New York City is a place where you get a lesson in 'entitlement' every day. Either someone is yelling at you to listen to them on the subway, billboards around Times Square smile down at you with an entitled look, or shop owners remark that this is their wine store and they know what they're talking about, not you.

On the other hand, there is the woman in the elevator whom you've just met, who in the 10-second ride together, spills to you her fears and insecurities. "I'm sorry, I'm just so overwhelmed today. It's been one of those mornings, you know how life is," she says. I want to give her a hug.

There is the loud girl on the cell phone in the subway who pushes herself onto the subway as the door closes. Though others semi-glare at her audacity, I don't have time to care because I happen that day to be sad, gazing upward so tears wouldn't stream down my face. My hat is pulled down to my eyes. She stares at me throughout our ride, and I wonder if she's going to roll her eyes or maybe laugh under her breath. As we pull into my stop and I walk past her to exit the train, she says, "You okay, miss?" I look her in the eye and find kindness. I put my hand on her arm and say tearfully, "Thank you." She smiles, seeming surprised at how she's touched me.

I have so many stories of non-entitled kindness that have happened to me in this city. Who says New York is a cold, hard place?

Last week, a former student and I met up for the first time in years, as she is studying in New York City for six months. I had little idea of what to expect when we met up, now that I am no longer her teacher (though I still care about her). When she saw me in the lobby of The Ace Hotel, she burst into tears and then, proceeded to tell me about her life and continue to wipe tears away for an hour and a half.

I wanted to help her. My urge was to jump in and offer advice on ways to conquer homesickness, encourage her on her talents and abilities, give her three assignments that would make her feel better, and assure her that everything will be okay.

Instead, I listened. And listened and listened. And after an hour and a half, we got up, our coffee cups empty, and I gave her a good, long hug. And we said goodbye. I might not have been what she expected.

I now have a need to feel I deserve the opportunity to help someone. In other words, I feel uncomfortable doing and saying things I am not ready for. And I will no longer speak because I've been given (the illusion of) a certain amount of power, or because I feel I'm entitled to it just for existing.

Entitlement exists in every culture, including a supposedly modest and humble culture like the Japanese. (One look at how TEPCO, the Tokyo Electric Power Company is handling the disaster with its reactors—still ongoing though no longer making international headlines—will tell you when lives are on the line, humility often runs the other way.)

There's a Japanese word omoi agari (literally "thinking above"), which translates to "conceit". Thinking higher of yourself than necessary is a trap we all fall into, a dangerous maze that winds quickly into a swirling abyss.

When I was given a role in my early twenties to teach, direct, and basically rule a very small empire in Japan, the ego-maniac inside of me came alive and began its prowl. It had never been tamed in its developing years back home, and suddenly it didn't know how to control itself.

Given the opportunity, I sat for hours, day after day, listening to the problems of my students, myself a kid of twenty-four or five or six, pretending I could save them. Pretend being the operative word. I was not intellectually, emotionally, or morally prepared to take on such a role.

To understand the ego-fiasco, I've had to reflect on my childhood as 'shy wallflower' possessing an inner blaze of an ego that went unnoticed and unaddressed.

To the naked eye, it might have seemed I was a quiet, unassuming young girl, eager to please with nothing out-of-line to say. But I was excellent at hiding the conceit that made up 99% of my mind and body. I never walked around demanding things, but my frequent mood swings, broken racquets during tennis matches, rants towards the kid brothers, and one-man silent retreats until someone showed they cared enough, spoke louder than any verbal demand ever could.

I expected someone to rescue me.

The more I became used to being rescued, the more entitled I felt. And the more entitled I felt, the more I felt I could "help" people. Another trap we tend to fall into.

When we think "entitled ego-maniacs", we often picture bearded despots or suited executives, but ego-maniacs come in the most unassuming shapes and sizes, and the quickest way to find one might be to get up and go to the nearest mirror now.

In other words, many ego-maniacs are not bad people. They often yearn to help other people, they can't help but cry along when someone is hurting, they put others before themselves and feel utterly helpless when they cannot change the world. For many years, I believed this to be kindness. Now I see that it was omoi-agari all along.

I yearned and wept and prayed and held the hands of my students in their "times of need", because I knew no other way to "help" them. How was I to know they were asking everyone that would listen (as we all do when we are honestly hurting), and nothing I said was registering anyway? But they need ME, I thought. It was a case of the entitlement blues. I thought I was special.

At the same time, there was always the nagging sense that I wasn't doing the right thing. By listening to them, by trying so obviously hard to be Mother Theresa, by not admitting what my real capabilities were. Which, at twenty four years old, is not a whole lot.

It is only since moving to New York City and having daily lessons tossed in front of me, that I've been able to take a hard look at how my entitlement had been affecting my life. In my job, my relationship, my friendships.

Perhaps at last, I'm experiencing a certain quiet inside of me, nothing like the quiet of my childhood. Maybe the running around day after day trying to make a living in this city, trying to (finally) outgrow my "challenges" of the past, have finally allowed me to stop talking, and just start listening.

It's going to take a while to untangle the lifetime of entitlement issues, with several years of power-yielding tacked on in my twenties.

Thank you for listening, week after week. I haven't exactly been quiet here on the column, have I? I truly do hope my rants and raves have added up to some kind of sense to you.

Next week is my final column of "KiKi in New York". This column has allowed me to explore the dark and light aspects of being caught between two cultures, and I'm grateful to Schema Magazine for the opportunity to write my heart's desire. I've been given the opportunity to continue on as a contributor, and I look forward to sharing what my editor and I have in store for you. When the time comes...soon.

Grateful and smiling,

KiKi

In the past several years, I've seen hipsters and teenyboppers donning this little bow-tied cat in ways I hadn't seen before. These run the gamut from hipster glasses to blinged-out Swarovski jewelry and watches. But Hello Kitty and I go way back—back to my high school days in Southern California, when I worked part-time at a Hello Kitty store.

It was the go-to store for girls of all ages with a fondness for everything kawaii. My co-worker and close high school friend were always just short of being embarrassed about our jobs and our association with the overwhelmingly kawaii merchandise.

Mostly we hung out in the store talking about boys. I had little idea then that I would move to Japan in the next few years and begin re-discovering parts of me I'd buried up until that point. I also didn't know how much this little mouth-less icon represented the dynamics of love and relationships in Japan. It's only now, back in the United States, that I've had a chance to digest, reflect, and express some of my realizations.

Lesson one: it's cooler when you're not trying so hard

Image courtesy of MyDisneyVacationResort.com

It's quite fascinating that this symbol of "cute" is actually, expressionless. Hello Kitty has no mouth. At first glance, there's no in-your-face giddiness like other characters vying for affection in the competitive cartoon landscape. This makes her the epitome of one who doesn't try too hard (while others strike poses on center stage), which makes her totally cool.

During our Hello Kitty days, my friends and I also held annual passes to Disneyland ("The Happiest Place On Earth") in Anaheim, where the characters we met were alliterative, bouncy and chatty. Big-eared and high-pitched and always happy, the gang sang and danced and paraded and dated, openly. Emotions were rampant in the Wonderful World of Disney.

(Sidenote: Not that Hello Kitty didn't know how to have fun. If you didn't know, Hello Kitty had a boyfriend at one time too—Daniel—but he never made it to the big time.)

Lesson two: love and communication, Hello Kitty style

Images courtesy of Hake's Americana and MundoHelloKitty.com

Let's compare Hello Kitty to Mickey Mouse. The Mickey Mouse storylines revolve around him and his girl-mouse Minnie, and Westerners enjoy (and expect) their open affection for each other. The images are everywhere (did I mention it's The Happiest Place On Earth) that in order to be happy, we should have a partner. (A whole separate post there? I think so too.)

Growing up with these two characters as regular fixtures in my life, I went back to Japan in my twenties and began to understand Hello Kitty and Mickey Mouse in a cultural context (of course), realizing that their personalities mirrored that of their birth countries. Allow me to explain.

Hello Kitty may seem expressionless to you, but take a longer look. Do you start to get the sense that she is smiling at you? Or, if you've done something naughty, do you feel her eyes on you now, possibly in a slight scowl as if to scold you? She's a mirror to your emotions. What you see in Hello Kitty, is basically...you. (Whereas Goofy will never be anything but goofy. You may be sad or elated, but he's still Goofy.)

This information can be useful if you ever decide to be (or happen to find yourself in) a relationship with a Japanese person. Oftentimes your partner's expression itself will not reveal his (or her) true emotions to you immediately. There is a lot of room for interpretation, meaning also, there is much room for misinterpretation.

I'm not implying that your boyfriend-from-Japan is a Sanrio character. I am implying that he is from a culture that places importance on "interpretation" and "reading between the lines" and "sensing what the other person is thinking." Take nothing at face value. Waving excitedly will get you nowhere.

Lesson three: We grow up, move on, become digitized

Image courtesy of EW.com

Every cartoon character represents a certain trait, and we choose our favorite character based on who is most like us. But eventually we get bored and we move on to characters with more stimulating thoughts and conversations. I moved on to Toy Story.

That's the Western way: we grow up, we move on, and they (the characters) get digitized. They become a mirror to our emotions through words and conversation, heard loud and clear in 3D and web interaction. Each American character has a very strong voice.

Whereas Hello Kitty looks still, exactly as she did in 1975, and still does not have a voice. She is who we want her to be, her expressions based on our emotions, and she does not need to sing and dance for your affection (except at Sanrio's amusement parks in Japan - but the parks struggle while the merchandise continue to fly off the shelves). That face is enough, and she will remain timeless, a "voice" to little (and not so little) girls everywhere.

We see in these characters, the dreams they create, and the stories they tell us, how culture shapes our personalities and outlook on life.

Once we grow up, it's time for the baton to be passed. And on it goes.

And on I go, on another day of cultural reflection...neither Hello Kitty nor Mickey Mouse by my side. It's just me now, learning life's lessons.

It's hard to put one label on Lee. He works mainly as a creative consultant for a design firm, writes a weekly style column for The Vancouver Sun, and hosts the "Fashion Monday" segment on CBC Radio One's On the Coast. The list goes on: he also makes clothes, dabbles in photography, and has a not-so-secret love affair with sci-fi and comic books.

And to top off this impressive list of accomplishments, Lee also published his first book in fall 2011. The Measure of a Man is part memoir and part-social history of the suit.

The book garnered a nomination for the Governor General's Literary Award for Non-Fiction, and a spot on Amazon.ca's Top 10 list for biography and memoir in 2011. Just last week, it became one of five finalists (out of an initial 115!) for the prestigious Charles Taylor Prize for Literary Non-Fiction.

Lee sat down with me recently to discuss his book, his personal fashion philosophy, and how Peter Mansbridge can re-attach his head through the help of a better suit.

On the origins of Measure of a Man:

The Measure of a Man was originally an "Ideas" [on CBC radio] documentary that was broadcast in 2007. Measure of a Man 2007 is a lot like Measure of a Man 2011, except that a lot has happened in between, so I've taken everything that's happened and smooshed it all together.

But the real origin of the story is this conflict with my father's suit that I inherited. Or, claimed from my father's closet after he died. It made me wonder about who he was and what I wanted to be, and it bothered me a lot that the suit didn't fit me. I still can't wear it, but - and this is the real origin of the work - I really wanted to know why I needed to have that suit with me still, and why I kind of disliked it, and why I kind of loved it still. That's the beginning of the book.

On how his sister's fashion magazines made a difference:

The interest, I guess, was fairly early. I have two sisters who were into fashion, and I would look at their magazines. So I looked at [the magazines], and through osmosis I absorbed that. I've always had an interest - I've been altering clothes since I was very young. I'm not sure why, I think New Wave music may have driven it.

I have a design background. I have a Master's of Architecture. I'm not really in the [fashion] trade, and I'm not really a full-blown fashion journalist, but I'm very serious about clothes - moreso than fashion.

On being serious about clothes, rather than fashion:

You're dealt this certain hand and you've got to hammer out an identity for yourself everyday. It's the dresser's fault, because they dress as they think they will appear, but they're hopeless at understanding how they seem to others. It's a very dangerous thing, and that difference is what interests me - that space between the wardrobe mirror and catching yourself in the reflection of a store window and going, "Oh my god, what have I done?" That's more interesting to me than [Fashion], because people's closets don't change with every season. Very few people can afford to have new clothes every season. I side with the vintage buyers and the hand-me-down types; I identify with their struggle for freedom.

On training others to see a well-dressed version of you:

You can train people to see you as a well-dressed person. When I first started [at the design firm], I started wearing suits, and it was different because I was a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy. It became a bit embarrassing because when you're really trying for something special you don't want people to notice. But after three years I could wear anything. They would say, "You look good," but they wouldn't go, "Oh, what's the special occasion?" I'm the special occasion! Once you get to that point where you've trained everyone to expect you to be a certain way, even if you dress down they're still going to see you as the person who dresses in that certain way.

On how to make $20 jeans look like they cost $200:

I could get compliments on my most beat up pair of [$20 Army & Navy] jeans because they fit me perfectly and I've taken care of them. I love to tell people that you can give your jeans a $200 look by treating them like $200 jeans: don't wash them for 6 months. I did the classic John Wayne thing, which is to swim in them in the ocean so that they'd shrink around my body.

On how Bruce Wayne and Superman influences his style:

I think the first well-dressed person most boys meet in their life is Bruce Wayne, so maybe not, you know? And even despite Superman's nerdiness, he can actually wear a blue suit pretty well. We become interested in Michelangelo-esque physique through comic books. I would never have known about Michelangelo if it weren't for Don Newton, who drew Batman in the 70s and 80s. The sinewy-ness, the arabesque lines in a comic book from the Silver Age has everything to do with looking great in a suit, because they're both visual, and they're both manly. The superhero genre, especially, is a very masculine genre. You can't really go wrong with Bruce Wayne as a model.

On the state of CBC television anchors' fashion:

Newscasters bother me the most They're all trying too hard and it's ruining everything! Peter Mansbridge's [lapel] notches are going into his ears. The high notch is so popular, but I'm a big believer that the notches should be a centimeter below your tie knot. His, sometimes you will see his here [gesturing to his collar bones]. I call it "head on a plate" syndrome because it looks like he's been decapitated. So Peter, I wish he'd stop doing that, just throw out the new suits. I can't take him seriously when his notches are in a pincer maneuver like the Falaise gap in World War II. That's what it looks like! Like the Allies are about to cut off the Germans.

On the benefits of tailoring:

Tailoring is what helps keep fashion honest. I love that Old World attitude towards clothing, that if you like something, you keep it, and you do your best to fix it. There's a lot of dignity in taking care of clothes and fixing them, and having them change with you, and not treating them like commodities, like things you can buy again. My shoes are purchased with the premise that my sons will be able to wear them one day. I like the idea of inheritance - I want my sons to have my ties and my shoes, if they fit. I think you should get something made for you in your life, but you should treat it like it's for life. You don't have to spend a lot, just get it done right, once.

A final word, on pushing the possibilities of a suit to the limits:

You have to transcend with the suit. To really get somewhere with it you really have to transcend the rules, your expectations, the demands on it. The young man who is sartorially interested initially wants to know the suit is there, wants others to notice it. But when you really push it, push it, push it, and you transcend that desire, then the suit becomes nearly invisible. The reason is that your personality shines through instead, and that takes a really long time. You can be a very mature man working on Howe Street and wearing really flashy ties, and you're still kind of stuck. It's Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs—you're not at the highest level of enlightenment when it comes to clothes.

Related Posts on Schema

Book Review | The Measure of a Man

Book Review | The Better Mother

WTF Friday | Knit Jean Lounge Pants

Make sure to check out...
Official site: JJ-Lee.com
Twitter: @jj_lee

***
Genie is a managing editor for Schema Magazine and self-appointed seeker-out of Schema-worthy events in Vancouver. She is a certified bookworm with a special fondness for Shakespeare and CanLit. You can follow her on Twitter @geniemak.

I yearned to break out of my audience-friendly persona to write about my (often detrimental) relationships, and my fear of dying without ever having a voice of my own (you know, the cheery stuff).

When I write in English, I stop being polite and start to listen for truth. And often, "truth" is the sort of thing that spills out all over the page. Incidentally, when you live in a country where you're discouraged from openly voicing your true thoughts, well, you start to have a lot of them. But I knew those "matters" would clash with what I was doing in my professional life. My feel-good television program (which I actually did enjoy writing and directing every week and always ranked at the top in its timeslot) received daily comments from viewers that ran along the lines of "I'm so inspired." I felt I was betraying them when I wrote on my "Telling Stories" blog in English, not because I was badmouthing anyone in my life, but simply because they couldn't read (and thus know) my innermost thoughts.

So every day and every night, while I was telling my students to be honest, to express, to not keep their truths bottled up inside, I was searching for my own outlet to express my truths. But I was too terrified to be real.

I didn't realize what happens to a person when they're not able to express who they really are, for fear of being ostracized, hated, and banished. I'm reminded of a story of how the Wicked Witch of the West got to be, well, wicked.

For the uninitiated: there's a Broadway musical called Wicked. It's a story about two friends (one is blonde and the other is, well, green) in school, for whom life deals two very different cards. Contrary to their real personalities (the blonde sings about how to be popular, the green one cares about looking after her sister who is in a wheelchair), one girl is fated to become the Good Witch and the other into the Wicked Witch in the Land of Oz. I'm sure you can guess how this turns out.

In the musical, there's a moment where good girl Elphaba (who is green) is pushed to her limit amid the endless taunts and finger-pointing, finally flying off the handle (pun intended), her every attempt to do good ending up hurting someone. She somehow manages to turn her dear friends into scarecrows, cowards, and tin men, when all she wanted to do was help them.

...while I was telling my students to be honest, to express, to not keep their truths bottled up inside, I was searching for my own outlet to express my truths.

Helpless and hopeless and pushed into a corner, she declares, "No good deed goes unpunished!" and turns into the Wicked Witch of the West.

I think we all know that feeling, of being misunderstood, misrepresented. And not having the means to express yourself - fully.

My Elphaba Moments—moments where I'm not acting out of evil but somehow it ends up that way in the eyes of others—in my teacher-producer role were many and through the years, I began to feel my feel-good weekly scripts were forced, automatic, and catering to everyone but myself. I felt myself slowly falling out of love - with my job, my position, my life.

During this realization, I was back at my parents' house in Los Angeles on vacation. I numbly fingered the books on one of their bookshelves, and stumbled on a classic autobiography The Wind is Howling by bestselling Japanese author Ayako Miura. I stopped. The book looked familiar. Oh yes, I remembered. This difficult-looking book sat on my bookshelf in Japan for years, but I was always too busy to read books that would make me peer into my soul. I sold it to a used bookstore, unread.

As fate would have it, the book appeared in my life again. Books always do, when you're ready for them. Whenever I hear the phrase, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear," I always think, "Yes, they're called books." They always appear when you most need them.

I finished the autobiography in two days, and with an empty box of Puffs by my side, had to peel myself off the floor of my father's office (that doubled as my bedroom when I stayed with my parents). I sat in a daze, feeling a few centimeters closer to understanding the complicated nature of the Japanese psyche.

It turns out I now had the right amount of life issues to understand Miura's stories of faith and the loss of it, and the search back. Aha, I thought, it's not that I don't believe in love, it is that my ideals are through the roof and unrealistic. Nothing will ever be enough.

Problem: my thoughts. Solution: adjust my thoughts.

In another instance, last March (after I had left my job), and days before the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, I stormed through all three volumes (in Japanese) of Haruki Murakami's 1Q84 and felt as if he were writing My Story (as we do). The mad talk of parallel worlds, escaping what binds you, and two moons at the intersection of fantasy and reality have many readers shaking (or scratching) their heads since the English version appeared in bookstores last fall, but I heard Murakami's message loud and clear: he relayed the risk one must take to tell his or her story.

If you have it to tell, tell it—honestly. This is what the book said to me at that time.

Fast forward a few months to New York City. The earthquake and tsunami have occurred, my values have shifted radically, and with massive loss, both personal and on a global scale, the gradual thawing out continues.

On any given day in New York, inspiration strikes. It's proof to me that real art exists, not just in theaters and museums, but on the subway, on the street, in the bars and even yoga studios. And though I'm not an artist myself (I like who I am more since I stopped trying to be one), I'm invigorated to start telling stories again, on my current blog.

Books and Broadway are there to remind us that our hearts will freeze, yes. Ice cold and rock solid, like Elphie the Wicked Witch. (If Elphaba had a blog, she wouldn't have been so misunderstood.)

How you narrate your story, is of course up to you. The fear and trepidation will always be there trying to stop (and protect) you, but the story will get louder and louder until one day, the first word (or painting or musical note or scene) will come. I've begun my narrating, and this time, it's not for a television show.

I needed something more than just what was being offered at so many clubs—DJs' that could spin the hell out of a track; DJs' that could make a track so raw and ruthless that it cut you to the very core, then fill the air with a fierce pounding beat made up of pure exhilaration. Luckily I found what I was looking for when I submerged myself in the culture of electronic music. Fast-forward 5 years, and while I'm pretty content, I still craved that extra ummph. Maybe that was what led me to Feed Me on Halloween night—I ended up finding that extra something in MarX & Sh▲pe.

MarX & Sh▲pe are Vancouverites Ira Grunwell and Michael Dandurand. If you haven't heard of those names, chances are you will in the near future. And if you have, then you know why I needed a little MarX & Sh▲pe in my life.

You don't necessarily get the constructive criticism that you need to push yourself that extra step. You can get lazy so it's good to have that second opinion.

Michael Dandurand

A musical match made in heaven, all it took was an ex-roommate to get evicted and a possible homeless Mike to bring these two together. Mike had been spinning for about 4 years prior to moving in with Ira. "I wouldn't even be doing this if it weren't for Mike. He was the one that got me hooked on electronic music and got me into DJing."

With acts like MSTRKRFT, Crookers, Tribes of Zebras, and Flosstradamus, it seems like two heads are better than one. So what's the appeal? Ira explains: "Some people are very self sufficient and like to have all the control. You have one person that focuses a lot on the production and somebody else focuses on building the sets. It takes some pressure off, so one person can start pumping out all the music and the other person is getting everything ready for the show. When you're doing it all by yourself you might not be able to handle everything."

As Mike puts it, "if you can compliment each other well, it works out. You don't necessarily get the constructive criticism that you need to push yourself that extra step. You can get lazy so it's good to have that second opinion, especially from someone who is experienced. We feed each other off pretty well. If someone is making something half assed and they aren't aware of it because they've been doing it for so long, the other guy will be like, hey, take a step back, let me jump in."

It's definitely a challenge putting together the set, but a lot of fun when you like a bunch of different genres. You really have to get your hands dirty and dig deep.

There's a lot to be said about these guys. Their first gig as an act together was opener for Feed Me. After that they opened for JKF from MSTRKRFT. No big deal right? It's not just their amazingly crafted sets that are bringing attention their way; it's their ability to command a room with their love for what they do. You can see it in their live shows. For them it's all about the people: "Nothing is better than watching. It's like conducting an audience. You're controlling how they are going to feel," Mike explains.

Ira Grunwell

They understand what it means to put on a show. "You're building suspense and getting the audience worked up and people are going crazy and they're wondering what's going to come and then you drop it and boom—everyone's head explodes. It's so satisfying to see people's faces, seeing people's reactions to things." Ira puts things into perspective: "Some DJs are flaccid and they stand there and don't seem to interact too much. It's a huge difference when you see a DJ go all crazy. The crowd get's hyped on the DJ and the DJ gets hyped on the crowd. It bounces back and forth."

With twice the brainpower and creativity, Mike reveals to me that the process behind putting on a show is really quite simple: "We just wing it. iTunes playlist. Shuffle the songs. We use an iPod shuffle and shake it." Is it really that simple? Something tells me that Mike was just pulling my leg. "You want to cater to the type of crowd that will be there. DJing is about being versatile. But you also want to show your own colours as well. That's one of the exciting things for opening up for a lot of these bigger acts. It's definitely a challenge putting together the set, but a lot of fun when you like a bunch of different genres. You really have to get your hands dirty and dig deep. "

Nothing is better than watching. It's like conducting an audience. You're controlling how they are going to feel.

And dig deep they have. If there's one thing I noticed about Mike and Ira, it's their hunger to do something more with their music. It seems that the words complacent and static do not exist in their vocabulary. Their drive to find new styles and influences to incorporate into their music have set them apart from many others in their field. "We've recently got into Moombahton," Ira says. "It's a cool genre to be in. There are so many things you can do with it."

Getting to where these guys are now hasn't been an easy ride, especially in Vancouver, where the market is saturated with people after the same goal: to make a name for themselves. "I've been spinning for about 4 years now, and I have had the odd show here and there," says Mike. "It was mainly more of a hobby, having fun, putting together tapes and doing house parties. In terms of actually getting spots at certain clubs, if you don't know somebody it's going to be a long time because you're battling some guy who is literally just a playlist DJ."

Ira expands on this: "You can get away with having the worst mixing skills, but it's all about who you know it seems. You can't really go around asking to play at this club or that club. They don't know who you are." Mike is on the same page: "That show really paid off. It's about the relationships you build with other people."

It's a huge difference when you see a DJ go all crazy. The crowd get's hyped on the DJ and the DJ gets hyped on the crowd. It bounces back and forth.

"That show" Mike is referring to is the night they opened for Feed Me on Halloween. The guys are still trying to wrap their minds around that. "We had too much fun that night. We had so much support from our friends. They all came early to watch us. It was just amazing to see that."

What I love most about the electronic culture is the uninhibited nature it brings—everyone is there to have a good time, regardless of sex, gender, or colour. You meet people from all walks of life, all wanting to loose themselves in the music. "It's like a family in there. Everyone is happy and it's like a community in some clubs. That's the type of crowd we want to draw—more positive and good energy." That shouldn't be too hard for them. Their music is nothing but positive vibrations.

***
Jocelyn Gan is a graduate of English and Communications from SFU. She loves all animals, but her heart is cat shaped. She hopes to release her cat fashion line in the near future.

I was on my way to Harajuku to meet friends for the Cirque du Soleil production Corteo, playing to sold-out audiences in Tokyo at the time. The repeated television spots, cheerful posters on subways, and prominent magazine features promised a magical evening filled with wonder.

The magnificent set did not disappoint, with its 360 degree stage, enormous trampoline beds and various ceiling contraptions. The circus tent was packed with families, couples, friends, all rosy-cheeked both from the cold and excitement. Everything was in place. The lights dimmed, the music began, and as the grand performance began, there was a hush in the crowd. All we had to do as an audience was sit back and prepare to be dazzled by the spectacular show.

However, as the show progressed, I sensed hesitation on some of the performers' faces. They were expecting explosive applause, but received only polite clapping. What could be missing?

The lights, the sets, the atmosphere was there. The acrobatics and the performances were incredible. But the missing element was human connection.

In Japan, Christmas Eve has become the holiday, after Valentine's Day, for couples to cozy up, reserve expensive restaurants and hotels, and, with the accompaniment of sparkly somethings, declare their love for each other without reservation. Forget the family holiday, Japanese couples celebrate the night with such fervour, one can almost feel the aching for romance.

Christmas is not a national holiday in Japan, nor a day of historical or religious significance. The Christmas tradition is created and amplified by advertising execs and media moguls each year, partly to allow the Japanese a chance to release themselves completely, with the help of excessive romantic lighting and gifts. It's a time when they can say out loud, "I love you. I really love you!"

Back in that circus tent, I sensed that the Cirque du Soleil audience wanted to clap wildly and scream their hearts out. It wasn't that they didn't appreciate the performers, but they were afraid to really express it.

Halfway through the show, a performer stepped off the stage and into the audience, in hopes of engaging the reserved crowd. A risky move, I thought.

The performer selected a tall, well-dressed Japanese man in the front row, with a shaved head and goatee, who possessed a certain ease. Plunking his top hat on the man's shiny head and scrunching his face up as clowns do, the performer made fun, and to the relief of the entire crowd, the man played along. The audience laughed, secretly thanking this Japanese man for representing them in a fun and accommodating manner. It was the first time I laughed all evening.

Trees near Rockefeller Plaza in New York. Photo by KiKi

Little did I know that I would meet the man with the shaved head and goatee two months later, in a town 1,000 miles away. By complete chance we met in a cafe near my Okinawa apartment. We're still together, in New York City.

My thoughts turn to Japan, where the March 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Tohoku left so many children without parents, parents without children, and families without homes. The country feels economically and emotionally claustrophobic, stuck in a dark tunnel without light. This year, the Japanese were forced to remember they are not alone, that their virtual girlfriends are not going to supply them with the warmth of a human hand. That the Christmas lights are not going to infuse them with real energy or love. They have re-learned the concept of giving to those in need, and more importantly, they've begun taking a look at themselves.

So this year, amongst the spectacle of Christmas here in New York, it's not the lights and gifts and the Justin Bieber songs that make my Christmas meaningful.

The atmosphere is set. But you create the magic.

***
This is my final column of the year, and after a holiday break, will pick up again in January. Thank you for reading along with me, for responding with your comments here, and on Facebook and Twitter. Meeting all of you here on Schema Magazine has been a true blessing.

I believe in paths crossing for a reason. Thank you so much.

Happy Holidays!

Kiki will be back with the rest of her series on January 9, 2012. Stay tuned!

I think I was supposed to teach English, but I wanted to know what they thought about English to start with. Why did they want to learn it? Did they want to learn it, or was it just fashionable? (After all, it's very fashionable to speak English in Japan.) The theme I gave them that day was, "English".

"Write whatever comes to mind," I said. "I don't care if it's 'English is lame,' 'my parents forced me,' or 'I'd rather be getting my teeth pulled.' Just write anything to tell me how you feel."

Once the students finished writing, they threw their folded-up cards into a small yellow basket at the front of the room, and once the basket was full, I read each and every card aloud.

I got 20 cards saying 'I don't know' and 'I don't have anything to say.' Anything but that, I thought. Aren't you all aspiring dancers and singers, whose work is to tell stories on the stage? No wonder they couldn't capture my attention and illuminate me when they danced.


I think I was supposed to teach English, but I wanted to know what they thought about English to start with.






But I kept that to myself and continued the exercise everyday. I played music and acted like I didn't care whether they wanted to share or not.

There were little breakthroughs everyday. One or two students would actually write down what they thought.

"I'm here to learn English because we're supposed to get better jobs that way, and my parents think my dancing isn't going to amount to anything."

The other students took notice. That was their truth too.

Little by little, something foreign (other than English) that rarely exists in the Japanese classroom began to rear its head: honesty.

I began challenging them with more thought-provoking words like "regret", "beauty", "mother", "alone" as themes for the day's class. I made no explanations, added no sentiment. They entered the room, sat down, heard the word, and began writing down whatever came to mind. Simple but life-changing.

Suddenly, they were hungry for more. Even the gangsta-rap boy with his cap pulled down over his eyes, began setting his hat aside during class so he could write.

Under the veil of anonymity, the students—both the sullen and the overeager—learned they could be honest with me, and with their peers. Publicly, but also with perfect privacy. It was a revelation to them. What began as a 10 minute exercise grew to be at least an hour long practice in writing and reflection.

Before anyone knew what they were doing, they were sharing their lives. Expressing, I told them. That is what you're doing.

They didn't realize that their honesty here would make them better performers on the stage. No one fell asleep, got bored, batted an eyelash the entire time I read. They were mesmerized by their own stories, their own truths.


What began as a 10 minute exercise grew to be at least an hour long practice in writing and reflection.






The students who resisted most were the ones who thought they had us (and the world) fooled, the ones who'd been hailed child prodigies and learned how to put on an act when they were eight or 10 years old. They wrote what (they thought) would 'impress the judges.' Unfortunately, their lack of honesty showed in their body language. There was no softness, no genuine love in their dancing, which meant on the other spectrum, there was no real 'edge' or emotion. Simply put, they were fake.

One day, I came across the story of a student who, years earlier, had been led up to the highway by her mother, hand in hand, a mother whose intention was to end both of their lives. The class fell silent. The handwriting wobbled and smeared in some spots. I remember crying as I read, at her courage to write about this. There was not a dry eye in the room.

She was now thanking her mother for not going through with it. And I knew the class had changed just a little, forever.

For three hours that day, we cried and read, as each student admitted their faults, apologized for all the things they had said and done. We missed lunch. In all my years at the school, "mother" was the one topic we all braced for, as we knew it would break us, and then start making us.

A class that began with 20 students expanded to 100.

Eventually, we learned the center-stage dancer was petrified of his position on the stage, and that he fought with every ounce of pride not to lose that spot. The girl with the emotional eyes carried a past of several suicide attempts. Others who had run away from home, had stopped going to school because their teachers hit them, slept with men twice their age for money, cut themselves for attention, all began to tell the truth. They came clean, and once the demons were out, and the tears had been shed, they began to dance.

What happened in that classroom every single day for years, changed my outlook on Japan. I wrote too at times, about my own heartbreaks and challenges, about not knowing most things most of the time.

For Japanese teenagers, the emotional release was terrifying, and they had to test the waters to make sure it was allowed by their parents, their teachers, and mostly, themselves. I went ahead with it anyway, having them write through to their core, talk it out in a safe environment, act various scenes out.

Their performances began to change. The audience was stunned at the rawness of emotion in each performance.



What happened in that classroom every single day for years, changed my outlook on Japan.






This was one of the most powerful lessons that my students taught me. There comes a moment when each of us, no matter how hardened we've become in our hearts, cannot stop our truths from spilling out. A moment of complete release. Creating these moments in a classroom in Japan, of all places, seemed at once an impossible task. But the walls came tumbling down, soul connected with soul, and we became real, if in fleeting moments. When my students made themselves vulnerable, admitting their fears and inhibitions, they set themselves free. They stepped onto the stage and shared the reality of their voices.

On my birthday last month, I got an email from a former student, a quiet soul who never spoke up in class or interacted with classmates. No one knew what she was thinking, and on the outside, it seemed she had nothing to say. But on the inside...I knew. I knew she was the loudest, most explosive and emotional and eloquent on the page, and there was no stopping her thoughts from flooding out.

She is now working on her first novel. The letter her mother wrote still sits with me today.

"Thank you for giving my daughter her voice back, the letter read. Our family will forever be grateful to you, Yuki-san."

I saw myself in that shy girl. All we're looking for is a little bit of permission.

I wish I could say it was because I walked around trailed by my own private-security entourage‐but no. What prompted the nickname was the look of total confusion and panic on my face when I had to do my own chores.

Allow me to give you an example: It was about three weeks into September and I was down to my last pair of fresh...uh...trousers.

Evidently, my clothes weren't going to wash themselves.

At this point I knew I had to instill the help of a friend. There was no way I was confronting a communal washing machine alone. I stood there in front of the foreboding thing, my eyebrows bunched together and my hands crossed tightly across my chest. Zelius (my helpful friend) stood by my side. "The card goes here," he said slowly and pointed.

"Okay," I said "and where do these go?"

I was holding up items other friends helped me buy when they became concerned at how dazed I looked at the grocery store.

Zelius stared at me. A second passed. Then three.

He took a deep breath and finally said, "You pour that here and those scented-sheets are for the dryer."

Dryer? It seemed that the adventure just kept getting more complicated. A spin, tumble and fold later I had finally learned how to do my own laundry. I guess this could come across like I'm "pampered." I'm not. Or more accurately, it depends how you look at it.

In Bahrain, we had a live-in housekeeper. Almost everyone I know there does. I can understand why some people here would think I'm rich and privileged. However, this is totally a matter of perspective and isn't necessarily accurate.

Markers of wealth differ from culture to culture. Having household help in Bahrain is not one of them. Well, let's just say it was difficult adapting to living outside my "comfort" zone (pun intended); but I have come a long way.

When I recently decided to move off of campus, I had to clean my room before inspection. My regular routine had consisted almost exclusively of vacuuming. That was just not going to cut it if I was looking to get my security deposit back. Thus started an exercise in finding the most random places that could accumulate dust and polishing like crazy.

'Battlefield: Bathroom' was about to begin.

I definitely didn't feel like royalty when I was down on my knees, scrubbing the back of my toilet-seat. Though, I was proud of myself. It felt like a tremendous amount of growth.
Next, was the bathroom mirror. How on earth do people ever get them to sparkle and shine anyway? The more I tried to clean it, the worse it got. I ended up sheepishly knocking on my neighbour's door for the Windex 101 mini-course.

I guess I still have some prince left in me after all.

Mo Canada will be back in January 2012! Happy holidays to everyone.