want to become part of her secretarial hierarchy. Having no place in the hierarchy made me feel exempt from the rules that defined work and relationships. No one asked me to come in early to prepare cleaning rags. If I arrived early, I spent my time talking or reading the week-old Wall Street Journal. I didn’t mind taking my turn doing the “A” and “B” chores, but I wanted my work to be hierarchy-free. It was the same with my relationships: I liked being able to join the various groups for lunch. I didn’t want to be categorized simply by my age.
I wanted to be an honorary member the way I had been as an exchange student with the Welcome Ladies and on the Waseda judo team. My coaches and teammates treated me like a member of the group, but they’d had different expectations of me than they had of other members.
On my first day of judo practice I had noticed that all of the thirty men on the team had cauliflower ears. Their smooth earfolds were plump and puffy like a twisted bun. The ears are badges of courage in judo, I was told—proof of toughness. The initiation started in junior high school when upperclassmen boxed the ears of their juniors during grappling practice. As the initiation continued week after week, the ears would swell with liquid and the lobe would start to separate from the skull. Even if cold compresses were applied, the ears would throb and sounds would be muffled. By the time the boys were in their second year of junior high school, their lobes were hardened for life—hard as a knuckle with no loose flesh, just smooth, unmoving tissue.
My initiation into the judo team was much less painful. I had to fall—ukemi. My entire first week of practice was spent doing this. While the others practiced, I stood in the corner of the dojo flinging myself onto the green mat while the two white ends of my belt swung wildly with each ukemi.
After a year of being a member of the judo team my body reflected my earnestness and I earned my brown belt, even though I was without status and without cauliflower ears. I noticed that my blouses felt tighter around my shoulders and back. I had never measured my strength before, only my weight. I could do one hundred push-ups in a row and found immense satisfaction in throwing men twice my size. Judo gave me a physical thrill that I had never known playing basketball or running track. Judo also gave me a sense of belonging that I’d never had on the court or on the field.
I wondered if I would ever feel the same way about the executive secretaries. This was a new kind of team, but one that already demanded more conformity than I had ever been expected to give. What I had seen so far on the tenth floor made me think that my indifference to the hierarchy was going to have to change. I was going to have to play according to the rules of this corporate team, but I wasn’t sure what those rules would be. Where were the cauliflower ears on these dainty women?
Every day the secretaries attended to the same tasks: arranging meetings, writing in three schedule books, rescheduling meetings, erasing and rewriting in the schedule books, arranging transportation, procuring tickets, rearranging transportation, exchanging old tickets for new, tabulating expense reports, securing appropriate signatures for expense reports, preparing for guests, preparing guest rooms for guests, greeting guests, preparing tea, serving tea, cleaning up guest rooms, and washing tea cups. No matter how many times the task had been repeated or how seemingly unimportant it was, the secretaries treated each job as a significant duty.
A secretary entered the company as an assistant and would most likely continue to operate in that capacity until she left. The women didn’t complain about the mundane tasks or wish for promotions and more interesting work. Like a new mother of a child, each woman accepted her role and the obligations that went with it. Just as their diligent phone answering skills had impressed me, their overall attitude and approach to Office Lady work confounded me. I both admired their dedication and rejected their obedience.
I wanted to belong to this group, but I wasn’t sure about the sacrifices it might require, like treating Ms. Mori as a queen. I thought of myself as an individual before I thought of myself as part of any group. After working in the secretariat for two months I still didn’t get excited at the thought of making the perfect cup of tea. Simple tasks such as sharpening pencils and setting out paper seemed pointless. I didn’t seem to get the same sense of satisfaction as my colleagues.
My way of life was unusual to them. I wondered what they thought about the choices I had made. They seemed curious about me in the way one is curious about a contortionist. I felt sure that not one of them would have wanted to leave the comfort of the group and trade places with me. I felt the same way about them.
3
Ms. Mori
It was a quiet afternoon and most of the directors were out of the office when Ms. Mori announced that it was time for my tea training. I had successfully avoided serving tea for months. But I knew that, as with the uniform, I had little choice. If I refused to serve tea, I wouldn’t be seen as a team player and would surely isolate myself from my colleagues.
The other women didn’t seem to have the same aversion to serving tea. Questioning why only women served tea would have been like asking them, “Why do only women have babies?” I had accepted the inevitability of this task coming my way, so when Ms. Mori made her announcement I didn’t resist. She recruited two junior-level secretaries to help. The four of us went into one of the guest rooms used for social visits. The room looked like a den in an elegant home; four handsome leather chairs were placed around a square marble coffee table. The two women sat down obediently.
“The first thing to learn is how to enter the room,” Ms. Mori instructed. She was holding a lacquer tray with two empty teacups on wooden saucers. “Before you enter the room, you must knock.” She walked out and closed the door. I heard her tap lightly before gently opening the door as if entering a sanctuary.
“Shitsurei shimasu. Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said and proceeded into the room.
“The next thing to consider is the order in which to serve the tea. It depends on who is visiting and if he is more important than Mr. Chino. You never serve Mr. Chino first if the guest is more important.”
“But how do you know?” I asked.
“If you don’t already know before you walk in, you can tell by where they are sitting. The most important place is the seat furthest away from the door. If Mr. Chino is sitting there, then you can serve him first, but if the guest is sitting there, serve him before you serve Mr. Chino.”
“What if there is more than one guest?” I asked.
“Then you serve them in descending order,” she barked as if it were common knowledge. Her reply only confused me more, but I could tell she was losing her patience. She moved to the far right of Mr. Chino’s chair. “Always approach the table at an angle so that you don’t disrupt the conversation.” In one fluid motion she placed the teacup and saucer on the table without making a sound. Then she backed away and moved around to the outside of the guest’s chair and placed the second cup. Each time she reached, she whispered, “Shitsurei shimasu,” as if to cushion the obtuse gesture.
She held the empty tray flat against her body as she surveyed the room before backing slowly into the door. She turned to open the door and then turned back to face the room, bowed and retreated backwards once more mouthing the refrain, “Shitsurei shimasu.”
“Now it’s your turn,” she said, walking back into the room and collecting the cups. I took the tray and balanced it with one hand.
“Use two hands,” she instructed. I proceeded to the table. “Be more discreet. Keep your head down,” she said.
When I got close to the table, I grabbed one of the saucers and placed it next to one
