one side of the room there were two sinks and two smooth-top stoves. The opposite counter held coffee makers, thermoses, shelves for wooden saucers, and a heating appliance for hand towels. In the corner was a full-sized refrigerator, something I had never seen in a Japanese kitchen. The cabinets were filled with cups and pots for Japanese and English tea. There were stockpiles of tea and coffee, and cans of low-calorie Coke Light and Florida orange juice. In the center of the room was a narrow table with two stools.
In the morning the women arrived on the tenth floor already dressed in their uniforms. Carrying petite designer purses, they would walk into the pantry and chime, “Good morning.” Greetings and gentle nods were passed around the room like neighborly handshakes at church.
Even though work didn’t officially begin until 8:40 A.M., the women immediately started to organize the pantry. They filled large thermoses with mugicha (barley tea) that would be used throughout the day. Others put away dishes and got cleaning rags ready in a bucket.
Through the darkened one-way window I could see our work area, the hishoshitsu, which literally means “room of secrets.” “Executive secretariat” was Tom’s translation. He told me he thought it sounded more impressive than “secretarial office.”
Our workspace was set behind a beige reception counter. Desks were clustered in groups of four to six desks, pushed together to form shima, or islands. The desktops were completely clear, with the exception of a phone on each desk. There was a rule at Honda that everyone had to clean off his or her desk before going home every night, so all desk supplies and paperwork were stored away in cabinets and on chair seats.
I watched the secretaries retrieve their supplies from hiding places. Each woman had some type of pastel-colored box filled with pencils, glue, heart-shaped note paper, scissors, erasers shaped like animal crackers, and sometimes a pen that had lemon-scented ink or an automatic pencil with a pink charm dangling from the end. Each island shared common supplies, usually in a cigar box covered with stickers. There were no personal items: no family pictures, no mugs or flower vases. The desks were devoid of character; if a secretary wasn’t sitting at her desk I couldn’t identify whose it was.
For ten or twenty minutes the chores in the office were attended to. The women used white cleaning rags to wipe the desktops and clean the receivers of each of the two-dozen telephones. They sharpened pencils from the desks in the executive office and made sure that all the cabinets were unlocked. After each OL had organized her desk and taken care of her chores, she would return to the pantry for a communal cup of coffee or tea. Because there were more than two people, the two stools would remain unused. Instead, everyone stood or squatted next to the table while they talked until 8:35, when the jingly morning exercise music started playing over the public-address system.
“All right, everybody, let’s begin by swinging our arms over our head,” instructed the peppy recording in Japanese. The secretaries ignored the directions but hurriedly emptied their cups and washed them. “Touch your toes, one, two, three, four!” The women scurried from the pantry to the executive office and back to their desks, aware only of the minutes remaining until the music stopped.
By this time the buchō, or manager, would be sitting at his island in a cloud of his own smoke. The other men usually arrived later in the morning because of late-night responsibilities to the executives. Tom and the other men took turns staying late until all the directors had gone home. Because some of the directors had responsibilities in countries halfway around the world in different time zones, it wasn’t unusual for at least one of them to stay at the office until after midnight.
At 8:40 A.M., when the official work bell sounded, all eleven secretaries were obediently sitting in their assigned seats, hair freshly combed, vests buttoned up, and smiles caffeinated for the day.
“Ohayō gozaimasu,” said the buchō.
“Ohayō gozaimasu,” a chorus of sopranos replied.
The morning meeting began with a recitation of each executive’s schedule. The chairman’s secretary Ms. Mori, started. “Today the chairman will have a meeting with the Belgian ambassador at 2:00 P.M. At 4:00 P.M. he has an appointment with the accounting manager. This evening he has a dinner meeting with the president at the Advisor’s Building.” Down the line, each secretary read her schedules aloud so everyone would be aware of the day’s events. The buchō often made administrative announcements and then concluded the meeting.
The directors started arriving after 9:30. One by one they filed off the elevator and passed the reception desk to get to the executive office. They were quiet, slight figures in dark suits. Sometimes they acted as though they didn’t want to be noticed, but that was impossible. As soon as one was spotted by a secretary she would ring out a greeting in a loud, cheerful voice to alert all the secretaries. The others, from whatever position they were in, conversation or work, would immediately follow her greeting with an even louder, more cheerful “Ohayō gozaimasu!” The executive would keep walking, maybe nod his head and utter a barely audible “Ohayō.”
For a week I observed my fellow OLs at work, rushing to answer the phone and patiently analyzing the piles of mail that were delivered six times a day. They served tea and cleaned ashtrays, they washed cups and then started all over again.
I had not been asked to serve tea, but I knew there was no way to avoid it. Every morning I watched as Ms. Ogi prepared to meet with each of her directors and review his schedule for the day. She balanced a jade-colored teacup on a red lacquer tray in one hand and held the schedule book in the other. All the secretaries repeated this routine for each executive. Tea was served mid-morning to whoever was at his desk, and again in the afternoon. If an executive had a meeting or returned from an outside event, tea welcomed him back.
I already knew that green tea in Japan was more than a beverage. It was a hobby, a culture, a way of life. My host mother, like many Japanese women, had practiced the art of tea ceremony. Every week, for years, she went to class and rehearsed the delicate, meditative movements of tea preparation.
Once, my host mother had invited me to accompany her to a formal tea ceremony. She spent two hours wrapping me up in a three-layered kimono. Magnificent purple and red flowers embroidered the outer garment. I also wore tabi, white cotton socks, and geta, wooden clogs, and an elaborately tied obi around my waist so I could move only in short, shuffling steps. My host mother had to show me how to walk with my toes pointed in, heels apart. The obi prevented me from leaning back. All I could do was sit with my back straight. I felt like an exquisitely packaged Japanese doll that couldn’t play; I could only watch.
But even knowing the historical and cultural importance of tea, I felt about serving it like I did about the uniforms. Why was it restricted only to women?
In high school I’d had a teacher who would routinely ask only the girls in the class to fetch him a daily cup of water. Some girls felt honored by his attention. I felt sickened. On one occasion he asked me and a friend of mine to get his drink. We went to the drinking fountain, spit in his cup, filled it with water, and then served him.
The executive office was adjacent to our office. From the double doorway I could see the entire room, which was about the size of two tennis courts. A long row of windows spanned one wall. There were no walls or room dividers interrupting the open space because all thirty-seven directors of Honda Motor Company shared one office.
The chairman, president, vice presidents, and senior managing directors, a total of eight men, sat in a row furthest from the entrance with their desks facing the window, the most prestigious location. Their plain wooden desks had no distinguishing features. Each one had a beige telephone and a flimsy corporate
