languages, my gestures toned down a bit, my mind began interpreting in Japanese, and most importantly, I made the switch over to my other set of boy crushes to gush about with my Japanese girlfriends (you sense a theme, don't you? Basically boy-crazy).

I always had another culture behind the door, and with my spare key, walked in and out several times a day. There was nothing extraordinary about this. It was the only life I knew.

Growing up deeply immersed in two cultures was a natural circumstance of my father's business move to the US from Japan when I was four, yet I made it as unnatural (and difficult) as possible.

From 8 AM to 3 PM on weekdays, I was a "normal American girl" in my mind, who wished people would call her Michelle instead of Yuki—my given name. I read Teen and Seventeen, hated math class (this was not an act as not all Asians can do math), and gossiped with friends at the mall over chili cheese fries until our parents picked us up. Once, we tried to explain to my mother how American girls just get bras much, much earlier than in Japan.

After school, I would do all the same things, but in Japanese. When I stepped into my Japanese school, my teachers and the other students lived and breathed a separate culture. The math was much more advanced (a plot to confuse me more, surely), the magazines had Japanese faces on the pages but we didn't see them as being "ethnic", rather, perfectly mainstream. And yes, the girls and I gossiped, but there was no talk of bras (Our moms would take care of that).

Even if we could speak English to each other, we didn't. In this setting, America was the foreign place.


When I stepped into my Japanese school, my teachers and the other students lived and breathed a separate culture.






I wasn't evolved enough to appreciate the enthusiasm with which my parents threw my brothers and I into that afterschool wonderland of pseudo-Japan. We fought for years over my fate. Dramatic American girl demanded reasons why she was not born in America like all her friends (I was born in Tokyo). Anguished Japanese girl wished her parents had just stayed in Japan so she wouldn't be so confused all the time.

Exclamation points were fast and furious, and anger gradually translated to shame, which translated to my never letting my American friends know I was so Japanese. They knew my ethnicity of course, but not that I spoke the language fluently, or where I went day after day ("Uh, tennis practice.", "Uh, my parents are making me go to this thing").

So went my double life, all through my childhood and teenage years. At J-School (which is a much cooler way of saying nihongo gakko or "Japanese school"), squealing over Japanese pop stars and television shows, talking about our grandparents and our last trip to Japan, was the norm. My girlfriends and I shared books by Haruki Murakami, love story comic books, the latest J-pop, and studied kanji together.

My family never moved back to Japan (thus far), so I watched the revolving door of Japanese friends come and go, as they fathers were transferred back to Japan. Some of my most tearful goodbyes have been with my Japanese best friends.

But I couldn't (didn't) share my sadness with my American friends, because they didn't know I had these friends, or these emotions.

As an adult, I've been researching and analyzing what caused my embarrassment, my shame, and double personality. It can be said that I just wanted to fit in. Not much research needed there.

But I also see how my double life might have trained my ability to "perform" to my friends' and teachers' expectations. Playing the perfect American girl in one scenario, and the perfect Japanese girl in the other, but never allowing the two to blend.

Who was I afraid of hurting? Besides myself, that is.

In my adult life, as I became slightly less closeted about my blend of cultures, I found myself in a public teaching role with, again, a very private life. The two personalities boxed again, one shining loud and bright, the other carrying darkness like light never existed. As my Japanese voice became central to my identity during my ten years in Japan, I became increasingly detached from my American side, losing touch with my best American friends, until I noticed it was becoming difficult to breathe.

I needed both. One was not better or bigger than the other. And denying either one would make me un-real.


Playing the perfect American girl in one scenario, and the perfect Japanese girl in the other, but never allowing the two to blend.






The double personality, the need to please, my susceptibility to losing my identity and taking on someone else's vision, and now, back in America and accepting I've made some grand mistakes, climbing the steep hill back to normal. What's my normal?

I hope to explore that in this column. And I thank you for joining me, for sharing your normal with me.

Hi, I'm Kiki, and it's so nice to meet you.

Two things I've learned (among many others): 1. It's the little things that shape the immigrant experience. 2. How to tell the difference between British pounds and Canadian toonies.

I was born an immigrant.

My Egyptian parents had been living in Bahrain for a while before I was born there. It wasn't until I was 15 that I became a Bahraini citizen.

I had always been aware that I was different, somewhere in between Egyptian and Bahraini. At the heart of it, both those countries are Arab, Muslim majority countries. They have a lot in common, but they also don't.

Some differences are obvious. The Egyptian dialect is quite different than the Bahraini one. The moment I opened my mouth and started speaking Arabic I was identified. Other differences are more subtle, such as differences in how to greet someone or what to say in a funeral.



I had always been aware that I was different, somewhere in between Egyptian and Bahraini.







To me, it's those little things that sneak up on you, or that you can't really figure out, that shape the everyday immigrant experience.

There are different languages or dialects, different customs, different weather conditions, different job markets, different public transportation, etc. But some other things you really don't expect or foresee, things that are minuscule in scale but that could be quite profound in effect. Things that could frustrate you or make you smile, things that could make you feel foreign or make you realize something about your own culture that you never really stopped to analyze.



To me, it's those little things that sneak up on you, or that you can't really figure out, that shape the everyday immigrant experience.







Today I am a different kind of immigrant, and everyday I learn something new about myself, Canada or my own culture. I came to Vancouver a little over a year ago to pursue my Masters of Journalism at UBC. From my first night in Canada, I started experiencing things differently and really realizing that I'm in a country strange to me.

I had just reached the on-campus residence where I was to live. It was a long trip with a 10-hours layover in London, England. As I passed the vending machine, I realized how hungry I was. I jiggled some coins out of my wallet and just stared at them. Queen Elizabeth stared back at me.

Which ones were the British and which were the Canadian? Do I even have Canadian coins? Wait, is Canada still under British rule? What's the Queen even doing here?

I must have been quite the sight: a big, confused, disheveled, red-eyed Middle Eastern man who was shivering from cold and staring intently at a fistful of coins.

Luckily, someone passed by and helped me out without being too alarmed at my appearance. Since then, I've figured out that Canada is not really the Brits' and I can tell a toonie apart from a £2 coin.



I must have been quite the sight: a big, confused, disheveled, red-eyed Middle Eastern man who was shivering from cold and staring intently at a fistful of coins.








My impressive list of cultural adjustment does not end there however.

In this column, I'll be sharing some of my experiences with you. I've learned a lot about Canada and I've come to see things about the Middle East and myself from a new perspective.

I can't wait to share all of that with you.

Vancouver is full of international students—but what are some of their stories?

Meet Mohamed Algarf, an international student at UBC who tells life as it is in our new 12-part series: Mo Canada.

Born in Bahrain to Egyptian parents, Mohamed identifies as somewhere in-between Egyptian and Bahraini. Mo added 'Canada' to his cultural matrix when he moved to Vancouver in September 2010 to pursue a Masters of Journalism at UBC. Having worked in Bahrain as a reporter and columnist, Mo brings a lighthearted but critical eye to culture, current affairs, and Middle East politics in a Canadian context.

Watch out for new columns every Wednesday. The first of the series: Immigration, the Sequel.

I'm shivering in a small, intimate theatre on 46th Street in New York City.

As the lights dim and the cast enters stage left, the chill running down my spine informs me not just that the heater is set too low (it always is), but also, that my life has officially changed.

I'm in New York City, and miracle of miracles, I'm not a tourist.

I no longer need to cram as many Broadway shows as possible into a week's visit, cringe at the selection (or not) of expensively bland food in Times Square, stop without warning in the middle of a very large crowd to photograph...a bus, or attempt not to get run over by cabs. I still nearly get run over by cabs, but less. Much less than before.

Having spent the past decade living and working in Japan, I was ready for the big move. Thwarted temporarily by the March 11th earthquake, I moved back home (to America) in late spring, but to the opposite coast of where I grew up.

To the city I had been stalking for just as many years. It was in just the shape I had left it. Alive.

There are more beautiful cities in the world than New York City, if judging by cleanliness. In fact, I've just come from one of the world's most immaculate countries, where polite toilet seats that warm in the winter will lift automatically upon sensing your presence, where subways and buses run flawlessly and arrive on the dot, where cars are cute and compact and candy-colored and of course, clean and virtually smog-free. Clean is Japan's signature, signed, sealed and delivered to you in a beautifully presented package.

New York City is the package that someone has already torn through.

Far from tidy, trash lines every street, grime covers the subway stations, rodents have mistaken the city for wilderness, and many other incidents of "non-clean" could easily make a Japanese person neurotic.

Why then, do people (Japanese and otherwise) keep arriving to this restless and chaotic city?


New York City is the package that someone has already torn through.






It's the shiver in the theatre. It's knowing your life has the potential to come alive, just as the stories onstage do. As the play unfolds before our eyes, I get goosebumps thinking that actually, the most fascinating and eccentric stories are hidden within the audience, like easter eggs.

You just have to find them.

Perhaps not everybody knows what their story is, or is willing to accept the plot and cast of characters that have appeared on their set. Whatever the case, New York City gives us the permission to go on a hunt to find our very own unique twist, and begin on that painful but exhilarating road to self-expression.

We're all characters in this city, each with an untold tale. Whether we tell it is up to us.

A few minutes earlier, as I squeezed into the middle seat of my particular row, the woman next to me smiled and said, "Oh, good thing you're skinny." Her comment surprised me for two reasons.

First, I don't think I'm skinny. Maybe it has to do with the definition of "skinny" in Japan, where everyone is skinny, but no one is skinny enough. Scary.

Second, the woman was so friendly and casual with her comment. She would never have guessed I'd been haunted by my weight my entire life, only to lose an alarming amount of it during a stressful, unhealthy period a few years ago where I just stopped eating. I didn't share that I kept getting thinner and thinner, until I was meeting anorexia at the door.

I was ashamed. So I joked lightly that I need winter clothes to sit in the theatre.

What do I do with the shame? If this were Japan, I would have (continued to have) kept it to myself.

But now here I am, writing about it. The play we happened to see was "Love, Loss, and What I Wore", a humorous and enduring anthem to relationships and self-image, fittingly enough.


We're all characters in this city, each with an untold tale. Whether we tell it is up to us.






Fitting enough to inspire me to out my own self-image issues.

Living in New York City, I feel my stories starting to form. Stories that threaten to come tumbling out if I grant it a pass. This is what the city does, bringing people of all backgrounds together, allowing a natural intersection (at times a clashing) of cultures and vision, and allowing each person a voice.

That's what I've come to New York City to do.

To tell my story. I didn't used to shiver so much.

What does it mean to be Japanese American?

Kiki Murai doesn't have all the answers, but she can start by telling you some stories about what it means to her in our new special series, Kiki in NY.

Kiki's stories aren't just about being Japanese American. They're stories about growing up in Los Angeles, working in Japan's surreal entertainment industry, and reflecting on cultural identity as a New Yorker.

Join Kiki on her weekly reflections on life, current affairs and cultural identity. The first in a twelve part series: Arriving and Shivering in New York City.

(Writing group left to right: Beth Hong, Lisa Odland, Claire Ping, Maggie Wang, Mauree Matsusaka).

The following piece was written by our writing workshop participant Claire Ping, a Grade 11 student at Sir Winston Churchill Secondary in Vancouver.

Cultural Milkshake
When new friends ask me where I'm from, this is how I'd like to respond:

I would roll my eyes and point at a strawberry milkshake, "that's me."

The same idea struck when one of my Grade ten teachers asked each one of us to make for her a collage representing ourselves. With a pair of child scissors I cut out little pieces of pictures, Taylor Swift, S.H.E., Hello Kitty, pizza, stir-fried tomato and eggs, Vancouver, China, maple leaf, and a staircase of books flowing right across the middle. Anne of Green Gables is one step, XueWei the next.

My teacher called it a cultural collage, but I think it's more than that. Pictures representing my Chinese culture face down and pictures representing my Canadian culture face up. Together, it's a snapshot of my identity.

I still remember the warm spring morning when I stood with terrified eyes in front of the one-story, blue-and-white schoolhouse. I was ten years old, and had just moved from a bustling Chinese city to quiet Vancouver. My first Canadian teacher led me down a hallway and asked with a curious smile on her foreign face, "Where are you from?"
"China." I answered without hesitation. Yet, three years later, when I repeated this word for the twentieth time to a European tourist at Horseshoe Bay, it was not the one hundred percent right answer.

Pictures representing my Chinese culture face down and pictures representing my Canadian culture face up.






"Oh" The middle-aged tourist exclaimed, amazed. "So you are travelling here from China?"

"No, no," I hurried to explain, surprised at his interpretation. "My family is from China, but we live in Vancouver."

"So you are not from China? You are from Vancouver!" The man said, confused.
I shook my head and explained to him once more that I am Chinese, but at the same time from Vancouver.

"Okay...so you are Canadian," the man concluded. His face lightened, as if he understood.

That was the first time I asked myself where I was really from. I was surprised at how the man thought of identity as black and white. But could this be how most people think of cultural identity?

What happens if I travelled to a foreign country and people ask me where I'm from? What if I go to college in another country? Then, would I identify myself as a Chinese or a Canadian? These thoughts bubbled in my head, leaving me frightened and confused.


I was surprised at how the man thought of identity as black and white

All of a sudden, I lost my answer to what used to be one of most straightforward questions. From reading Anne of Green Gables to working at McDonald's, Canada is an inseparable part of my experience of growing up. But with half of my closet full of t-shirts from China and my bookshelf half-full of Chinese novels, I can't say I'm just from Vancouver.

So when one of my Grade-ten teachers asked every student in the class to make for her a culture collage, I grimaced. What is my culture? Chinese? Canadian? Or both? Then, the idea struck. When I come back to the question of where I'm really from, I think my collage explains it all. Part Chinese, part Canadian: a perfect blend of both cultures--just like a strawberry milkshake.

***
About Claire:
I'm a Grade 11 student who relocated to Vancouver from China. I'm especially fond of books, teddy bears, and Chinese culture. I love reading and writing in both English and Chinese. Anne of Green Gables is one of my all-time favourite books. My dream is to travel to different cities and gather stories of people from all corners of the world.

Related Links
The other two written pieces, by Lisa Odland and Maggie Wang.
More Than Our Stereotypes by Lisa Odland
Forgotten by Maggie Wang

(Writing group left to right: Beth Hong, Lisa Odland, Claire Ping, Maggie Wang, Mauree Matsusaka).

The following piece was written by our writing workshop participant Maggie Wang, a Grade 11 student at Sir Winston Churchill Secondary in Vancouver.

Forgotten

The trouble with my cultural identity began on my first day of kindergarten, when I failed the 'Chinese' test.

I had only been in Canada for two years. I sat in a circle with my classmates on the floor, feeling lost as the other kids chatted in Cantonese and English. When it was my turn to say where I was from, my classmates gaped at me in disbelief. They couldn't believe that I was from China. For them, a 'Chinese' person had pale skin and spoke Cantonese. I had tan skin and spoke only Mandarin.

At recess, a group of Chinese girls pulled me over to the classroom kitchen with solemn expressions. They wanted to teach me Cantonese.

For them, a 'Chinese' person had pale skin and spoke Cantonese. I had tan skin and spoke only Mandarin.

Wielding a Fisher Price toy spatula, one of them said a word I didn't understand.

"Hùhng," she said. "Red."
"Hù...hng." I repeated.

Over the next five days, I stuttered and stumbled over countless alien words, not understanding what they meant or why these girls expected me to learn them. On the fifth day, my tutors gave up.

I was playing on the grass field alone when I saw them approach. Their cold smiles made me uneasy.

"Gweilo! Foreigner!" one of the girls shrieked at me, throwing a handful of gravel at my head. The pebbles scattered into my hair. The other girls followed, yelling "Gweilo! Gweilo!"

I fled to the school portable, terrified. From that moment onward, I rejected being Chinese because I would never be pale, speak Cantonese or be one of those girls. I decided that I was just me, no labels attached.

Years later, when I was labeled 'Made in China', I felt hurt.

It was my first year of high school before socials class, and we were introducing ourselves. It started when a boy asked one of the half Asian kids where he was from.
The kid was Indonesian-Dutch, which automatically made him really cool.

When it was my turn to say where I was from, a boy interrupted. "She's obviously Asian, so her grandparents or ancestors have to be from like China or something."

I smiled and said nothing. The others turned their attention to the exotic 'halfies'. I wasn't half as interesting the Filipino-Indian, Indonesian-Chinese, or even the Vietnamese-Chinese kids in the class. To my classmates I was just plain Chinese, like vanilla. However, I wanted to tell the boy who interrupted me that I grew up experiencing international cultures, not limited by my visible ethnicity.

To this day, I wonder if the other 'vanilla' people in my class felt the same way—forgotten.

***
About Maggie:
I'm a Grade 11 student from Sir Winston Churchill. I've always had a keen interest in the many different issues in Vancouver. I want to make a positive impact in the world in my own unique way. I also like to read, write, and hang out with friends.

Related Links
The other two written pieces, by Lisa Odland and Claire Ping.
More Than Our Stereotypes by Lisa Odland
Cultural Milkshake by Claire Ping

(Writing group left to right: Beth Hong, Lisa Odland, Claire Ping, Maggie Wang, Mauree Matsusaka).

The following piece was written by our writing workshop participant Lisa Odland, a Grade 12 student at Seycove Secondary in North Vancouver.

More Than Our Stereotypes

What face would Vancouver, Canada show the world? That was the big question on February 12, 2010, at the opening ceremony of the 2010 Winter Olympics. Aside from the 61,600 people in attendance at the Games opening ceremonies, millions watched from their homes around the world. My expectations were high as I tuned into the ceremonies in my North Vancouver basement with my Canadian family and friends. It quickly became apparent to us that the overarching theme of the ceremony was 'Canadian stereotypes.'

The opening ceremony featured a giant, sparkly blow up spirit bear, and a tribute to Northern Canada. There was also a tribute to Canada's fiddling traditions, featuring fiddlers dancing around the stage covered in giant red maple leaves. Lastly, a tribute to the Canadian Rockies and Western Canada with Canadians skiing and snowboarding down Whistler slopes. Minus the technical difficulty with one of the four pillars, the majority of people gave the opening ceremonies positive feedback.

The First Nations took centre stage during the ceremonies. The Squamish Nation, Musqueam Indian Band, Lil'wat First Nation, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nation were recognized as the "Four Host First Nations". In their respective languages, greetings were given by members of the each Nations. Following these greetings, other regions of aboriginal peoples in Canada, such as the Peoples of the Plains, the Peoples of the Northwest, the Métis Nation and the Inuit were represented by a dancing act. Next, a welcome circle was formed, having people surround a large drum and perform traditional First Nations welcoming dances.

It all looks so good—but it's a very sugar-coated and misleading version of how I view Vancouver. According to the 2001 Census, First Nations make up two per cent of Metro Vancouver's population. Where were the other visible minority groups who represent 41 per cent of the population? I asked my 15 year old brother to define his country, in which he responded "a vibrant multicultural nation". A non-Canadian might not have gotten the same impression.

I also wondered whether many people outside Canada are aware of the social reality for many First Nations and urban aboriginal people, beyond the signing and dancing. I live in North Vancouver, right next to a First Nations community called the Tsleil-Waututh reserve. The people on the reserve face many problems from many generations back. In the High school graduation rates according to a 2006 Statistics Canada census report is around 40 per cent for residents aged 20 to 24 living on a reserve. It reported that 33 per cent of the First Nations population feels that alcohol abuse is a problem in their household. Did these ceremonies show a true picture of what First Nations life is really like in Canada?


Where were the other visible minority groups who represent 41 per cent of the population?






A broader question to ask: Are these stereotypes or inaccurate portrayals of Canada really completely harmless? I'll answer in a (typically) Canadian fashion: through a story about hockey. In 2010, my hockey team of 15, 16 and 17 year old girls piled into our vans every month and head down to western Washington. We'd leave our houses at 9 am for a 1 o'clock game, and we wouldn't get home until 6pm. The plus side, however, was the drastic difference between playing a Lower Mainland team, and playing Washington. Our Canadian patriotism shined on the ice like you couldn't imagine. After the Canadian men and womens hockey teams won Olympic gold, our games were no longer just a regular league games; we might as well have been sporting the maple leaf, and the American team their stars. In the dressing room before our first game after the Olympics, the energy was higher than ever before, the music louder.


A broader question to ask: Are these stereotypes or inaccurate portrayals of Canada really completely harmless?






On the ice, we laughed at the Americans because they had to wear mouth guards, and they laughed at us for our padded neck guards. We'd boast about our national icon "Sid the Kid" (Sidney Crosby) and the legendary Wayne Gretzky, while they proclaimed Mike Modano superior to both.

We knew we were representing not only our team but Canada as well. As the game got rough and emotions started taking over. Some of my teammates began throwing obesity jokes about Americans left and right. We traded insults mostly in scrums at our nets.

"Cut back on the Twinkies!"

"Go back to your igloos!"

While it may read like silly harmless phrases on paper, on the ice the hostility was near breaking point.

As these scrums grew more intense, so did the insults. They became attacks on stereotypes about Americans' religious zeal and ignorance.

"Bible-bashers!"
I bet you don't even know our capital city; or who our 'President' is."

The Americans also upped their ante.

"You ride polar bears to school, and drink maple syrup from the bottle, eh?"


They became attacks on stereotypes about Americans' religious zeal and ignorance.






Most of the American team are actually decent people, just like my teammates. On the ice, however, both groups quickly spiraled into name-calling and insults based on base stereotypes. I've thought a lot about the games we played against the American hockey team in Washington since the 2010 Olympics. The more I think about it, the more I want to express my frustration with the stereotyping insults that were hurled back and forth on the ice. No, Canada isn't just a country of spirit bears, fiddlers, and singing and dancing First Nations people. Nor is America a country of fat bible-thumpers. Fat bible thumpers exist in Canada too, just as I'm sure they can exist anywhere in the world. What I'd like to see in future events featuring Vancouver is a more accurate portrayal of what I live and feel.

***
About Lisa:
I am a Grade 12 student at Seycove Secondary in North Vancouver. It's my final year, and who knows where I'll be or what I'll be doing. I believe that there is no path laid out for me, but that that it's mine to create. I am a third generation Canadian from Norwegian and Belgian descent (which is really irrelevant).

Related Links
The other two written pieces, by Maggie Wang and Claire Ping.
Forgotten by Maggie Wang
Cultural Milkshake by Claire Ping

A chance encounter changed everything.

How many encounters do we let pass everyday without realizing its potential? When I moved to New York City this past spring, one of the first people I was introduced to was Filmmaker Megumi Sasaki, a Japanese-born New York resident of 23 years. We met at a coffee shop in Soho and clicked immediately. Who knew that two months later I would be working with her on a film campaign?

Megumi's life is one defined by chance encounters. The ability to transform those encounters into life-long relationships, I've learned, is the difference between a successful storyteller and an ordinary one.

"A very, very fortunate encounter," is how Megumi describes meeting Herb and Dorothy Vogel, beloved subjects of her award-winning documentary, Herb & Dorothy.

The story of a postal clerk and librarian who amassed a world-class art collection with their modest salaries captured the hearts of millions when it was released in 2008, winning numerous awards at film festivals and enjoying a worldwide theatrical release. The quietly unassuming Vogels had but two rules in their collecting methods:

1. That the art they purchase be affordable.
2. That the art fit into their one-bedroom Manhattan apartment.

"But other than that," Dorothy Vogel says in the film, "we had no restrictions on what we bought. We didn't say it had to be a certain size, a certain medium, by a certain type of person. We just bought what we liked."

A drawing here, a sculpture there, purchased from personal relationships built with young and mostly unknown artists in 1960s' New York City, began to accumulate in the couple's home until, "we couldn't even put another toothpick in (the apartment). Then the National Gallery came to the rescue." The collection had expanded to 2,500 works.

A collector with dollar signs in their eyes might see their collection as worth millions and sell a piece or two to be more than comfortable for the rest of their lives—not Herb and Dorothy. In 1992, the National Gallery in Washington D.C., an art institution that provides art to the public free of admission, became home to their entire collection. The Vogels' generosity was widely recognized by the art world and media, and the couple's status grew even as their egos did not.

Megumi's life is one defined by chance encounters. The ability to transform those encounters into life-long relationships, I've learned, is the difference between a successful storyteller and an ordinary one.

It was filmmaker Megumi Sasaki's fate then that she would meet the Vogels by chance at a gala for artists Christo & Jeanne-Claude. She caught sight of Herb and Dorothy among the well-dressed, champagne-toting art crowd, dressed in everyday clothes and looking quite like "ordinary, humble people". However, people were drawn to them like magnets. Sasaki went to introduce herself.

JAPAN TO AMERICA—FROM VISION TO REALITY

Sasaki was born in the northernmost prefecture of Hokkaido, Japan, known for its long, snow-capped winters. The young Megumi had always been interested in America and the English language. "My generation grew up admiring the American culture. Everything made in America was the best, from clothing, music, films, fashion, everything." It was during a time when Japan underwent dramatically Western-influenced changes in the way they lived, thought, and learned.

Having lived close to an international school, Sasaki remembers, "I grew up with a lot of foreign kids. When I went to their houses it smelled like cinnamon spice, as opposed to a Japanese house that usually smells like soy sauce. I really envied those kids from early on, and I was dying to be able to speak English," Sasaki says.

Many young Japanese teenagers dream of leaving Japan and "making it" in the world, but few actually make those dreams a reality as Sasaki has. I asked her if she's become something of a hometown hero with the enormous hit of Herb & Dorothy.

"I don't think so!" Sasaki shakes her head. "I don't really want to call myself a hometown hero. It's not something that I wanted to be, but when I released my film in my hometown Sapporo, it was amazing how excited people were about the film, and everyone supported me tremendously, from my junior high school classmates to the local media, my neighbors, everybody. I got the sense that they were really proud of me, that I accomplished something outside of Sapporo, Hokkaido, or Japan."

In her own way, Sasaki is as unassuming as Herb and Dorothy are, in her quest to become a filmmaker. Prodded, Sasaki talks about the most important ingredient in filmmaking.

"I see that a lot of young aspiring filmmakers now are very knowledgeable technically. But film is about telling a story. I think they're driven by the desire just to become 'filmmakers' and they try to learn the technicalities, but they're not focused on how to tell a story. Or how to find a story that they want to tell. If you have an urge to tell a story, something that comes from the root of your heart, you just cannot sit here and hang out."

But how do you go out and find these stories? Megumi speaks from her own experience.

"I might have that sensitivity towards interesting stories and interesting people because as a reporter for NHK (Japan's National Broadcaster), that was my job. Once a week I had to create a two-and-a-half minute report for the national primetime morning program, which sounds small but was a pretty big assignment. I had to come up constantly with an interesting story, which I think I did pretty well, and I really enjoyed that."

I grew up with a lot of foreign kids. When I went to their houses it smelled like cinnamon spice, as opposed to a Japanese house that usually smells like soy sauce. I really envied those kids from early on, and I was dying to be able to speak English.

But she had never come across a story like Herb and Dorothy's

"(When I met them) I was vaguely thinking I might make a proposal for a television program. What I found out after I did some online research was that there was tons of coverage of Herb and Dorothy when they gave their collection to the National Gallery, but it was all very superficial. It was just 'postal clerk and librarian happen to build a world-class art collection.' A story of luck."

HERB & DOROTHY Trailer from Herb & Dorothy on Vimeo.

Megumi knew the story had nothing to do with luck.

"The story is about passion, about how we live life. They just happen to be art collectors." Quickly, she learned the message was much deeper than anything that could be explored in television. "I knew the limitations of TV programming (from her years as a reporter and producer for NHK), and thought this was something that I had to do as a film. But a short film, not a feature film. I thought it would be less than one hour. I don't like long films. I don't have the patience myself."

Three months into shooting, she changed her mind. "I just had no idea it was going to cost me so much money," Sasaki laughs.　

ON HER STORYTELLING STYLE

There is something about the film that seems almost enchanted, a sensitivity that viewers might not be able to explain in words. I wondered if Megumi's Japanese background (a culture known for detail, and where "presentation" is an art form) affected her storytelling style.

"I don't know if it's Japanese, as there are many sensitive people everywhere," says Sasaki, "but I realized that this film was a love story. There are three love stories in the film. Herb and Dorothy's love affair with art, their lovely friendships with the artists, and their relationship with each other." I would argue that there is a fourth love story, that between Megumi and the Vogels.

But the love Sasaki speaks of is portrayed so subtly in the film, some miss the memo. Sasaki recalls a screening in which an American editor told her, "'You say it's a love story, but I don't get it. Why don't you have them say 'We love each other'? and express their love more openly?" Sasaki stops and shakes her head. "This is a love story but we don't talk about it. It's not about kissing and hugging, we don't exactly have to show that, it's an ambiance."

I see that a lot of young aspiring filmmakers now are very knowledgeable technically. But film is about telling a story. I think they're driven by the desire just to become 'filmmakers' and they try to learn the technicalities, but they're not focused on how to tell a story. Or how to find a story that they want to tell. If you have an urge to tell a story, something that comes from the root of your heart, you just cannot sit here and hang out.

To achieve this subtle feat, Sasaki relayed the vision of "love story" to her cameraman, advising him to keep an eye out for when the couple held hands, or Dorothy put her arm around Herb.

Sasaki has another explanation for the gently passionate tone of the film. "Herb, Dorothy and I spent a lot of time together without the camera. Because I didn't have enough money, it took me four years to complete the film...in the meantime, I would visit them without the camera to just chat, have lunch, dinner."

"Let's say if I had a lot of money, a lot of funding, and I could make it within a year, the feel would be completely different."

It took four years but she completed the film, with help from the writings of Haruki Murakami (who taught her to embrace solitude—"It's a lonely place, but it's beautiful" says Sasaki), yoga and meditation for physical strength and mental focus.

THE SECOND CHAPTER—HERB & DOROTHY 50X50

Now, three years after the release of Herb & Dorothy, Sasaki is behind the camera once again. Much like the first time, this was not her intention. When Herb & Dorothy was finally released in 2008, Megumi Sasaki was ecstatic but depleted, both emotionally and financially. She thought she was finished. But the universe had other plans.

Her surprise came when the National Gallery announced an unprecedented gift project to a stunned art community: 50 museums (one in each state of the United States) would receive 50 works from the Vogel Collection, which had now outgrown one of the largest museums in the country. The Dorothy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States gift was launched, and the generous, historical move begged to be documented.

The story is about passion, about how we live life. They just happen to be art collectors.

"It was such a magnificent event, I hoped somebody would document it," Sasaki recalls. But no other person had the heart-to-heart connection that she did with the Vogels.

She began production on the follow-up film, Herb & Dorothy 50X50 three years ago, and again, the reality all filmmakers must face stood before her, threatening the completion of the film—lack of funding. To bring Herb & Dorothy 50X50 to life, she has launched a fundraising campaign through Kickstarter, which runs through November 5th, 2011 at midnight.

"What I love about Kickstarter is that it's about creating art for the people by the people, just like Herb and Dorothy's message," Megumi says.

The production team of Herb & Dorothy 50X50 humbly acknowledge that our film, a story built solely on love and passion, now rests in the hands and hearts of our community. Working everyday on the campaign, I have a front row seat to her struggles and passion as a filmmaker.

"[Fundraising] is always difficult," Megumi says. "It's always hard to do the ask. But I realize it's not just about the film, it's about anything in life. You have to do a lot of asking. People are not psychic, they don't have telepathy, so they don't really know what you're looking for."

Hearing Megumi discuss the ups and downs of filmmaking and fundraising with both sensitivity and a tough skin, one sees that this is a film director with an enormous heart, filled to the brim.

In a moment of truth she admits, "There's a lot of pressure for the second film, yes, because the first film received so much love and support."

Finally, I asked what she believes her greatest talent to be. She laughed and says, "I think it's that I don't give up. That's something that I acquired. I used to give up so easily. I tried to be a journalist, then a writer, I've tried working for a corporation...I took photography classes at Parsons for a semester. I wanted to be a war photographer at one point. I wanted to do a lot of things and I didn't pursue it."

Hearing Megumi discuss the ups and downs of filmmaking and fundraising with both sensitivity and a tough skin, one sees that this is a film director with an enormous heart, filled to the brim.

Interestingly, becoming a filmmaker was never on her agenda.

"I didn't grow up liking films at all," Sasaki admits. "Film has never been a very important part of my life, and I never tried to be a filmmaker, but throughout my life there were always reminders that popped up, and I would think, 'Oh why?' I was always trying to ignore this...force, but finally I was captured by the power of this cinema goddess or whatever. Who basically said, hey, it's time. You got to face it. You have to make the film."

It may not have been her intention, but it has been her fate. Her path has been to complete the love story of Herb and Dorothy, of which Megumi now plays a significant role.

Further, Megumi will be the first to say that you now play the most significant role in getting this film made. To all believers of art, following a calling, and living with passion, we hope you can support our Kickstarter campaign to complete Herb & Dorothy 50X50, so people all over the world can take part in Herb and Dorothy's generosity, and start finding for their own stories of love and passion.

You never know what can happen from a chance encounter. It's just a matter of acting on it.

Check out Herb and Dorothy's Facebook page or follow them on Twitter.

Over the next 2 weeks our staff of VIFF film reviewers will be giving you the run-down of the many films to grace the festival screens this year. You can find reviews on Schema Magazine's Film Festival page.

VIFF celebrates it's 30th birthday this year, so expect great films to be showcased. We at Schema always look forward to the festival, but this year our excitement exceeds any other year, as we are sponsoring a VIFF film: Somewhere Between. Winner of the People's Choice 2011 Hot Docs, Somewhere Between is a must-see! It debuts on the 6th of October at 6:30pm at the Empire Granville 1 theater.

VIFF runs from the 29th of September to the 14th of October.