Sachiko must be considered “different” here in Japan. She works in the male-dominated research and development section of a major automobile company. Her interests include English, Hollywood movies, and fast cars. She wears dark, thick-framed glasses that cover most of her round, childlike face. She could easily pass as an elementary school student, but was taking an adult, basic-level English class I was teaching.

One day, she stayed behind to ask me a question. She could hardly put two words together. But no matter. After my having taught English for more than 10 years in Japan, my teacher instincts fill in those pesky prepositions or pronouns that often make even the more advanced students cringe with fear. It’s amazing how ideas can be conveyed without these trimmings. Such bare, stripped-down sentences deliver more impact to what the speaker wants to say.

“Very sorry. I have question. What do you say, ‘don’t touch me’ in English?” she asked, in broken, uncertain English.

I asked what she meant. And she began to tell me a story in a pidgin mix of English and Japanese about what had happened to her.

It was at an art museum, she said. While she was examining a print, a man came up to her and began stroking her on the buttocks. She pleaded with him in Japanese to stop, but he continued to harass her, and then began touching her breasts with impunity.

I asked why she didn’t scream out for help or run away, but she only said she didn’t want to make trouble, and therefore endured the harassment. Then she told me it was not the first time. Her pleas in Japanese were always ignored.

If her pleas were in English, she said, everything would change. She’s seen the movies — the Western women on celluloid who take no shit from anyone. Even if the guys who touched her didn’t understand a word, it wouldn’t matter. The English would be enough to send them scurrying away.

The language has the potency of a karate chop to the head. The economic and military superpowers of the English-speaking world were to thank for that. And an appreciative nod goes to Hollywood as well for making English the world language. Thank God Johnny Depp was endowed with a native English tongue.

The dialog in our classroom’s English textbook always seemed dead to me: a utopia on paper where everyone wants to be your friend, where a “Hi, how are you?” will make you the instant life of the party.

Finally, here arose a lesson that was practical, one a student could finally use and benefit from, as opposed to the American middle-class values instilled by those textbooks.

After some hesitation, I finally wrote “Get the fuck off me!” on the blackboard, and began teaching her the unsubtle nuances of the word “fuck.”

She read the words slowly, deliberately, and in monotone: “Get … the … fuck … off … me.”

The softness in Sachiko’s voice sounded as if she were reciting “Mother Goose” to a group of children. “Fuck” never sounded so sweet.

English, especially “combative English” (for lack of a better term), was all about stress, I emphasized while pointing at the word “fuck” on the blackboard. This, I said — tapping at the word — is where the stress should lie.

Even if the intended listener didn’t understand, it wouldn’t matter. The strong vocalization of the one word alone would do the job. Even the formation of the sound of the letter “f” looks intimidating. The raised upper lip reveals the front teeth while the lower lip is tucked underneath. Any such articulation that bares a set of teeth brings us closer to our primal instincts of survival. If that isn’t enough to scare off a predator, the hard, menacing sound of the “k” could be the coup de grâce.

Sachiko repeated the phrase on the blackboard with more emphasis, more confident about what she had to do. While most of her classmates talk about learning English to learn about other cultures, to have an advantage in the workplace, and to meet Westerners, Sachiko won’t be making new friends with this newly acquired phrase. She said it to herself a few times, and even began to sound a little menacing.

For her, it’s just a sound, a magic word. She knows it’s swearing, but she’s unaware of the hatred, anger, and confrontation that its English speakers intend to express when using the word. You could say baka yaro until your face turns blue, but more likely than not, you wouldn’t get that same tingling in your stomach as you would from saying “Fucking idiot.”

English sells. Or rather, the likeness of English sells. In Japan, the language is hip, even if you don’t understand what is being said.

Sachiko thanked me and practiced the phrase over and over again under her breath as she walked out the door. She’s finally mastered it. She’s armed — with a phrase that will embolden her.

Hauquan Chau

For about 24 hours in Polk County, Iowa, same-sex couples were allowed to apply for marriage licenses. Below is a letter sent by Pam Lee and Beth Beglin of Coralville to their friends and loved ones.

August 31, 2007

Dear Friends, Family, and Co-Workers,

Pam and I wanted to share our accounting of a very unique day in our life, most notable for the support of some very special individuals and the wild swings of emotions we experienced. We chose this co-authored story as the easiest way for us to share this event, despite the fact that you may not know any of the individuals involved (other than us). We also thought it would help us keep faith that at some point in the future, we will actually celebrate our legally valid marriage with you.

We were surprised, admittedly stunned, after yesterday’s ruling by Polk County Judge Robert Hanson striking down Iowa’s marriage laws limiting marriage to a “man and a woman,” thus paving the way for same-sex marriages in the Hawkeye State. The decision was sweeping in its breath, invalidating the law on both a due process and equal protection basis, and at every level of judicial review, from strict scrutiny to rational basis. We just didn’t think it would happen here, in the heart of the Heartland, in Iowa, at least not yet. Coming home from an evening fundraiser for Community Mental Health, Pam and I re-read the decision, and then I proposed. Admittedly it wasn’t even close to romantic, but I have to say I really didn’t expect a “Maybe.” After almost twenty years of sharing our lives, I thought we were past the “tryout stage.” We went to bed thinking, “Did this really happen?”

Those of you who know me well know that I am not an early morning person. It’s all I can do to make our 9:30 am start for our Sunday morning coffee klatch. But this morning was different. Wide awake at first light, Pam and I reached a mutual decision, “We should do this.” Knowing a judicial stay was only a matter of time, we sprang out of bed, grabbed the computer, researched Iowa’s marriage requirements, and printed an application, which we began to immediately complete before coming to our first dilemma. Who wanted to be the “Groom” and who wanted to be the “Bride,” as those were the designated categorical descriptions contained in the application? Frankly, we had never considered it before. Could we cross out “groom” and both be brides? Would this invalidate the form? Are we really having a discussion about this? Would the sanctity of marriage be ruined with gender-neutral language?? Okay, flip a coin. Beth is the groom, Pam is the bride.

First bridge crossed, we worked our way through the rest of the form. Who requires a form to be completed only in upper and lower case printing? Who asks for State, County, City, Address, and Zip Code, in that particular order, on any required form? Three shredded copies later, and an early morning phone call to confirm the spelling of Pam’s mother’s middle name, Francis with an “i” or Frances with an “e” (it’s “e”), and we were ready to go. Now we only needed a witness! That decision was easy, as there was no other person we would have wanted to ask but Sally Cline, our long time friend and neighbor, and someone who has shared many late night bottles of wine with me discussing marriage and gay rights. Our 7:00 am phone call elicited a momentary pause, especially when I asked Sally what her plans were for the morning. “Well, I had eventually planned on getting into work at some point, why?” “Well, Pam and I wanted to know if you would be our witness for our marriage application as we can’t think of anyone else that we would rather have.” Dead silence. “Hello? Hello?” Only when I heard Sally’s emotionally choked reply, “I would be honored” did my own eyes begin to well as I realized our marriage was an actual possibility. “We’ll meet you at the Johnson County Recorder’s office at 8:00 am,” I softly choked back, hoping that we would be able to process our application without the necessity of a trip to Des Moines.

“I’m sorry, but the Judge’s ruling is valid only in Polk County. You will have to go to Des Moines to apply for a marriage license,” explained Johnson County Recorder Kim Painter. Pam and I exchanged glances, and said, “Let’s go.” First stop was the Johnson County Courthouse, where Sally validated our marriage application by affixing her signature as a “disinterested” witness, confirming our identities in front of Teresa, our office notary and legal assistant, and quite a few of my fellow co-workers.

We were not quite sure who was more excited at this sudden course of events, all of my coworkers, or Pam and I. Just as Sally was about to sign our application, Iris stopped the proceedings, said no marriage could take place without flowers, and proceeded to Meredith’s office, where she grabbed Meredith’s “Welcome back from your maternity leave” bouquet, divided it in half, wrapped and taped the stems in damp towels, and handed us our floral arrangements for the signing ceremony. Meanwhile, Janet was closing file cabinets and doors so we would have a better photo backdrop. Co-workers snapped pictures for us as Pam and I traded signs of “Bride” and “Groom” while flashbulbs popped. We later did tell Iris that this Irish-Catholic/Buddhist Unitarian couple would gladly hire her, the Jewish American Princess wedding planner, for our actual ceremony. Andy gave us newly printed MapQuest directions to the Polk County Administration Building, we hopped in the Miata, and bolted.

Flying past golden cornfields, Pam and I talked and planned the entire ride to Des Moines. We made our invitation list, discussed possible dates for a reception, began picking music, and even went so far as to consider the actual details of the ceremony we would hold for friends and family after our courthouse marriage. We became so excited about a possibility that had been long been closed to us. Imagine having the same legal protections as every other citizen in a committed relationship! We couldn’t fathom it.

Arriving at the Polk County Administration Building, we walked inside towards the Recorder’s Office, traversing a long hallway occupied by several TV crews and cameras. As soon as we approached, they said “Lesbians!” grabbed their cameras, and quickly began filming. Okay, they really didn’t say “Lesbians,” but all the rest is true. Pam and I felt like we had “GAY MARRIAGE” stamped on our foreheads. Guess it’s a good thing we are “out.” We had our application signed and notarized, and headed to the Polk County Courthouse with an application to waive the three-day waiting period, which required a judge’s signature. Our plan was to get the waiver signed, file it, receive our marriage license, and head back to Iowa City to be married that afternoon. We requested to see Judge Rosenberg as he had signed waivers for other applicants, and we were seated in his courtroom, just outside of his open office door. We vaguely heard the judge on the telephone, and after hanging up, he invited us into his office. Pam and I introduced ourselves, explained our request, and heard the judge say:

I apologize for having to give you bad news, but I just spoke with Judge Hanson, who authored yesterday’s decision. He just informed me he has issued an immediate stay of his ruling, pending appeal to the Iowa Supreme Court. I am so sorry.

Before we left Iowa City this morning, we knew this was the possible, even likely, outcome of our marriage attempt. We knew we had limited time, and that an appeal and stay could occur at any minute. We honestly thought we had steeled ourselves against such a disappointment. Yet, when it came, it hurt, more than we could ever have imagined, and more than we can ever express in words. Deflated, we thanked Judge Rosenberg, and walked silently back to the Administration Building, handed back our notarized application“ with the required fee, and now have a file stamped “marriage application pending”, awaiting a decision by the Iowa Supreme Court. When that will come is anyone’s guess, as is the eventual outcome of the ruling. In the meantime, 21 Iowa same-sex couples were issued marriage licenses that will not be accepted, and a male couple comprised of two Iowa State students became the first and only legally recognized gay marriage in Iowa.

It’s funny but when something isn’t legally permissible for a class of individuals to which you belong, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t matter all that much. However, when something so fundamental as being treated equally in the eyes of the law as every other citizen moves into the realm of being a real possibility, it is incredibly difficult to return to one’s previous state of denial when that possibility is quashed. Marriage, and its attendant rights and responsibilities, matters, at least to us. For almost 20 years, we have gladly shared in its responsibilities. Today, we were hoping beyond hope to finally avail ourselves of its accordant rights.

Pam and I left the Polk County Administration Building, driving to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. Ironically, it is the same restaurant we dined at two-and-a-half years ago after I was deemed morally fit enough to be admitted to the Iowa Bar, and sworn in by one of the same justices who will now decide whether I should have the same rights as every other Iowa citizen for whom I can legally advocate. As we unsuccessfully attempted to blink back our tears, we tried to focus on what we will always remember from today, the love, support and excitement of our friends, family, and co-workers. Thank you, from the very bottom of our broken hearts.

Beth and Pam

ITF Magazine