Reframing Disability in Manga 0824882369, 9780824882365

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Reframing Disability in Manga

Reframing Disability in Manga Yoshiko Okuyama

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2020 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America 25 24 23 22 21 20    6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Okuyama, Yoshiko, author. Title: Reframing disability in manga / Yoshiko Okuyama. Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019041010 | ISBN 9780824882365 (hardback) | ISBN 9780824883232 (epub) | ISBN 9780824883225 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9780824883249 (kindle edition) Subjects: LCSH: People with disabilities—Japan—Comic books, strips, etc. | Comic books, strips, etc.—Japan—History and criticism. | People with disabilities in mass media. Classification: LCC PN6790.J3 O38 2020 | DDC 741.5/952—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019041010

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources. Cover art: From Kimi no Te ga Sasayaiteiru (Your Hands Are Whispering) by Karube Junko, published by Kodansha, 1992–1996. Using Japanese sign language, the manga’s heroine, Mieko, and her husband sign “See you later” while their daughter signs “Bye bye.”

This book is dedicated to my husband, David, and my son, Sai, who offered the love and support I needed to complete it.

Contents Acknowledgments  ix Introduction  xi Conventions  xxi Part I

Representation of Disability: Past and Present Perspectives 1 Theorizing Disability  3 2 Media and Disability 24

Part II

Reframing Disability in the Imagined World of Manga 3 Portrayals of Deaf Characters  45 4 Gender and the Wheelchair 64 5 Narratives of Blindness 88 6 Heterogeneity of Autism 107 7 Gender Identity Disorder/Gender Dysphoria  128 Afterword  150 Appendix  157 Notes  159 References  179 Index  201

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Acknowledgments Reframing Disability in Manga was made possible through the efforts and support of many people and organizations. First and foremost, I would like to acknowledge the research grants and assistance that I received. In 2017 I was the recipient of the Japan Foundation Long-Term Research Fellowship, which allowed me to conduct fieldwork and archival research as a visiting scholar at Kokugakuin University Graduate College. The foundation’s generous support of my research was crucial to the early development of this manuscript. During my stay in Japan, my host, Professor Ogawa, made my time at Kokugakuin very productive. I am also grateful for the tireless help of Shuhei Yoshimura, my assigned coordinator at the foundation’s Japanese Studies and Intellectual Exchange Department. The staff at the Kyoto International Manga Museum efficiently assisted my archival research on manga titles, and I thank them for their generous and professional help during my use of the museum’s kenkyū etsuranshitsu (research reference room). From June 18 to July 13, 2018, I benefited from the financial assistance of the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH), which allowed me to attend the NEH Summer Institute on the Global Histories of Disabilities. This award afforded me an intensive, four-week opportunity to interact with and attend lectures by well-published, world-class disability studies scholars such as Douglas Baynton, Susan Burch, Catherine Kudlick, and David Mitchell at Gallaudet University in Washington, DC. There, I was able to solicit their feedback on such topics as stigma, disability identity, and the relationship between gender and disability, an experience that transformed my way of framing disability. I am forever grateful for the inspiring discussions I had with those lecturers and my coparticipants at the institute, which were helpful when I substantially revised my manuscript that summer. Second, like most academic books, many individuals have supported and encouraged me to complete this project over a three-year period. I was fortunate to have the help of two individuals who made indispensable editorial contributions: Christine Osterwalder provided me with thorough and speedy editorial assistance, including suggestions for stylistic improvement, and my dear friend Catherine Collier read my draft manuscripts and caught my ix

x     Acknowledgments

occasional slipups regarding dates, titles, and other information. Catherine also shared her own disability experience in long e-mails and, at other times, helped keep my spirits up, especially when I was faced with numerous challenges while caring for my mentally ill parent. I also believe the final revision of my book benefited greatly from the skillful editing of Wendy Lawrence, the copy editor provided by the publisher. Equally important to this project was my editor, Stephanie Chun, at the University of Hawai‘i Press, whose unflappable faith in my book and patience with me were essential to the completion of this publication. Without her constant and consistent guidance, our manuscript preparation and production processes would not have been as successful. Similarly, I am grateful to my two external reviewers, not only for their extremely useful comments but also for their enthusiasm for and praise of this research project. Third, many scholars in disability studies and other relevant fields provided me with their expertise and helpful comments throughout the writing of this book. These people include but are not limited to Jose Alaniz, Jaqueline Berndt, Jeff Brune, David Hammes, Katharina Heyer, Kojiro Hirose, Allison Hobgood, Bill Kirkpatrick, Kazuhiko Komatsu, Maren Linett, Kim E. Nielsen, Octavian Robinson, Lawrence Rogers, and Sara Scalenghe. I am indebted to the individuals who responded to my interview requests as well. Many more people helped me in a multitude of important roles and capacities, and I would like to thank all of them for their friendship, guidance, and emotional support. Last of all, I wish to thank my family for their continuous support and love despite the many occasions that my research and writing took me away from our time together. I am particularly grateful to my son, Sai O. Weiss, for his genuine and unfailing praise of my research progress and to my husband, David Weiss, for his tireless attention to my endless, self-absorbed discussion of this book project. Sharing with him what I learned from reading or what I encountered during my fieldwork and listening to his reaction as a nonacademic outsider often became a source of food for thought or an occurrence of serendipity. To conclude, I would like to acknowledge the equally important presence of my parent, whose lifelong struggle with disability has had a great impact on the way that I, as both a scholar and a caretaker, view many of the issues discussed in this book.

Introduction More than one billion people, or 15 percent of the world’s population, have “some form of disability” (WHO 2011). One-fifth of them, or 110–190 million people, have significant difficulties in functioning, and people with disabilities are more likely to live in poverty than able-bodied individuals (http:// www.worldbank.org/en/topic/disability). Solomon (2013) clarifies that out of that 15 percent, one-third are elderly, bringing to 10 percent the population with disabilities unrelated to aging.1 On the subject of disability in Japan, we already have several excellent books for English-language readers, including Depression in Japan (Kitanaka 2011), A Disability of the Soul (Nakamura 2013), Disability in Japan (Stevens 2013), Disability, Culture, and Development (Kayama and Haight 2013), Rights Enabled (Heyer 2015), and Goze (Groemer 2016). Reframing Disability in Manga is different, however. By utilizing interviews and focusing on portrayals of disability in Japanese graphic novels, this book features comic stories that illustrate human diversity in interpersonal and everyday accounts and attempts to reach out to those who do not regularly interact with people with disabilities and their families.

On Disability Category Selection A disability can be visible or invisible, severe or mild, and rare or common. It can also be mental, physical, or emotional/social. A disability can be inherited or acquired. Thus, it is hard to categorize different types of disabilities in a neat, organized way. For this book I focused on five representative conditions classified as disabilities in Japan—deafness, blindness, mobility impairments, autism, and gender identity disorder—and selected manga titles based on these categories. There is no denying that the selection criteria are somewhat subjective. However, my personal experience as the primary caregiver for a person with a disability, as well as my previous research in deaf studies, enabled me to write this book with a personal connection to the struggles and triumphs of the disabled that the selected manga chronicle. On a scholarly side, my understanding of disability was deepened as the result of a month-long participation in the 2018 Global Histories of Disability Summer Institute sponsored by the National Endowment for the Humanities. xi

xii     Introduction

The purpose of clustering the stories into chapters, each of which represents one of the five disability categories, is to focus on that specific disability community with its specific issues and agenda. Although I examine manga characters by disability category, I am well aware that no person’s life with a disability is the same despite some issues common to all types of disabilities.

Manga Basics What is manga? Manga is a wide-reaching, influential medium of popular culture originating in Japan. More specifically, manga are monochrome, story-length comic books, like US comics, with scenes drawn in panels and speech balloons, including comic strips (yonkoma manga, or four-panel manga). Manga is often mistaken for anime because the two are closely related. However, manga refer to comics with black-and-white drawings (except for the “feature” pages in multicolor), while anime are animation films produced in Japan. Like anime, manga is Japan’s globally marketed art form and has gained noticeable popularity overseas.2 Manga has unique principles of visual communication. Its most basic rule is that it is read from right to left. Other rules concern the ways in which panels, speech balloons, and text boxes are used and organized. Naturally, reading manga requires some experience with this type of comic.3 The genres of manga are another key concept relevant to this book. Most manga stories are initially serialized in a magazine devoted to a certain readership. For example, shōjo manga refers to a genre for young female readers, as exemplified by Tezuka Osamu’s Princess Knight, or Ribon no kishi in Japanese, a very popular comic series in the 1960s in Japan. Also known as rediisu komikku (ladies’ comics), josei manga is a genre developed during the 1980s that targets a more mature female readership (e.g., Yoshinaga Fumi’s Ōoku). Similarly, the genre of shōnen manga was developed for teenage boys, while sēnen manga was created for young adult and adult males. However, the distinction between shōjo and josei manga or shōnen and sēnen manga has recently become blurred. For instance, Attack of the Titans (Shingeki no kyojin), a manga with well-developed characters and plotlines, became popular among both adolescent and adult male readers. Gekiga (drama picture) is a genre of realistic manga that tells stories reflecting current society, often with violence and gore, as represented by Shirato Sanpei’s Kamui-den and Kamui gaiden. Gakushū manga, a genre of educational manga, is designed to teach academic topics, such as algebra, or tell stories about historical events and figures. Meaning “sports-guts comics,” supokon manga feature

Introduction     xiii

stories about protagonists in sports, mostly male athletes, who are typically drawn with thick eyebrows signifying masculine power, virility, and endurance. By contrast, yaoi manga, usually drawn by female manga-ka (comic artists), is a genre in which male characters are in love with one another. Rupo manga (reportage manga) is a new genre of documentary manga about real-life incidents, based on fieldwork such as interviews, with realistic sketches of the individuals involved. Since this book’s manga analysis refers to genre-specific designations of selected titles, familiarity with the genre’s target audience and thematic characteristics should help those who are not regular manga readers. Various forms of popular culture, including movies and novels, have featured characters with disabilities. As Barrett and Leddy (2008) argue, media have been effective tools for social change. I believe that visual media, such as comic books, not only permeate but also shape our culture by persuading viewers using images tied to certain concepts. Comics can make clear policy impacts. For example, as shown in chapter 3, a social justice narrative such as Yamamoto Osamu’s Home of Acorns can lead to policy changes on behalf of deaf and intellectually disabled children. Therefore, manga can be successfully used as a platform for social action, including efforts to achieve legal action for a marginalized group. As exemplified in the fifteen cases analyzed here, a manga narrative composed with the conviction of social justice will speak persuasively for social action. I believe that manga can be agents of social change. In this introductory segment, it is necessary to emphasize the potential power of manga as a tool for educating readers about the lives of people with disabilities. Just like film and literature, comics can influence an inexperienced reader of this topic through engaging stories centering around a main character who happens to have a disability. Manga presents such stories with exhilarated dialogue and eye-catching illustrations. Therefore, a medium like manga can be used to raise disability awareness, both in and outside of Japan, and it can serve as a gateway to understanding the social issues that affect the lives of people with disabilities. If someone is interested in understanding, say, wheelchair users, reading a manga series such as Real or Perfect World (featured in chapter 4) will be an eye-opener, especially to a reader who has no direct experience with people in wheelchairs. Or the reader with preconceived stereotypes of blind people may develop a better understanding of blindness and a greater awareness of the issues affecting visually impaired users of, for instance, public transportation after reading manga

xiv     Introduction

titles such as Ask, Lo, Flowers (covered in chapter 5). Popularizing gendervariant identities through the medium of manga (see chapter 7) will help strengthen the solidarity of transgender youths as a minority group facing genderism both in school and at work. When a character with a disability is narrated properly, manga can be an educational tool that helps to alter the reader’s negative perception of disability and ableist attitudes toward the people whom the character represents. Similarly, minority groups with other disabilities are discussed in chapter 3 (deafness) and chapter 6 (autism). Although manga can be inspiring and empowering, many titles are simply for popular entertainment and fun reading. Furthermore, negative images of disability, including caricatures of otherness and discriminatory language toward the Other, are still prevalent in many comics both in Japan and around the world. For example, Smith and Sapon-Shevin (2008–2009) review how disability-related humor is used in cartoons and discuss the positive and negative issues of such humor, including the use of disabilityoppressive terms. They confirm that the positive application of humor toward disability is rare in publications outside of those for disabled people and urge readers to critically examine the issues of cartoon humor about people with disabilities. McGrail and Rieger (2014) encourage educators to analyze such material and “critically examine prejudices and purported humor generated at the expense of characters with disabilities” (300). Such critical reviewers of comic books will discern embedded biases toward the Other, even in popular manga. From a vast variety of manga genres, we should carefully choose a manga title with a good plot that discusses the subject matter of disability in a serious, sensitive manner. For this reason, the type of manga title selected for this book is what is often called a graphic novel— a book-length, comic narrative that tells a complex story about a serious sociocultural issue. Smith and Sapon-Shevin (2008–2009) propose more published cartoons that highlight what people with disabilities are capable of in everyday life. Using an innovative curriculum design, McGrail (2013) promotes a way of incorporating comics into activities to teach able-bodied children disability awareness and help them develop positive attitudes toward people with disabilities. Some scholars do handpick key graphic novels that feature protagonists with disabilities or discuss disability issues properly in educational contexts. McGrail (2013) recommends The Ride Together by Karasik and Karasik (2004) and Epileptic by David B. (2006), for example, as great material to help the reader understand what it is like to have a family mem-

Introduction     xv

ber with autism or epilepsy. These graphic novels are also praised by Squier (2008), while Birge (2010) suggests, along with The Ride Together, Montague-Reyes’ Circling Normal: A Book about Autism (2007), and St. Pierre (2011) recommends Stitches, a memoir of David Small’s true experience with throat cancer in childhood. Using some of these precedents as a guide, one can select manga series that are of high caliber but are also equally capable of shedding light on important social issues.

Selection of Manga Titles and the Scope of This Book It is important to reiterate that not all manga featuring disabled characters should be expected to be change agents. Only carefully selected comics can contribute to making school and work culture more inclusive for people with differences. Which manga titles that feature characters with disabilities will this book analyze? In other words, which manga are “qualified” for this book, and why were they selected? Not all manga stories feature characters with disabilities, nor do they all accurately portray the reality of having a disability in social and personal contexts. For example, many “sidekick” characters with disabilities have been and still are represented in the mass media in a way that further reinforces stereotypes and prejudices, a topic that will be intensively discussed in chapter 2. Another challenge is that it is impossible to cover all types of disabilities in this book. Therefore, the following criteria were applied when selecting appropriate manga titles. First, the character with a disability must be either the protagonist or the main supporting character featured in the manga. Second, certain types of disabilities were excluded because their manga stories are extremely limited; for example, stuttering was eliminated because Shino-chan wa jibunno namae ga ienai (Shino Can’t Say Her Own Name) was the only title I could find that featured a protagonist or main character with that disability. Third, the main character with a disability cannot be portrayed as a “supercrip” (a physically disabled superhero), as explained in detail in chapter 2. More portrayals of ordinary people with disabilities, not supercrip characters, need to be published in manga. Finally, the story must intend to be informative about the featured disability and provide (or at least strive to provide) the highest accuracy of description. As mentioned earlier, a graphic novel denotes a book-length, multimedia narrative of literary gravitas. Carter (2007) writes that many high-quality graphic novels have been published that discuss important social issues such as race and gender. The manga titles analyzed in this book are of that caliber.

xvi     Introduction

This book consists of two parts. Part I introduces the definitions and key terminology of the traditionally defined impairments, general disability theories, and social and cultural issues surrounding media representations of people with disabilities in Japan. Part I also offers academic insights into the notion of disability. Part II analyzes the narrative structures and visual tropes of disability through the characters and stories of manga. The case studies selected for part II inform the reader what it is like to be or live with an individual who has a particular disability. It offers critical insights into how characters with disabilities are represented in manga, focusing on the following five major categories of disabilities: deafness (chapter 3), physical disabilities (chapter 4), visual impairment (chapter 5), autism spectrum disorder (chapter 6), and seidōitsusei shōgai, a Japanese translation of “gender identity disorder” (chapter 7). Using manga, a medium familiar to young adult and adult readers, I intend to help open up a conversation about disability issues, cultivate a deeper understanding of human diversity, and reframe what is traditionally considered “disability” in Japan as an aspect of such diversity. Using these case studies, I attempt to verify my conviction that carefully selected manga can teach us about disability from an unconventional perspective. For example, Asperger’s syndrome is not an impairment but rather a manifestation of neurodiversity, and being transgender is believing you belong to a different gender regardless of the label used in the Japanese medical field. Likewise, deafness or blindness is a signifier of a specific cultural membership. Therefore, the reader should not be biased by the word “disability” in the title of this book, as I am not endorsing the medical model of disability. On the contrary, I used the social model of disability in analyzing each title that exemplifies manga’s excellent potential to demonstrate the unorthodox, progressive idea that disabilities are not a lack of ability but rather a case of being differently abled. In fact, people are frequently made to feel “disabled” by their environment rather than by their impairment, as seen in some episodes analyzed in this book. The selected manga also illustrate how able-bodied individuals hold stigmas toward people with disabilities and express them both overtly and covertly in daily encounters. Through attractive illustrations and cleverly executed speeches, these manga titles’ climax episodes show how stigmas are derived from culturally shared ideas and presumptions. Some of the manga shed light on gender differences in the ways that people with disabilities are perceived by society, treated by the government, and framed by ancient storytelling and contem-

Introduction     xvii

porary media. As I argued earlier, manga can make a positive impact on disability awareness and promote diversity in our communities. These titles are living proof.

The Purpose of Interviewing During my fellowship funded by the Japan Foundation, I was fortunate enough to meet and interview ten Japanese individuals, including some with disabilities. Interviewed for this book were a blind historian, a director of a center that provides services for the blind, a deaf film director, a folklorist whose publications focus on the concept of the Other, and several manga artists whose stories are analyzed in part II. The foundation’s support also allowed me to spend significant time on several occasions with some of the interviewees, providing me with a “crash course” on their experiences of living as the Other themselves. I chose to treat these knowledge experts as informants to help me validate the facts about life with a disability. I made an effort to use culturally appropriate terms within each disability community (e.g., “a deaf child” instead of “a hearing-impaired child” or a “trans person” instead of “a person with gender identity disorder”) and, as much as I could, avoided using the term shōgaisha (disabled person) during the interviews. Even though the mass media and academic publications still use the term widely, I came to learn that the activists commonly refer to themselves and their peers as tōjisha, a stigma-free, all-inclusive term to assert that they are all members of the same community. While growing up in Japan, I heard on occasion that if you talk back, “your mouth will be twisted” (kuchi ga magaru) or that if you sit at a dinner table or a desk, “your butt will be twisted” (oshiri ga magaru) because of the disrespect shown for the place designated for eating or studying. Disfigurement is often considered a punishment in Japan for a culturally unacceptable deed. Where did such an idea come from? These sayings are linked to Japanese people’s ideas about the able versus the disabled body. Thus, our attitudes toward disability are very likely influenced by folk beliefs and cultural perceptions, a conviction that resonates through the examples of mythology and history embedded in most of these chapters. By revisiting well-known myths and legends of preindustrial Japan from a disability studies perspective, one can uncover the sociohistorical attitudes toward the physically or intellectually marked Other. The legend of Hiruko and other stories have been narrated in Japan for centuries, demonstrating how otherness was determined by the perceived norms of appearance and ability

xviii     Introduction

and was tied to labor productivity or commercial success. These folklore examples also tell us that the sign of deviance was used to justify infanticide and the killing of the Other, while the same otherness was made into a narrative of supernatural power and blessing in Japanese mythology. Furthermore, I interviewed those involved in disability activism or in the creation of manga featuring people with disabilities in order to uncover both cultural and personal insights from real, beyond-the-manga characters. I also needed to hear the real voices of people with disabilities in order to advocate for their viewpoints. Myths and stereotypes, as well as ignorance about disability, will never change unless these voices are heard. Therefore, whenever appropriate I will refer back to key messages of human diversity from the interviewed authors and activists in this book.

On Language Any discriminatory expressions, including the R-word (“retard”) and “wheelchair-bound,” are avoided unless a term has an established usage with no condescending connotation (e.g., “supercrip”). As Heyer writes, the use of people-first language (e.g., “people with disabilities”) is promoted by many disability rights activists in the United States based on the conviction that “someone’s disability label is just a label, and not the defining characteristic of the entire individual,” while the attitude is reversed (e.g., “disabled people”) in the United Kingdom because “a disability is something that is ‘done’ to a person rather than something a person ‘has’” (Heyer 2015, 7). John Derby also confirms that no consensus has been reached as to which usage—for example, “disabled people” or “people with disabilities”—is preferable. He even states that some disability studies experts say “people with disabilities” may be awkward or distracting. Thus, although any stereotypical expressions such as “mad artist” and “blind musician” are avoided, varying phrases are used to refer to people with disabilities in this book. The editors and I are aware of and agree with the view that we should see the individual before his or her disability but decided to alternate between the US and UK terms—not to ignore political importance but rather due to literary and editorial considerations. It is important to emphasize that while analyzing each manga, I kept reminding myself that disability is different from impairment (which will be discussed thoroughly in chapter 1). Vic Finkelstein, a South African émigré and disability activist cited by Ellis and Goggin (2015), offers this criticism of the medical model of disability:

Introduction     xix

This is the fable of a village inhabited by people with disabilities. . . .  [This village is] run by disabled people in wheelchairs, who create their built environment and society in their own image. In this disabled village, for instance, builders construct houses with lower roofs. The knockon effect is that abled-bodied people living in the village keep hurting their heads on the low roofs. Sadly, the abled-bodied minority has to have “special equipment” fitted by disabled doctors and experts so they are able to function in this disabled society—to accommodate these abnormal able-bodied folk to the norm of low roofs. . . . Finkelstein’s disability village is a handy encapsulation of the core idea underpinning what became referred to as the “social model” of disability. (Quoted in Ellis and Goggin 2015, 22)

Why Do I Care about Disability? It is a challenge to share a half century of one’s life with a family member who has a disability. I have been taking care of my mentally ill parent since I was able to write my own name. Earlier in my childhood, it was more a combination of self- and other care, as I often did not have cooked meals to eat or clean clothes ready for school. Later in my adulthood, a new challenge of elder care was added to the equation. It has been a long, arduous journey. For the most part, throughout my life I have locked my sentiments and resentments in a box and buried it deep. To write a detailed account of how I have cared for my parent, I would have to unlock that box and handle the dangerous emotions that would burst out. Therefore, I would rather see them “contained” and usher something more tangible into the world. That tangible matter is this book, a result of my focused effort to bring together my scholarship and personal duty as a caregiver. As I wrote this book, I found answers to many of the questions that hovered at the edge of my consciousness for a long time. Writing and researching has helped me gain hope and stay committed to advocating for human diversity, as well as brought me a sense of well-being and peace despite the long battle with my parent’s debilitating mental illness. On occasion, it has felt like a battle between the illness (and dementia in recent years) and my own survival. One of my parent’s physicians once said to me that people like my parent should never be allowed to raise a child. From a medical perspective, that may be so. Ironically, however, had I not been born, this book would never have been written. In that regard, this book is a way of legitimizing my birth.

Conventions Japanese terms and other foreign words are italicized (e.g., bachi in Japanese and hiapo in Hawaiian) in the Hepburn style, with macrons for long vowels (e.g., shōgai), usually followed by the English translation in parentheses. This practice excludes locational terms, such as “Tokyo” and “Osaka,” as well as Japanese words that commonly appear in English writing, such as “manga,” “anime,” and “tofu.” Names of Japanese authors and historical figures are written using the Japanese convention of placing their family name first. For instance, the name of the author of Astro Boy is Tezuka Osamu in its original order, not Osamu Tezuka. This convention is followed in every part of this book, including the indexes, with the exception of the acknowledgments, in which the Western reading of Japanese scholars’ names (e.g., Kojiro Hirose) may be used for consistency. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) defines someone with a disability as “a person who has a physical or mental impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities, a person who has a history or record of such an impairment, or a person who is perceived by others as having such an impairment” (https://www.ada.gov/cguide.htm). I am well aware that “people with disabilities” and “the disabled” have political implications and that, as some disability rights activists argue, being deaf, autistic, or transgender should not be labeled as a disability. Although I support and respect these views, “disability” and “disabled” are used interchangeably throughout this book for consistency and, for the most part, to reflect current Japanese medical and cultural contexts. I hope the reader understands that the decision to use these terms is not intended to pathologize or emphasize ableist perspectives.

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CHAPTER 1

Theorizing Disability

What is disability? According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the word “disability” means being “incapacitated” by illness or injury and “physically or mentally impaired in a way that substantially limits activity especially in relation to employment or education” (https://www.merriam-webster.com /dictionary/disabled). However, what may be phrased as a pathology can be praised as a gift in life. A case in point is the Japanese legend of Fukusuke. The story reframes our ways of being in the world as productive and meaningful, rather than “incapacitated” and “limited,” as the dictionary defines. Legend has it that during the Edo period, a man named Satarō had a congenital physical deformity of very short stature, since he was said to be approximately two feet tall and had a disproportionately large head. Growing weary of being mocked by the townspeople, he left to look for a new home and met a street performer on the way. He joined the man’s troupe and adopted a stage name, Fukusuke (derived from fugu-suke, or “disabled fellow,” with fugu replaced by fuku, or “fortune”). The public liked the moniker Fortune Fellow, a metaphor for someone who brings good luck, and his performance was well received. In real life, he was a harbinger of good luck indeed. A wealthy samurai’s son begged his parents to adopt Fukusuke as his playmate, so Fukusuke was paid to leave show business. The samurai family accrued additional wealth after Fukusuke moved in. As a grown man, he married one of the family’s housemaids and became a potter in the same town, selling ceramic ware, including figurines made in his own body image. The Fukusuke dolls sold like hotcakes. He made a fortune through his own enfreakment (a term to be discussed later in this chapter), capitalizing on his physical differences and his identity as a bringer of good luck. 3

4     Chapter 1

The source of the Fukusuke legend is uncertain. It might be based on a successful merchant with dwarfism in the Kyoto-Osaka region. Whoever the real-life figure was, this legend appears to be linked directly to the fukugo metonymy that signifies a symbolic association between commerce and disability (Yamada 1993). The fukugo metonymy has developed into a popular cultural sign—a character who signifies good fortune—and appears in the form of a figurine throughout Japan (Ono and Shiba 1983). Fukusuke is no exception. Usually found in the form of a porcelain doll, Fukusuke depicts a smiling young man with an oversized head and plump ears, wearing festive kimono attire and sitting properly in the Japanese seiza style. The doll, typically a fixture of business establishments such as restaurants and company offices, is said to bring wealth and happiness (fuku). To this day, plump ears are called fuku-mimi (lucky ears), signifying their mythological connection to riches and contentment. The Sendai Shirō legend, which became popular during the Edo period (1603–1868) is another folktale of the fukugo metonymy.1 Sendai Shirō, whose real-life name was Haga Shirō (or Haga Yoshitaka, according to the family registry), is the central figure of this legend. Shirō (shi in his given name means “four” and rō, “son”) was the fourth-born son of a wealthy merchant family. Because they lived in Sendai City in Miyagi Prefecture, his nickname became Sendai Shirō. Shirō was said to have an intellectual disability and was unable to converse with others. Although his only intelligible utterance was “Baayan” (Grandma), he had a charming smile and a nonchalant attitude, signifying an innocent child, and was well liked by the townspeople. As he grew older, Shirō wandered about the city of Sendai (possibly accompanied at a distance by one of his family’s helpers), stopping by stores for food or toys. Carrying no money, he obtained free goods from generous storekeepers. Rumor has it that the stores that welcomed Sendai Shirō saw their business blossom, while the stores that chased him away as a nuisance withered. He sometimes traveled to the adjacent Fukushima and Yamagata Prefectures, mooching off welcoming merchants. Gradually, the rumor of Sendai Shirō as the harbinger of good luck spread in that region. Similar to the case of Fukusuke, Sendai Shirō became the embodiment of fukugo (the benevolent child). During the Meiji period (1868–1912), a black-and-white photo of a smiling Shirō, loosely clad in a kimono with his knees and penis exposed, was commodified as a postcard under the moniker of Meiji Fuku-noKami (Meiji God of Fortune). As did Fukusuke dolls, the postcards sold

Theorizing Disability     5

well. Recently, the legend of Sendai Shirō has been revived, and souvenirs made with his image are again being sold as good-luck charms in many stores in Sendai City. Ono and Shiba (1983) credited Sasaya Yoshizo as the first scholar to mention the word fukugo in writing and associated the concept with some Japanese folktales. Because no folklorists had previously explored it as a serious academic topic and there was little or no previous research on or documentation of the issue, Ono and Shiba proceeded to investigate it empirically, using questionnaires and fieldwork. They not only collected a series of anecdotes about disabled children and adults who were treated as good-luck charms by their communities but also procured 349 responses from questionnaires sent out to prefectural branch offices specializing in welfare services, families with disabled children, and local folklorists familiar with community legends. They found convincing evidence that the fukugo metonymy, whose naming actually varied from fukugo (lucky child) to fukumushi (lucky bug) to takarago (gift child), had been transmitted from generation to generation in the respondents’ regions. In fact, one of the manga titles I will analyze in part II features a child with Asperger’s syndrome. This character’s name is Takara (gift). Perhaps the metonymy is not just an ancient idea but one that is deeply embedded in the Japanese psyche.

Disability in Japan The concept of disability changes within a cultural group’s history. Revisiting the historical narratives of people with physical or intellectual differences is important because it helps us see not only the attitudinal changes but also the age-old ideas about such differences that are still ingrained in Japanese culture. As Ellis and Goggin (2015) state, “Disability discrimination, exclusion, and inequality are still with us because disability is deeply embedded in culture itself” (23). People with disabilities are discriminated against because of prejudice, which is “implicit in cultural representation, in language and in socialization” (Shakespeare [1994] 2014, 296). Culture is “both a source of oppression and liberation for disabled people and is therefore central to the politics of disability” (Riddle and Watson 2001). The field of Japanese folklore has identified the cultural concept of ijin (different person) as a trope of the biological Other (e.g., Akasaka 1985; Komatsu 1995, 2001, 2015). What does otherness mean? By definition, “otherness” refers to “the condition or quality of being different or ‘other,’ particularly if the differences in question are strange, bizarre, or exotic”

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(Miller 2008, 588). The topic is often discussed as the collective consciousness or a marker of identity of a certain cultural group and is typically presented as a way to attach negativity to a minority group (Miller 2008). Two ancient concepts that aggrandize negativity toward people with disabilities are inga and kegare in Japanese. Inga (karma) is frequently identified as a factor contributing to discrimination against the disabled in a society. There is also a deep-rooted, cultural trope that has been historically linked to the “marked” body (or mind) that ascribes a stigma to disability. In Japan, the Buddhist conception of inga is the cultural ideology often pointed out by disability rights activists (e.g., Gotō [1995] 2004; Tsuzuki and Nonaka 1995; Yamamoto 1998) as a uniquely Japanese subtext of bias against disability. For centuries, the Buddhist concept of karma has lingered in the Japanese psyche. “Karma” is a Sanskrit word referring to action, driven by intention, that results in certain consequences. The kernel of the idea is that if we engage in well-intended, good deeds, we will be rewarded for them in the next life. Similarly, if we commit evil actions, we will pay for them later. Since it is our human nature to seek meaning in everything that occurs in our surroundings, we desire to find a reason for every phenomenon. When we cannot determine any obvious cause or reason, we may misapply this “cause-effect” metaphor of karma to account for a problem that logic and experience cannot explain (Suzuki 2004). During the medieval era, in which Buddhism was the central force of moral teaching, the karma metaphor evolved into the idea of “predestination,” which was used to rationalize the power and wealth of the privileged and to disempower minority groups, including people with disabilities, by encouraging their social passivity and sense of fatalism. According to Suzuki (2004), the concept of karma was originally not intended to instill a discriminatory attitude toward the marked otherness: “This kind of fatalism was adamantly rejected by the Buddha” (99). However, it has been used to justify classism, genderism, and discrimination against people with disabilities in Japan. The social stigma attached to the Other induces negative sentiments of fear and hatred in the dominant group, legitimizing the elimination of the “detestable” from the community (Akasaka [1995] 2010). By misusing the theory of inga, the Japanese came to see disability “as punishment for evil committed in one’s former life or in the life of one’s immediate family,” although this tendency can be found in many other cultures (Tsuzuki and Nonaka 1995, 231).

Theorizing Disability     7

Kegare (impurity or defilement) is another ideology of discrimination against the Other, identified by a Japanese folklore scholar, Momma Sachio (1997). Citing Iwakuma (2000), Heyer (2015) writes: “The stigma associated with having a disability is based on Japanese cultural beliefs about kegare, or impurity. People with disabilities (and by extension, their families) were considered polluted and kept out of public view” (129). It is correct that kegare is regarded as a potential “spoiler” of otherwise happy, auspicious occasions, such as weddings, in Japan. However, in a strict sense kegare refers to pollution derived from either blood or death, not disability (e.g., Miyata 2010; Fukuda et al. 2006). For example, the Shinto story associated with kegare is the tale of Izanagi’s search for his deceased wife in the land of the dead, not those of deities with disabilities in the Kojiki and Nihonshoki tales. Japanese superstitions about pollution are evident in traditional practices such as banning women from entering certain “holy” areas (since menstruation and childbirth are associated with “blood pollution,” or ketsue) and “purifying” funeral attendees with salt (since salt is believed to have the power to protect us against “death pollution,” or shie). How did the concept of inga that was employed to stigmatize disability get incorporated into the semantics of kegare? According to Momma (1997), the sense of defilement attributed to the term kegare was extended to the category of things considered taboo or ambiguous (aimai, in his words), including objects and phenomena with no clear signifiers. Two examples are disease with no identified cause and physical disfigurement with no cure. In speculation, both concepts of inga and kegare have merged over the centuries and have begun to be used as the unified ideology in justifying any discriminatory acts. Most of the writings by Japanese disability rights activists so far pose inga as the most influential idea leading to prejudice against people with disabilities in modern-day Japanese society (e.g., K. Hirose 1997; Ono and Shiba 1983; Namase 1999; Morita 2015), with one exception. Shibata (2015) lists both inga and kegare as problematic thoughts that continue to fuel fear and misunderstanding about disability. Whichever idea is behind the prejudice against differently shaped, differently abled children, Ono and Shiba (1983) stress that the happiness of the Other child depends on how we frame disability in public discourse. Anthropologist Mary Douglas theorizes that the negative reactions of dislike and fear toward the Other are akin to cultural intolerance with anomaly. In her seminal work, Extraordinary Bodies, Garland-Thomson (1997) delineated Douglas’ points in terms of how society reacts to social otherness by

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applying the theory to the field of disability studies. To Garland-Thomson, people with visible disfigurements have been treated as “social dirt” and are frequently targeted for elimination (e.g., eugenics) and marginalization (e.g., social avoidance, institutionalization). Because of such typical social reactions, Garland-Thomson (1997) contends that even today “disabled people, especially women, tend to be ghettoized by poverty and lack of education, those stigmatic situations that so frequently coincide with and reinforce marginalization based on physical traits” (35). The Japanese concepts of inga and kegare are, to some effect, similar to the notion of stigma in English-language discourses on disability. GarlandThomson (1997) finds the theory of stigma by sociologist Erving Goffman as a source for “useful vocabulary for placing disability in social contexts” (30). Unlike the work of Douglas, Goffman’s stigma theory provides direct interpretations of disability, describing how the dominant group determine which elements of social otherness in less powerful groups are “inferior” while reinforcing their own status as “normal.” Of greatest relevance are Goffman’s statements that social devaluations of stigmatized people are collective in nature and that stigmatization “creates a shared, socially maintained and determined conception of a normal individual” (Garland-Thomson 1997, 31). In the hierarchy of Goffman’s theory, the most stigmatized are people with a physical deformity, followed by certain individual behaviors (e.g., sexual orientation) and social status (e.g., race, ethnicity, and gender). In contemporary Japan, people with disabilities are regarded not only as “different” but also as “worthless,” “unfortunate,” or “unpleasant” due to society’s ignorance and indifference to the rights of the disabled (Ishikida 2005). In the 1970s and 1980s, discriminatory language (sabetsu yōgo) was still used in manga to refer to individuals with disabilities (e.g., tsunbo for the deaf; mekura for the blind) without public criticism or legal punishment (Gottlieb 2006). When paraplegics were portrayed in popular culture such as manga, they were usually depicted as objects of pity (Gottlieb 2006), and some of the portrayals of people with disabilities were outwardly biased or misleading (Nagai 1998).2 It is only recently that manga titles began to represent this minority group in relatively positive and realistic ways. For example, manga works such as Home of Acorns deal with social issues related to disabled people, and such works can serve as agents of social change. Pathological views of disability lead to discrimination, inequality, and stereotyping; thus, we need to avoid falling victim to negative perceptions brought about by an emphasis on impairment. Furthermore, social constructions

Theorizing Disability     9

of disability are neither objective nor stable (Stevens 2013). As Ellis and Goggin (2015) observe, people with disabilities are “in effect still kept in real or de facto ghettos—be it in the institutions that exist to hold and manage people with disabilities or in the discriminatory practices that many face at the hands of the ‘caring’ professions—from special education, through to social work, to health and medicine—that control their lives” (15). Their observation is resonant in Japan, as well. It is my belief that media such as comics can play a pivotal role in making positive changes to this status quo. The contemporary Japanese parlance for disability is shōgai. As “disability” has multiple meanings in English, so does shōgai, which consists of two characters, shō (interfering) and gai (damage/harm). Gotō ([1995] 2004) points out that these characters connote a social perception of people with disabilities as “interference” in Japan (23). He offers an observation about this spelling based on his experience as a disabled person during World War II in Japan: the characters for “interference” derive from the old-fashioned view that those with physical limitations should make every effort to avoid becoming a burden on healthy-bodied individuals. The literal translation of the word shōgai tends to emphasize the physical impairment aspect and places the meaning of disability in the medical-model context. In the social model of disability (to be explained later), shōgai also means a limitation created by the social environment that negatively affects the person with a disability. Nowadays, the word shōgai is also written with gai in hiragana, which is a script for phonological notation with no clear semantic information. As with its English counterpart, “disability,” the Japanese term shōgai will continue to gain new meaning, not only among people with disabilities and those involved in their lives but also among able-bodied citizens and academics. Thus, our understandings of disability and ability will continue to evolve. On July 26, 2015, the United States celebrated the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which was signed in 1990. While the social issues of disability continue to be a topic that matters in public discourse, it was around this time that the disability rights movement peaked in the United States. Similarly, in the 1990s, Japan experienced a surge in the mass media portrayal of people with disabilities, including television dramas and manga (Stibbe 2004; Gottlieb 2006). Since that time, the themes of manga have been evolving into subjects that appeal to both domestic and international readers. With disability as its

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thematic orientation, this book cultivates a deeper understanding of human diversity by connecting the topic of disability to a popular medium of much interest to young adult readers in the United States, as well as in many other countries. To understand how people with disabilities are portrayed in Japanese media, we need to know the theoretical foundation of disability as a background of ongoing debates over certain disability-related issues.

The Theoretical Foundation of Disability Disability is a multifaceted concept. As Goggin (2017a) states, disability “is socially shaped” but culturally specific (7). Goggin (2017a) also points out that disability occurs in a wide variety of conditions and situations at different times in our lives, including through aging and warfare. Therefore, we may identify or disidentify with disability, feeling more or less “disabled” under particular circumstances. Furthermore, disability is not a fixed feature that is universal to all people with disabilities. Rather, it is shaped quite differently for each individual by social, political, and economic dynamics. Thus, not all of the concepts we will discuss in this chapter are relevant to every disability situation. Disability can become a force for producing creative work and can be found among some of the most talented. As Joseph N. Straus (2011) demonstrates in his Extraordinary Measures: Disability in Music, disability exists in the world’s history of elite musicians. These include not only Ludwig van Beethoven, who lost his hearing gradually, but also Johann Sebastian Bach (gradual loss of sight) and Maurice Ravel (madness), as well as famous blind musicians such as Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. Disabilities are “everywhere once you know how to look for them” (Garland-Thomson 2013). Similarly, Goze (Groemer 2016) uncovers the little known history of blind itinerant female musicians who toured rural Japan as talented artisans. Another important fact is that although the term “disability” may stigmatize the labeled as impaired or less worthy, the very word also helped “organize a group identity brought forward through civil and human rights discourses” (Garland-Thomson 2013, 917). The word “disability” has been used to assert the group’s civil rights issues and propel their identity politics against the background of rights-based citizenship in the United States and other developed countries while instilling a strong, unified sense of a mi­ nority identity. From the perspective of critical disability studies, this label is the signifier of a disability rights movement.

Theorizing Disability     11

Another important point to remember is that not all disabilities are visible. As Ilea writes, disability can be “visible or invisible; mental, physical, or emotional/social; inherited or acquired; common or uncommon; minor or severe; and so on” (Ilea 2009, 81). People whose disabilities are not obvious to others may often be perceived as “normal.” Therefore, others are not necessarily aware that such a person has a disability. According to the website of the Invisible Disabilities Association (https://invisibledisabilities .org), founded by Wayne Connell, whose wife was diagnosed with Lyme disease and multiple sclerosis, the term “invisible disability” can be defined in simple language as “a physical, mental or neurological condition that limits a person’s movements, senses, or activities that is invisible to the onlooker.” Unfortunately, the invisibly disabled population is more prone to misunderstandings and employment disputes, as reported by the researchers at the Yang-Tan Institute on Employment and Disability (National Public Radio 2015). In Japan, the theoretical foundation of disability studies centers around two major models of disability—namely, medical and social. The medical model primarily attributes the causes of disability to an individual’s biological and medical conditions, neglecting the fact that environmental and social barriers also create limitations for individuals. This is a particularly negative way of framing disability that still exists today. Under the medical model, “disability is imagined as an illness that has a physical cause, and hence can be cured or at least managed”; therefore, once the underlying medical or biological cause is removed, that impairment will disappear (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 21). This model has been criticized for placing the sole focus of disability on a person’s physical ailment “without taking into account the way environments impact a person’s ability to participate in public life” (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 22). Historically, the treatment of disabled people ranged from ignoring their existence to institutionalizing them, eradicating them completely from the public space. Largely influenced by the women’s and the civil rights movements, the disability rights movement gained momentum in the 1970s (Ilea 2009, 176), leading to the social model, in which emphasis is placed on the individual. The social model of disability—the idea that disability is socially structured—came into existence as an antithesis to the medical model (Matsui et al. 2011). In Japan, the transition from the medical to the social model occurred in the 1980s, which was a major paradigm shift in thinking about disability (Kumagaya 2016). In the 1970s only a minority group

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of people involved in disability issues supported the social model. During this period, several incidents occurred in which children with disabilities were murdered by their own parents, who were the sole caretakers of the children. Partly to prevent families from taking such drastic means, the government poured time and effort into building facilities for the disabled all over Japan (Kumagaya 2016). However, in the 1980s, caregivers and people with disabilities themselves challenged the medical authorities and began to seek more innovative, effective medical solutions built on the evidence-based medicine model.3 At the same time, different minority groups in Japan slowly began to voice their concerns and propagated the idea of diversity in society (Kumagaya 2016). It was at that time in Japan that the social model of disability replaced the ruling medical model. As Scotcht (2000) explains, the social model of disability stemmed from the British theorists whose work had influenced the development of disability theory. The social model of disability was promoted initially through publications by Colin Barnes and Michael Oliver (e.g., Oliver 1990; Oliver and Barnes 1998). Proponents of the social model argue that disability is created by social restrictions affecting the disabled that include prejudice and institutional discrimination, inaccessible buildings, unaccommodating transport systems, segregated education, and exclusionary labor force environments in an able-bodied society. In other words, as Hughes and Patterson (1997) stated, “People with impairments were disabled by a social system which erected barriers to their participation” (328). As stated by Oliver (1996), “It is society which disables physically impaired people. Disability is something imposed on top of our impairments by the way we are unnecessarily isolated and excluded from full participation in society” (22). A highly influential model for improving the mainstream understanding and approach toward disability, this model has been critically reviewed elsewhere.4 Especially in the 1990s and 2000s, the social model of disability was criticized for failing to grapple with “the deeper social, cultural, bodily, and experiential dimensions of disability—revealed, for instance, in intellectual disability, illness, or mental health” (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 23). The reexamination of the social model has espoused different schools of thought, prompting many scholars of disability studies to take a pluralistic approach to defining and understanding disability. Critiques of the social model (e.g., Shakespeare [1994] 2014), together with subsequent theoretical debates about disability, have generated alternative ways to conceptualize disability.

Theorizing Disability     13

“Allied with the disability human rights movement such ferment has helped bring about the 2006 United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD), which is deeply involved informed [sic] by the new social, cultural, and human rights approaches to disability” (Goggin 2017, 6). Indeed, the field of disability studies in the United States alone has espoused many other models of disability, including the minority (or cultural) model (e.g., Longmore 2003), as well as the new discourses of critical disability studies (e.g., Garland-Thomson 2013) and of disability-race-gender intersectionality (e.g., see Kafer [2013] for a coalition politics of feminist, queer, and crip theories). Although it may be useful to know a variety of theories to analyze disability portrayal in selected manga titles, due to space limits I will present more directly related issues of disability instead.

Other Contemporary Disability Issues This section describes a series of contemporary issues relevant to the communities of the disabled, especially those of Japan. The topics for discussion include “neurodiversity” (e.g., Armstrong 2012), Kristeva’s (1982) “abjection,” and Mitchell and Snyder’s (2000) “narrative prosthesis.” These are the topics particularly associated with the ideas of diversity and identity from the perspective of media studies and the social sciences. The concept of “ableism” is also discussed because it is particularly critical in considering the meanings of disability from legal and medical perspectives. Then we touch upon some buzzwords of disability studies that have been hotly debated in Japan—baria-furī (barrier free) and kandō poruno (inspiration porn). Human Diversity and Neurodiversity Armstrong (2012) writes that neurodiversity is “a revolutionary new concept in special education that employs a positive ‘diversity’ perspective similar to biodiversity and cultural diversity to replace the current ‘disability’ discourse that prevails in today’s educational circles” (4). According to Armstrong, the term “neurodiversity” was coined by Harvey Blume and Judy Singer in the late 1990s. As a journalist, Blume (1998) saw neurodiversity to be as crucial an aspect for the human race as biodiversity is for the natural world, using an autistically inclined mind as an example of a gift for cybernetics and computer culture. Singer (1999), a sociologist working in the field of autism, used the term “neurodiversity” in reference to conditions such as autism spectrum disorder, ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), and learning disorders, which are “a new addition to the familiar

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political categories of class/gender/race and will augment the insights of the social model of disability” (64). In the early 1950s, the mainstream discourse about children with special needs focused on their “disabilities” rather than their capabilities. Similarly, in the 1960s and 1970s the powerful influence of parental advocacy groups and government involvement in education, backed by scientific research on learning disorders, led public schools to provide more services to children with special needs. This culminated in the 1975 passage of the Education for All Handicapped Children Act, “which mandated that every child with special needs in the public schools receive an appropriate education in the least restrictive environment” (Armstrong 2012, 2). In the 1980s and 1990s, children diagnosed with attention deficit disorder (ADD), ADHD, oppositional defiant disorder, and Tourette’s syndrome were added to the list. Children who are currently served in special education programs can be placed in one or more of the following five special-needs categories: learning disabilities, ADD/ADHD, autism spectrum disorder, intellectual disabilities, and emotional and behavioral disorders. In recent years the number of children identified as having one or more of the autism spectrum disorders has been increasing. Armstrong (2012) criticizes the current discourse of special education that continues to identify children with special needs by their “deficit,” “dysfunction,” or what is “wrong” with the student. Thus, he promotes a more positive view of students with special needs through the use of the term “neurodiversity,” an assertion that “atypical neurological development” is a normal human variation that should be “recognized and respected” just as any other form of human biology (10). The perspective of neurodiversity is salient because it directly relates to the question of whether one’s difference is a disability or just a variety of human diversity. For example, is being transgender a disability (e.g., gender identity disorder) or just another gender identification? Is deafness a disability or the identity associated with the Deaf culture? Is Asperger’s syndrome a disability or a special aspect of neurocognitive function? Recently, a movement by disability activists has raised the question of how to frame our unique differences. Everyone is different in one way or another. Using a different frame of mind enables us to celebrate human diversity and to establish a favorable environment for students with special needs. As Armstrong (2012) puts it, such a positive learning environment will allow students with special needs “to blossom.”

Theorizing Disability     15

Abjection and Enfreakment Disability comes in different forms. People with physical alterity, in particular, may be considered “abject” and their value as individuals lessened (Kristeva 1982). This Western concept of abjection resonates with Komatsu’s theory of ijin, a Japanese perspective introduced earlier in this chapter that will be described in more detail in chapter 2. However, otherness also has the power to attract people’s attention. For many decades in US history, those who were deemed “freaks” included people of unusual size, such as Charles Sherwood Stratton (a freak show performer in England known more commonly by his stage name General Tom Thumb) and Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, who were both born with proportionate dwarfism and married each other in 1863 (Ellis and Goggin 2015). Their wedding was an event that attracted great attention among American high society. “The interest in the wedding drew on a long cultural fascination with dwarves, skillfully stage-managed by Bauman [sic],” meaning P. T. Barnum, the famous circus entrepreneur (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 13). General Tom Thumb’s fame surpassed that of many other show business stars in the mid-1800s. Everywhere he toured, a long line of female spectators waited to see him and, if fortunate, to steal a kiss from him. “Enfreakment” is a term referring to the ways in which the nonstandard body is exploited. It involves a form of display or performance arranged for public consumption, as in a freak show. In other words, enfreakment is the manner in which the image of “the Other” is utilized for profit, usually by able-bodied individuals, as something of an anomaly. Rosemarie GarlandThomson is one of the key academics who has treated the subject of freak shows as a topic of scholarly engagement (e.g., Garland-Thomson 1997). Utilizing the “normal-deviant” binary, the act of enfreakment objectifies our body via various means of public display or performance. General Tom Thumb used both the public fascination with dwarfs and the spectacle of freak shows to his own advantage. Referring to these eighteenth- and nineteenth-century freak shows in the United States, folktale scholar Ann Schmiesing (2014) tells of a similar case in literature featuring the fictional character Thumbling. This extremely small protagonist of the fairy tale “The Thumbling Tales” is determined to self-preserve by outsmarting the spectators at the freak show who see him as an object to fulfill their need for entertainment. An equivalent of Thumbling is Issunbōshi, or “One-Inch Boy,” in Japan. A very popular Japanese folktale

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to this day, the narrative of Issunbōshi first appeared in the medieval literature of Otogizōshi, an illustrated book of folktales compiled mainly in the Muromachi period (1336–1568).5 As exemplified with the legend of Fukusuke, from the late nineteenth to mid-twentieth centuries in Japan, freak shows were popular attractions for the general public. To draw attention, promoters dubbed the performers’ disabilities as divine punishment for misdeeds their parents had committed in their previous lives.6 One of the most famous freak show performers in Japan was Nakamura Hisako (1897–1968), whose memoir was published as The Hands and Feet of the Heart in 2011. Mitchell and Snyder’s Narrative Prosthesis A narrative prosthesis refers to both “the prevalence of disability representation and the myriad messages ascribed to it” (Mitchell and Snyder 2000, 4). In literature, a prosthesis is an added element that propels the plot forward. In Mitchell and Snyder’s (2000) view, a prosthesis “seeks to accomplish an illusion” (6). We long for a story “when something has gone amiss with the known world, and, thus, the language of a tale seeks to comprehend that which has stepped out of line” (53). The story progresses to cure something socially marked as incurable. It first exposes the hero’s or heroine’s otherness to the reader, and the marked feature becomes the focus of the narrative. The story then proceeds to explain how the protagonist makes amends for the marked difference. Similarly, Alaniz (2014) argues that 1970s superhero comics resorted to the representational tactic of this narrative prosthesis. In the Shinto myth of Hiruko, the baby’s physical disability is used as a narrative prosthesis to account for “inappropriate” marriage, or, more precisely, the mother’s “indiscretion” in calling out to her husband to initiate lovemaking (Okuyama 2017). The Shinto deities who are physically anomalous, such as Hiruko and the One-Eyed God, reappear in other legends of Japanese folklore. From a narrative-prosthetic standpoint, their marked bodies’ supernatural powers not only move the plot forward but also serve as the source for a cultural metaphor. Ableism Haller (2010) defines “ableism” as “dominant beliefs that ignore or stereotype disabled people negatively” (67). Quoting the words of Marilynn Phillips, Haller calls ableism a “societal meta-narrative” that frames people with disabilities as “damaged, defective, and less socially marketable than

Theorizing Disability     17

non-disabled persons” (Phillips 1990, 850). In ableism, the capitalist perspective of productivity is highly valued; by analogy, those who do not “produce” profits—due to a disability or aging—are undervalued. As Townsend (1966) describes, “Achievement, productivity, vigour, health and youth are admired to an extreme. Incapacity, unproductiveness, slowness and old age are implicitly if not explicitly deplored” (2). Goggin and Newell (2003) point out that, historically, technological innovations such as telecommunications have been developed on able-bodied norms (42–43). US history is rife with stories of independence, individualism, and an idea linked to ableism: “The idealized notion holds that we are a nation of Horatio Algers, perpetual train engines chugging our way (I think I can, I think I can) up to the city on the hill, insisting that we can do it ourselves” (Nielsen 2012, xii). However, the disabled community now rejects the idea of having to “adapt to or withdraw from society,” as well as “ableist ideologies that viewed people with disabilities as inherently undesirable and deficient” (Nielsen 2012, 155). Alaniz (2014) sees an ableist logic in the “overcoming” narratives of US comics such as Marvel Comics series The Human Fly (1977–1979). How ableism plays its role in mass media’s portrayal of superheroes is one of the topics dealt with in chapter 2. Supercrip and Disability Heroes Ellis and Goggin (2015) examine this “superhero trope” by comparing two cases of disabled individuals—one is Australia’s national hero, a Paralympic athlete, and the other is a relatively unknown female disability activist— and how the media portray their complaints about similar airline difficulties with a wheelchair. The Australian, who is a wheelchair-marathon champion in the Paralympics and is able to crawl the Kokoda Trail in Papua New Guinea, is depicted as a “supercrip” who is “unnecessarily humiliated,” while the other is illustrated as “an ungrateful troublemaker” who has received death threats (72–74). They argue that the “ungrateful cripple” is a familiar scenario called upon when someone with a disability complains about structural inequality—a situation with a bias against certain types of people over others that is built into the structure of an entity such as a government or institution—with a typical response of “It’s not our fault you’re disabled” (73). Sports heroes are celebrities, in the first place. This supercrip model that frames Paralympic athletes as “brave” heroes and “superhumans” reopens the old myth of disability (74). Such episodes seem to indicate that one’s disability status is correlated with athletic prowess, as commonly seen

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in recent movies of superheroes with disabilities, such as The Accountant (2016). As I argue throughout this book, the main problem with the supercrip trope in comics is the embedded ableism. Another problem is that representation is out of touch with the reality of disability; in other words, superheroes tend to understate how difficult it is for people with disabilities to have equal access to education, employment, and even romance. Mitchell and Snyder (2000) add that powerful supercrips are embraced by the culture of capitalist commodity as the signifier of success, which further marginalizes the “less able” counterparts in the disabled community (48). Clare ([1999] 2009) also writes that “supercrip stories never focus on the conditions that make it so difficult for people with disabilities to have romance, adventures, employment and education” and that “the dominant story about disability should be about ableism, not the inspirational supercrip crap, the believe-it-or-not disability story” (2–3). Barrier-Free (Baria-furıˉ ) Baria-furī derives from the English term “barrier-free,” similar to another term adopted from its English equivalent, nōmaraizeishon (normalization). These two words are seen frequently in recent disability studies publications in Japan. Japan has borrowed these concepts as goals for both the disabled and the able-bodied. For example, Japanese sociologist Ueno Chizuko (2016) points out that in today’s aging society in Japan, most of us will not simply “drop dead” but rather take a slow journey from being “able-bodied” to being “disabled” before reaching our ultimate end. In other words, she stresses, disability is not just an issue for congenitally disabled individuals but is a phase most of us will enter as we grow older. In part II, this topic of barrier-free will also be discussed in the context of accessibility. Inspiration Porn (Kandoˉ poruno) The term “inspiration porn” was coined by Stella Young, an Australian disability activist. Her claim is that people with disabilities are not there to “inspire” the abled-bodied. Its translation, kandō poruno, has gained popularity and has been used on many Japanese online sites. This is one of the key concepts with which we are concerned in discussing the media’s portrayal of people with disabilities. The protagonist tends to be either a supercrip or someone who overcomes a personal tragedy. This issue is important because of the question “How is disability portrayed in mass media?,” which is the topic of chapter 2.

Theorizing Disability     19

Stories of recovery or overcoming difficulties are interpreted as real-life tales that attest to the strength of one’s willpower. Such stories are consumed by the public as “inspirational” moral fables and welcomed because they appear to exemplify the indomitable human spirit.7 Young (2012) critiqued this disability-as-inspirational myth in Ramp Up: “Most journalists seem utterly incapable of writing or talking about a person with a disability without using phrases like ‘overcoming disability,’ ‘brave,’ ‘suffers from,’ ‘defying the odds,’ ‘wheelchair bound,’ or my personal favorite, ‘inspirational.’” Normal-Abnormal Discourse Kuramoto Tomoaki, a sociologist and author of Someone Please Tell Me What Is Normal! (Dareka futsū o oshietekure!) is a person with a disability himself. Kuramoto (2012) squares off with the concept of so-called normal throughout the book. As his condition transitions from weak visual impairment to blindness, he raises the question of what normal really means and offers insights from his own experiences. He sometimes encounters more barriers with partial vision; he experiences more rudeness, misunderstanding, and even anger from able-bodied people when his impairment is not as visible than when he becomes totally blind, walking with a white cane and using braille. As seen above, our perception of disability may be subject to a double standard. When people with disabilities “pass” as nondisabled individuals, either intentionally or unintentionally, they may encounter more obstacles. By contrast, when their disability is “visible,” they are more likely to be put into the nonnormal category, inevitably becoming the Other to society. However, in chapter 7 I will present the opposite case: in the community of transgender people, “passing” works to their advantage. For now, we will focus on discussing what normal means socially, along with related concepts such as abnormality, markedness, abjection, otherness, and enfreakment. All of these concepts correspond to our psychological tendency to distinguish “us” from “them.” This tendency seems to be the hardest to overcome if we are to achieve what Kuramoto promotes—kyōsei, or the (peaceful) coexistence of the disabled and the nondisabled. Theory of Markedness We cannot blame our genes alone for our prejudices. We are also influenced by the environment, including ideologies supported by the larger society. The linguistic theory of markedness may help us understand how hegemonic

20     Chapter 1

ideas from a dominant group shape our biased thinking. In her paper “Marked and Unmarked,” Waugh (1982) points out that words are bound in semiotic relationships by markedness and that certain things are marked as anomalies. Quoting from Roman Jakobson, Waugh brings forward Jakobson’s insight that the concepts that are historically and culturally paired (e.g., life-death, sin-virtue, work-holiday) are bound to the relationships of “x” and “non-x.” The various effects of markedness have been noticed and studied by many scholars. They have discovered, for instance, that the marked term occurs less frequently than the unmarked term and that the marked term tends to be learned later in child language development. As an example, a “spoken” language is considered unmarked, while a “written” language is marked because the latter is more specialized (that is, more restricted and occurs less frequently—of course, this argument was made in the pre-Internet, pretexting era). Her other linguistic examples include “homosexuality (marked)-heterosexuality (unmarked),” “black (marked)-white (unmarked),” “deafness (marked)-hearing (unmarked),” and “left-handedness (marked)right-handedness (unmarked).” In each pair, the marked element is more restricted (“more narrowly specified,” in her words) than the unmarked element. A new word is occasionally developed to describe something of a non-x element (what she calls “minus-interpretation”). Put in the book’s context, we can see the binary of “abled” and “nonabled” (thus “disabled”) as an analogy. However, Waugh (1982) emphasizes, “What is of interest here, of course, is not what these asymmetries are ‘in reality,’ but rather the semiotic conceptualization of and, even more, creation of ‘reality’” (314). In other words, the binary is a created/imagined reality, a myth. To peek into the social “reality” embedded in these asymmetrical pairs, it is important to figure out what “marked” elements are in our culture. Markedness relationships can be context-specific. Consider a pair of words in a hierarchical relationship in which one of the two elements is “marked” due to its lower status on the hierarchy. For example, Waugh (1982) explains that in the US the term “female” is marked in the context of a doctor, but the term “male” becomes marked when used in the context of a nurse. The unmarked status may be determined by social value. Further, the unmarked term’s higher status is based on culture-specific interpretations. Take the left-handedness (marked)-right-handedness (unmarked) contrast, for example. In some cultures, left-handedness is associated with being bad; in Asia, left-handedness is actively suppressed. In Japan, for example, parents

Theorizing Disability     21

discourage children’s use of their dominant hands. In English, left-handed people are called “lefty,” and the social environment is created with a bias toward the unmarked. For example, tools such as scissors, knives, and potato peelers are typically designed for the norm (the unmarked)—in this case, right-handed people. Foucault’s Theory of Abnormality In his writings, Michel Foucault (1926–1984) theorized how elements perceived to be “abnormal” were treated in society throughout Western history. In Foucault’s time, anyone deemed different was considered a monster. The “abnormal”—criminals, homosexuals, and the mentally ill, examples frequently used in his writings—were marginal figures, signifying the unnatural or the impossible by societal standards. Their abnormalities were considered conditions that needed to be fixed, an idea that contributed to today’s medical model of disability. In other words, if medically possible, a disability was seen as something that needed to be “cured” or “restored.” This idea of restoration to perfect health is a constant theme embedded in our contemporary media outlets, including comics and films, which will be the topic of chapter 2. In traditional societies, the term “monster” was strongly associated with people having a noticeable physical deformity. Their highly noticeable differences were perceived as scary or ugly and did not pass as “normal.” The same associative link between physical deformity and monstrosity was soon applied to those with other differences, such as homosexuality. Furthermore, even though the word “norm” means average or a trait typical of a social group, “normal” is a value-laden term. What is normal depends on an evolutionary sense of what counts as useful or helpful, as well as the aesthetic within a particular culture at a particular time and place. As Rosenbaum (2015) argues, both angels and devils exhibit physical differences that separate them from humans, but only the former are considered aesthetically appealing. In other words, society is more likely to embrace one’s difference if it is considered valuable, such as physical strength or outward beauty. Even though one’s unique quality or special capacity is not the norm, society accepts it—even praises it—if that particular exceptionality has merit. A good example of such a value-laden response to the norm is in sports. Within the world of Paralympics, athletes with disabilities are deemed “powerful” and “beautiful” because they are able to perform extraordinary feats. Thus, the distinction between normal and abnormal can yield different meanings by context.

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Kyoˉsei (Coexistence) As we have seen earlier in this chapter, our preconceived ideas about the normative are influenced by the sociocultural schemata we adopt as we grow up. How can we eradicate all these bubbling negative thoughts and emotions about disability and live peacefully with those with disabilities? It is very difficult to dispose of the ideas ingrained in us entirely. However, to create a society where the able-bodied and the disabled coexist with mutual respect and understanding, we must first identify the source of our biases and misunderstandings and condemn the acts of stigmatization to which we easily fall victim. Kuramoto (2012) illustrates the pitfalls that we all tend to fall into, whether we have disabilities or not, if we neglect to examine our own behaviors and the meaning of living together. Kyōsei (coexistence) is the buzzword of disability awareness frequently used in the press and government policy announcements in Japan. For instance, Prime Minister Abe used the word in his 2020 Universal Design protocol. Kuramoto (2012) argues that simply sharing the same space, engaging in the same activity, and spending time together does not mean truly integrative coexistence between the two groups. He urges us to reflect upon our visceral reactions to the word kyōsei and self-examine our willingness to live with the Other. Are we ready to embrace inclusivity? Are we ready to welcome diversity over mythologized national purity? We will explore these issues throughout the book as we look at manga titles that feature five types of otherness—physical disability, deafness, blindness, autism, and gender identity disorder. j  j  j

Here, we have not only examined theoretical backgrounds of disability, such as medical versus social disability models, but have also discussed conceptual frameworks, such as narrative prosthesis, the abjection of otherness, and humans, as examples of neurodiversity. The meanings of disability were explored both from medical and historical perspectives and from the discourse of otherness in folklore. As stated in the introduction, about 15 percent of the world’s population, roughly a billion people, have disabilities (WHO 2011). However, unlike race and other minority traits, disability is the marker that places these individuals in the lowest economic group of all minorities (WHO 2013). Why should we care about this population? Our response amounts to how relevant the

Theorizing Disability     23

topic of disability is to us. Is disability relevant to everyone? Most of us are likely to think disability happens only to others and feel that the subject is not pertinent to our lives. Yet, unless we die young, we are destined to grow old, and one after another, we will lose the faculties we once had and become “disabled” in a medical sense. In other words, disability is very much a part of our lives. As Kim Nielsen (2012) wrote in her Disability History of the United States, disability is “not the story of someone else. It is our story” (xiii). It is one of the most relevant issues to all of us.8

CHAPTER 2

Media and Disability

On the night of July 26, 2016, a former employee of the Tsukui Yamayuri En, a home for the severely disabled in Sagamihara, Japan, broke into the facility, tied up the staff members on duty, and killed nineteen residents who had multiple disabilities. The victims’ ages ranged from eighteen to seventy. When photographed in the back seat of the police car, the twentysix-year-old man, Uematsu Satoshi, appeared to be smiling for the camera, and he expressed no remorse at the police station for his heinous crime (Japan Times 2016c). Several months prior to the incident, he had sent letters to politicians in which he stated, “My goal is a world in which the severely disabled can be euthanized, with their guardians’ consent, if they are unable to live at home and be active in society” (BBC 2016). One of his letters alarmed the local authorities, and they hospitalized him for mental assessment and treatment. In less than a month, he was released because the doctors determined he posed no danger to others. It was only after the July 26 incident that authorities discovered his Twitter posts lamenting Japan’s destruction by AIDS and radiation poisoning and his final message, posted some thirty minutes after the murder, stating, “May the world be peaceful. Beautiful Japan!” (Rich 2016). Is it a mere coincidence that this heinous crime, known as the Sagamihara incident, occurred in 2016, the same year that Japan’s first law eliminating discrimination against people with disabilities, Shōgaisha Sabetsu Kaishōhō, was enforced? Uematsu had proposed the extermination of the disabled via a letter sent to the Speaker of the Lower House of Parliament in February. Thus, chronologically, this July incident cannot be claimed as his direct reaction to or message about the discrimination law, which had become law in April of that year. 24

Media and Disability     25

However, there is something very disturbing yet familiar about this bizarre incident in which the residents of the center appear to have triggered the instigator’s underlying fear of the disabled. Akasaka (1995) reports a dispute that erupted between Hatoyama Newtown residents in Saitama Prefecture and the officials of a rehabilitation center for adults with schizophrenia to be built in the same town in 1981. Referring to two similar incidents in Hokkaido and Tokyo in the 1980s, he argues that these disputes reflect the townspeople’s concealed fear of the Other. Similarly, Uematsu, the killer of the Tsukui Yamayuri En residents, associated their disability with other phenomena he thought were destroying Japan. His myopic thinking, which some anonymous commentators online agreed with, points to the centuriesold ideology of ijin-goroshi, or killing of the Other, which he believed justified the extinction of what he perceived was “polluting” his ideal Japan. Historically, those who were considered Other were often seen as monsters, pests, or evildoers who deserved to be killed, as illustrated by ancient folklore examples in Japan. As I have argued elsewhere (Okuyama 2017), by applying Komatsu’s viewpoint of ijin-goroshi, one can see that some of the antiquated perceptions of the Other that have survived in contemporary Japanese consciousness may be hampering our effort to understand and appreciate human variation in the nation.1 As much as we should avoid falling into an impairmentbased perception of humanity, we need to stop categorizing ourselves based on physical or intellectual differences. Therefore, folkloric perspectives of otherness in Japan are provided to augment my examination of the contemporary mass media portrayal of disability in this chapter.

Ijin—the Japanese Trope of the Other What do ancient stories tell us about specific aspects of otherness? Although the narratives of the Other do not tell us what they think of disability today, they help us understand Japan’s present-day hegemonic ideas. In discussing the present-day prejudices held against and the stereotypes imposed upon individuals considered “foreign” to mainstream Japanese, it is helpful to review the negative projection of otherness in the ancient myths and urban legends, as argued by some Japanese disability activists (e.g., Gotō [1995] 2004; K. Hirose 1997; Namase 1999; Yokota 2015). The field of Japanese folklore has identified the cultural concept of ijin (lit., different person) as a trope of the Other (e.g., Akasaka 1995; Komatsu 1995, 2001, 2015). By definition, otherness refers to “the condition or quality of being different or ‘other,’ particularly if the differences in question are strange, bizarre, or exotic”

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(Miller 2008, 588). The topic is often discussed as a collective consciousness or a marker of identity of a certain cultural group and is typically presented as a way to attach negativity to a minority group (Miller 2008). In Japanese tradition, the concept of oni (ogre) serves symbolically as the nonhuman entity (“otherness”), which was constructed to articulate humanness (“sameness”) and has been narrated in folktales throughout history. Oni is the embodiment of all sorts of otherness existing at the margins of Japanese society (Komatsu 1989, 188). Throughout Japanese history, the Other has represented the antithetic or amoral elements of society, such as “spirits, the dead, itinerants, and beggars” (Komatsu 1989, 222). Oni continues to carry the same representation in modern-day popular culture. The character of a rebel, a member of a minority group, or a hybrid being is often drawn as an oni figure in manga and anime, as is the protagonist of a popular television anime series, Devilman (Reider 2010). Although oni characters are condemned by society, they are endowed with supernatural powers. They are visually associated with grotesqueness and are often depicted as a monstrous character, as in the drawing of Yubaba in Spirited Away, which was based on the signifier of yamauba, or the female oni (Reider 2010, 159). As the contemporary imagery of the Other, “an oni and its variants are marginalized” by human characters in manga and anime narratives (Reider 2010, 165), and the construct of otherness represented by the oni signifier “remains in the mind of Japanese artists and readers alike” (Reider 2010, 169). Foster (2015) points out that in Japan the concept of oni is “interpreted historically as visualizations of otherness and the dangers associated with it” and is “everything foreign and mysterious that threatens the status quo,” all of which reflect people’s “fear of historically marginalized populations” (119). The oni metaphor, therefore, is antihegemonic in nature and is attributed to representations of something negative or destructive. Similar to Reider’s (2010) interpretation, Foster (2015) sees oni as “the marginalized or disenfranchised Other who challenges” the social order (119). To further understand the Japanese concept of the Other, let us explore Komatsu Kazuhiko’s theory of ijin. Komatsu (1995) argues that in Japanese folklore, otherness is marked either positively or negatively, depending on the context in which the signifier appears. The Other is simultaneously held in awe and feared, admired and despised. In preindustrial Japan, according to Komatsu (1995, 218), those who lived on the periphery of society included traveling merchants and religious healers (e.g., rokubu, or Buddhist pilgrims), as well as people with disabilities (e.g., blind masseurs and blind

Media and Disability     27

minstrels). Conceptually, they were ijin—the Other—from the perspective of the settled, able-bodied members of a community. Komatsu (1995) points out that the Other has two conflicting embodiments. Its malevolent aspect is represented by oni and yōkai (apparitions and monsters), whereas the opposite is what Japanese folklorists called marebito (lit., rare person), which refers to mysterious visitors, often of sainthood, who benefit the community with their skills, knowledge, or magical power. Thus, if the itinerant’s provision of labor or services in exchange for food and lodging was regarded favorably by the villagers, their ijin status was viewed positively. However, the perceived value of the Other could abruptly swing to the opposite end of the spectrum, and such instability of the ijin status was documented in local legends still existing in Japan. The narratives typically speak of the origin of a special pond, hill, mound, or deep pool that enshrines an anonymous traveling merchant, entertainer, or religious healer who died “by accident,” went missing, or was murdered. Komatsu (1995) outlines the suspicious disappearance of the ijin from the community during their stays, their allegedly accidental falls into a deep pool in which they drowned, and even their murders for money or revenge by unidentified, unapologetic villagers, suggesting that such tales may signify the collective memory of the Other killing (or ijin goroshi in Komatsu’s coinage). That is the dark history of ancient portrayals of disability in Japanese literature. In the next section, more contemporary narratives—narratives of mass media—are examined to understand how otherness is portrayed now and to what extent media narratives represent the viewpoints of people with disabilities. It begins with general issues and then proceeds to the two main genres of popular culture—film and comics. Readers who are not familiar with representation issues frequently addressed in disability media studies will find this chapter useful, especially before proceeding to manga analysis in part II.

Contemporary Media Representations of Disability Key arguments of media studies on characters with disabilities will be presented here to contextualize the forthcoming chapters of manga analysis in the contemporary framework of disability studies. I will start with a brief sociohistorical background of disability portrayals in Japanese media, followed by a more thorough view of insights into media representation, mostly critical, by Australian and North American scholars. One of my justifications for drawing from fewer disability media studies in Japan is that I deemed it more relevant and meaningful to provide Japanese cultural

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and historical contexts in greater detail under each disability category (e.g., Japanese deaf people’s views on manga in chapter 3 on deafness) analyzed in part II. Additionally, very few monographs have been published that directly critique disability representations in Japanese media, to the best of my knowledge. Besides Kuramoto’s (2010) anthology, Temaneku furīku, the only book-length publications in Japan I could find are Nagai’s (1998) Manga no naka no shōgaishatachi, which focuses on manga’s depiction of disability, and Nozawa and Kitamura’s (2006) Hattatsu-shōgai to media, which is already out of print. By contrast, several monograph-length analyses of disability in Western media studies have been published, in addition to a larger and proliferating number of papers on the very topic. For example, Ellis and Goggin’s (2015) book critically evaluates how the physically disabled are portrayed in television and theater while an anthology edited by Ellcessor and Kirkpatrick (2017) analyzes disability case studies in a wide variety of media, from film to music to sports, using an interdisciplinary approach. Furthermore, disability representation has also been examined in association with Grimm’s Fairy Tales (Schmiesing 2014) and popular US comics (Alaniz 2014). Therefore, a more enriched discussion of disability media studies, drawn from Australian and North American scholarship, will follow to augment a short overview of the general issues of disability representation germane to Japanese mass media. In the 1990s Japan experienced a surge in the portrayal of people with disabilities in the mass media, including television drama (Stibbe 2004) and manga (Gottlieb 2006).2 Since then, manga has been evolving as a genre of graphic novel consumed not only by domestic but also by international readership. However, manga’s representation of this minority has been examined mainly in journal articles or chapters (e.g., Bryce 2014; Kawai and Ikenaga 2015; Tsuchiya 2010). On gender differences, Stibbe (2004) finds that when disabled characters are female, they are more likely to be protected by male characters, but when they are male, they provide the protection to their able-bodied partners. In addition, he notices that dramas featuring a heroine with a disability are typically told in ways to reinforce “many of the aspects of the traditional medical model” (21). Almost a decade later, Kawai and Ikenaga (2015) reported on “patterns” they detected in the fifty-three manga titles they reviewed. One is that most disabled characters acquire their disability later in life. Another is that the acquisition of disability often coincides with another life crisis (e.g., the loss of a dear friend). As the story progresses, it is revealed to the reader that

Media and Disability     29

the emotional shock from the crisis was so strong that it caused the disability (e.g., a woman loses her voice after hiding in a closet and witnessing her entire family being killed). Another pattern is that the disabled character is depicted as a person who perseveres and “overcomes” a series of obstacles. The protagonist’s disability is sometimes implied rather than named. More often than not, the hero or heroine achieves significant success in life due to or despite the disability. Some disabled protagonists gain a special power or skill upon developing the disability (e.g., a person is blinded yet gains the ability to “see” the future), while others are depicted as superhuman. The authors point out that in spite of many titles portraying disability, this genre has not been utilized in Japan for shōgai rikai kyōiku (special-needs understanding education), often because of the inaccurate or stereotypical descriptions, or even outright negative images, of disabled people that are not uncommon in manga representation. Nagai’s (1998) monograph, Manga no naka no shōgaishatachi (Disabled People in Manga), evaluates more than seventy manga titles with disabled characters, including both protagonists and sidekicks, while Yoshimura et al.’s (2007) anthology presents essays that analyze serious manga works on social issues surrounding gender, class, and ethnicity—neither of which is available in English. Nagai introduces more comics featuring deaf characters, as the author himself is deaf. Regrettably, none of the essays in Yoshimura et al.’s Sabetsu to mukiau mangatachi (Manga That Confronts Discrimination) discusses how manga portrays disabled characters. Another monograph on manga is Manga no naka no “tasha” (“The Other” in Manga) edited by Ito Kimio (2008). This anthology focuses not only on the representation of disabled individuals but also on anyone society considers the Other, including foreigners in Japan. Although Manaberu manga 100-satsu (100 Manga Titles That Teach Us), edited by Sadoshima and Satonaka (2016), covers more recent manga titles than the other two books, only a few of the titles featuring disabled heroes and heroines are included in topics ranging from literature to history to economics. The following media studies and disability studies scholars discuss general issues of disability and the media. First, why does disability in the media matter? Ellis and Goggin (2015) state that mass media are a significant part of today’s society and play a huge role in shaping our contemporary culture. Because their influence is so pervasive and powerful, media play an important role in signifying disability through images and ideas that reinforce what is “normal” and what is not. For those who have little or

30     Chapter 2

no direct experience with disabled people, the media are a primary venue through which to encounter disability. Second, because media occupy a central place in our culture, their portrayal of people with disabilities also mirrors “a widespread, entrenched way of seeing disability in society” (14). Ellis and Goggin recognize and emphasize this “two-way flow” between media and disability. Studying media, therefore, provides a key to understanding disability in contemporary culture. Cheyne (2012) also states that popular narratives of mass media help shape the general public’s perceptions of disability. In the genre of gothic-fiction film in particular, disability has typically been used to mark the frightful Other. Regrettably, she contends, the majority of popular narratives lack critical engagement with disability issues. Historically speaking, the period of the mid-1960s through the mid1980s saw a growing number of disability studies scholars and disability rights activists not only producing groundbreaking works on disability but also challenging the stereotypes propagated by media and promoting new ways of seeing life with disability (Ellis and Goggin 2015). However, “in this period there was little writing and research that explicitly and systematically engaged with media and disability” (24). Beginning in the mid1980s, disability studies scholars and activists began to use publications to denounce the stereotypes and negative images with which various kinds of media portrayed people with disabilities. Ellis and Goggin credit US sociologist and disability activist Irving Kenneth Zola for pioneering the academic inquiry into the media representation of disability. Zola’s 1985 writing, “Depictions of Disability—Metaphor, Message, and Medium in the Media,” drew attention to the media’s powerful influence on the public perception of disability, especially because of their power over viewers’ minds. Zola argued that the first step to changing the media’s current culture is to question the images of disability they present. In Images of the Disabled, Disabling Images, Gartner and Joe (1986) critically examined the signifiers of disability in various cultural forms. Barnes (1992) uncovered the stereotypes that patronize and dehumanize disabled people in the press, books, films, and on television, arguing that these stereotypes are at the core of the discrimination, exploitation, and systematic exclusion that disabled people face on a daily basis and that the prevalence of stereotypes (e.g., inspirational stories) is reinforced by the lack of voices from disabled people themselves about their presentation in the media. Regarding film and television, Longmore (1986) identified five common portrayals of disabled people—heroes, monsters, maladjusted individuals, evil criminals, and sexually deviant or asexual

Media and Disability     31

people, while Nelson (1996) noticed six stereotypes—“supercrip,” “evil and warped,” “the burden” (someone to be cared for), “telethon” (victim type), “just buck up!” (maladjusted), and “should-not-have-survived.” In 1992, Cumberbatch and Negrine provided a comprehensive analysis of disability representation on British television, and in 1994, Nelson’s The Disabled, the Media, and the Information Age was published in the United States. The past twenty years have seen important developments in disability and the media, particularly in cinema, literature, and the arts, signaling a positive change in the direction of media representation. Ellis and Goggin (2015) cite Riley’s (2005) Disability and the Media and Haller’s (2010) Representing Disability in an Ableist World: Essays on Mass Media as two major research sources on disability and the media. The latter, in particular, reviews the media’s history of stigmatizing disability, testifying to the still-limited portrayal of disability and yet lifting our hopes at the media’s potential to offer diverse representations of disabled people. Haller (2010) investigated various stereotypes presented in the media by applying “framing theory” to the manner in which the media portray disability. Framing theory posits that the way a subject is represented shapes the viewer’s interpretation of the subject; put in the context of disability, the particular approach and focus used in reporting about disabled people influence the viewer’s perception of the story depicted.3 According to this theory, by emphasizing certain information, personal qualities, or attitudes and eliminating other types of information, the media engages in “packaging” a story for the news and “encoding” opinions and agendas about disability issues. This approach of packaging and encoding allows the media to create the context for and set limits on the interpretation of the story. As to the media’s encoding, it is important to point out that the mass media do not have direct effects on their audiences. Contrary to the once popular theory of the hypodermic model, an assumption that the audience is the passive and defenseless receiver of the media’s agenda embedded in their messages, we consume information actively and selectively. Yet it is also true that our own innate biases are likely to influence our interpretation. The English saying “likeness goes with liking” points to our genetic preference for similarity (Rushton and Bons 2005). Babies are not born with a “blank slate” but with an innate ability to determine what is good for survival (Bloom 2014). With such preconceived ideas and preferences, it is impossible to make impartial decisions toward others. We are further detrimentally affected by what is called “the halo effect,” which means that if

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someone has a salient favorable trait (e.g., physical beauty), people tend to attribute unrelated positive traits (e.g., honesty, intelligence, kindness) to that same person without proof.4 When combined with attractiveness, our sense of familiarity biases our judgment even in voting for politicians (Verhulst, Lodge, and Lavine 2010). In other words, intuitively, we cannot help liking certain people over others. Consider the fact that manga’s heroes and heroines are more or less attractive precisely because the artist wants readers to identify positively with the protagonist. Therefore, manga has its own subjectivity. Haller (2010) identified as most prevalent the following framing acts used by the press in reporting disability stories: (1) the medical model, which represents a disabled individual as someone with a malfunction that must be cured or maintained by medical professionals; (2) the social pathology model, which represents a disabled individual as disadvantaged and as someone to whom society must provide economic support as charity; (3) the supercrip model, which represents a disabled individual as a superhuman or special person who performs amazing feats in spite of impairments; (4) the business model, which represents a disabled individual as an economic burden on society or as someone who requires additional expenses from businesses for improving accessibility; (5) the minority/civil rights model, which represents a disabled individual as a member of a disability community with civil rights to accessibility and legal grievances; (6) the cultural pluralism model, which represents a disabled individual as just another human being like anyone else and whose disability needs no undue attention; and (7) the legal model, which represents a disabled individual as someone protected against discrimination by legal tools such as the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). Although these are the models for the news, some framing models are familiar methods used in film and comics as well.

Filmic Portrayal Film is the medium of art that has “long been a locus of disability representation” (Haller 2010), and it has become a cultural vanguard to explore new ideas about and feed insights into disability (Ellis and Goggin 2015). Therefore, even though this book focuses on comics, I will provide a short section about the ways in which disability is represented in film. I am also including this genre because of film’s centrality on visual representation, which is also manga’s primary method of imagery. David Lynch’s The Elephant Man (1980) is one of the earliest cinematic representations of disability that received a strong audience reception.

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Although most of the earlier portrayals of the disabled in film are problematic (Ellis and Goggin 2015), we now have a long list of Oscar-awarded films that cast disabled characters in leading roles, including Rain Man (1988), Born on the Fourth of July (1989), Forrest Gump (1994), As Good as It Gets (1997), A Beautiful Mind (2001), and The King’s Speech (2010), to name a few. The type of disability featured on the silver screen also varies, from cerebral palsy (e.g., My Left Foot, a 1989 film about Christy Brown, the Irish painter and poet who had cerebral palsy and used his left foot to produce his poems and paintings), to visual and hearing impairments (e.g., Scent of a Woman, a 1992 film about a blind former army lieutenant; Children of a Lesser God, a 1986 film about a beautiful and independently minded deaf woman), to diseases (e.g., Philadelphia, a 1993 film about a lawyer afflicted with AIDS) and mental illnesses (e.g., Shine, a 1996 film about an Australian pianist whose career was hampered by mental breakdowns). Needless to say, there is quite a long list of film analyses written by media studies scholars. Similarly, many scholars of disability studies have begun to discuss various social issues such as eugenics, diversity, and body politics to understand how the media shape disability. Focusing on the filmic portrayal of mental illnesses, including depression, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia, Donaldson (2005) analyzes films such as The Snake Pit (1948), The Three Faces of Eve (1957), The Silence of the Lambs (1991), One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975), A Beautiful Mind (2001), Fight Club (1999), and The Caveman’s Valentine (1999), drawing insights from Goffman’s Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Asylum Patients and Other Inmates (1968) and Foucault’s Madness and Civilization (1988) and The Birth of the Clinic (1994). Both Goffman’s and Foucault’s books deal with public perceptions of mental illness in the United States and Europe, respectively. Among Donaldson’s several film analyses, one of the most interesting is that of Fight Club, a film about a man with dual personalities. She argues that the protagonist’s psychological disorder is portrayed as the element of “abject” against which the category of “normalcy” is explored. Markotic (2008) offers a new insight that disability is sometimes used as “a moral metaphor” in films (e.g., Rose, a female character with a mental disability in the 1999 film The Straight Story) while it serves as the device of narrative prosthesis (see chapter 1) as the character’s disability propels the narrative (e.g., Bianca, a doll in a wheelchair, whose “disability” moves the story along in the 2007 film Lars and the Real Girl). Unfortunately, she observes,

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films that focus on the “loss” of an ability most likely fail to convey the true experience of someone who, say, has been blind for years. Another common misconception is that because disabled people cope with what able-bodied people would find too difficult to handle, they must be noble or even spirited. The portrayal of a disabled person as a “brave soul” is also an ableist prejudice communicated in films in which disability is measured by how much viewers admire that character’s ability to endure difficulty. Schwartz et al. (2010) point out that except for a few celebrities like Christopher Reeve and Muhammad Ali, individuals with disabilities are largely missing from the popular mainstream media throughout the world. If they happen to be present, they are typically inaccurately represented as poor souls to be pitied, superhumans to admire, or villains to abhor.5 These images contribute to the perpetuation of Nelson’s (1999) “six stereotypes” of people with disabilities (victims, heroes, threats, people unable to adjust, people to be cared for, and people who should not have survived), mentioned earlier in this chapter. What we need instead are authentic representations of disabled individuals who are simply living their normal lives. Authentication is necessary to break down such stereotypes and help promote acceptance of people with differences. Sprout is a New York–based, nonprofit organization that produces films about the daily lives of individuals with disabilities. As film can be a good learning tool as well as a venue to promote social awareness, this organization has chosen it as a medium to “dehumanize” disability by showing the social challenges disabled people face and disability issues as seen from their families’ points of view. Some films have been criticized for their use of an inaccurate or offensive image of disability, and others provide a positive representation but lack accountability because the stories were crafted without adequate input from a disability community (Ellis and Goggin 2015). In fact, it is problematic to present only positive stories of disability because “such simplistically affirmative accounts are ultimately untruthful, distorting, and unsustainable” (28). Thus, simply counteracting a negative portrayal with a positive one is insufficient. By moving beyond the binaries of “good” versus “bad” images of disability, cinematic representations can be agents for change to improve social attitudes about disability. What we need is the inclusion and affirmation of disability across media while balancing and counteracting the still overwhelmingly negative portrayals of people with disabilities.

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Comic Portrayal This section focuses on the portrayal of disability in comics, beginning with the framing model of supercrip. The term “supercrip,” or disabled hero, was introduced in chapter 1 and is used here to refer to a disabled main character who achieves victory, against all odds, through superhuman skills or power. In the supercrip stereotype, the disabled hero serves as “a metaphor for the more general human struggle to overcome life’s obstacles” (Harnett 2000, 11). Comics scholar Jose Alaniz (2014) explains that the term began to be widely used around the time the ADA was signed into law by then president George H. W. Bush in 1990 and now denotes “the antithesis to that other despised master image of disability in mainstream culture: the sentimentalized, pathetic poster child wheeled out for telethons and tearjerkers” (31). Instead of begging for pity, the supercrip earns respect. Those who embody this image in real life are “the many awe-inspiring participants of the Paralympics” and high-performing individuals such as Mark Wellman, Terry Fox, and Sarah Reinertsen, who are lauded in the press (31). In the superhero comic genre, the supercrip seems to reaffirm the American myth of the indomitable body, but in fact this hyperrealistic portrayal is dangerously approximate to the misrepresentation of the disability community. This stereotype exemplifies the media’s swing from one extreme to the other along the spectrum of “the supercrip, the deformed villain, or the Tiny Tim like pathetic sufferer” (33). In his view the supercrip is a modern form of enfreakment (see chapter 1) that unfortunately obscures the lived reality of disabled people. In comics, he argues, the supercrip serves as the antithesis of the overly melodramatic, tearjerking character, the other extreme stereotypes of the disabled. Alaniz argues that Marvel’s and DC’s comics struggled to provide a progressive portrayal of disability. They frequently resorted to the “outdated formulae” of the 1970s and somewhat improved their representation of disabled superheroes in the 1980s “with sensibility-challenging, button-pushing figures like She-Thing/Sharon Ventura and Cyborg/Victor Stone” as well as “Alpha Flight’s Roger Bochs, a double-amputee scientific genius as comfortable using a wheelchair” (157). Several scholars address other issues related to the portrayal of people with disabilities in English-language comics and graphic novels. An antihero to the supercrip stereotype is the evil avenger image illustrated by Harnett (2000); the “irredeemable villain” with a physical deformity who is “bad and lacks heroism,” exemplified by the well-known literary character

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Richard III; and numerous cartoon and cinematic villains, including TwoFace in the Batman comic series (21). These disabled avengers are hardly fully rounded characters; they constantly scheme about their method of revenge yet eventually meet their comeuppance, and their image is far removed from ordinary, real-life disabled people. The message communicated by the disfigured evildoer imagery is that “disability is too abnormal to be integrated into ‘normal’ society” (22). King Richard III’s brief tenure as the crown in William Shakespeare’s Richard III implies that the evil avenger is smart yet calculating and cold-blooded; a threat to good, innocent people like his nephews, Prince Edward and Edward’s younger brother, Richard. This old-fashioned literary device has been adapted across various forms of contemporary media, especially comics, as a graphic metaphor for evilness, resulting in a horrible, hard-to-reverse association between physical disability and inner darkness. In comics, however, the evil avenger does not always show a visible disability. Irwin and Moeller (2010) surveyed thirty comic books, including eleven manga titles from Japan, from the 2008 Great Graphic Novels for Teens, a database containing comics recommended for readers ages twelve to eighteen. They debated over the Joker because the character has no graphically shown disability, and if he does have one, it is only implied by the backstory that he was once taken to Arkham Asylum to receive psychiatric treatment for an unnamed malady. Besides the Joker, the only other evil avenger in their sample was a blind man who appears in Crossing Midnight, a US fantasy-horror graphic novel written by Mike Carey with illustrations full of Japanese imagery (e.g., samurai, kimonos, Japanese schoolgirl uniforms) drawn by Jim Fern and Eric Nguyen. Of the thirty comic stories they reviewed, twelve titles (fewer than half of their sample) contained at least one disabled character. The most frequent representation of disabled characters (five characters) in their stock was of pitiable figures, including a blind woman in Takemiya Keiko’s To terra and an emotionally disturbed female character in Mori Kaoru’s Emma. In comparison, more female characters were represented in the negative stereotype of objects of pity. Out of the thirty samples, only two comics represented disabled characters on the positive spectrum, one of which was Kōno Fumiyo’s Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms (originally Yūnagi no machi, sakura no kuni). The first part of Kōno’s manga takes place in Hiroshima. The heroine Mi­ nami becomes gravely ill from atomic bomb radiation poisoning after several years and eventually dies. Minami is portrayed as an ordinary person leading an ordinary life except for the atomic bomb radiation.

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In a follow-up study, Moeller and Irwin (2012) tapped into a different database, the New York Times Graphic Books Best Seller List published in 2009, which includes graphic novels for young adults. They reviewed twenty-nine comic titles, again including manga, and found that more featured disability but yet again used negative stereotypes. Of the twenty-nine titles, eighteen involved at least one disabled character. They applied the labeling of the ten major stereotypes discerned by Biklen and Bogdan (1977) for their analysis: (1) pitiable/pathetic, (2) object of violence, (3) sinister/evil, (4) atmosphere (used as “background” characters), (5) supercrip, (6) laughable, (7) one’s own worst enemy (portrayed as “whiners”), (8) burden/helpless, (9) nonsexual, and (10) “incapable of fully participating in everyday life” (Moeller and Irwin 2012, 4). In this sample, Moeller and Irwin (2012) found a total of forty-four disabled characters (twenty-two males, eleven females, and one character of indeterminate gender) and discovered that orthopedic impairments were the most commonly featured disability (twenty characters out of forty-four), followed by nine characters with health impairments and five with emotional disturbances. In this sample, the most prevalent stereotype was the atmosphere type, unlike the pitiable type in their previous study. Of the eight “evil” characters, the only female character was an individual drawn with a broken arm who attempts to injure another in The Death of Captain America. The disabled villains also included a one-eyed sexual predator and a man with a lisp. Focusing on the manga within this sample, they found that in five out of the ten manga titles, disabled characters were represented with the atmosphere stereotype in three titles and the pitiable type in one book. The only manga that featured a disabled character with no stereotype, in their view, was the Naruto series (vols. 35–38). This sample reveals that the majority of disabled characters were male and that female characters with disabilities were more likely to be depicted in the typical subservient stereotypes—pitiable, atmosphere, helpless, and the object of violence. However, they found that these minority characters were no longer defined by their impairments, contrary to the findings from their 2010 study (e.g., the hunchback evildoer frame). Rather, “the character’s disability was only one aspect of their individual traits” (9). Using 2007 data from the US Department of Education, the authors state that 9.1 percent of the US student population, six- to twelve-year-olds, are identified as individuals with disabilities. Needless to say, it is important for these minority American youths to see disabled characters who are just like themselves, drawn in realistic images. The authors argue that it is equally important for able-bodied students to see disabled characters in popular

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culture because it can teach them about the issues their peers face in the able-bodied society.6 Perhaps the more recent and popular supercrip heroes are the mutant characters of X-Men. Hopkins (2009) discusses disability portrayed in the film version of The Last Stand based on the original comic book created by Joss Whedon. In this story a so-called cure, a medicine that turns mutants into “ordinary” humans, is discovered by Warrant Worthington II’s clinical team. To that news, Storm utters, “Who would want this cure? I mean, what kind of coward would take it just to fit in?” By contrast, another mutant, Rogue, is ready to visit the pharmaceutical lab for the cure. One of the main themes of Hopkins’ paper is the idea of being normal, and he comments that X-Men shows us how this idea of normalcy dictates our lives. To what extent the idea influences an individual’s life depends on whether her or his difference is visible or invisible, is obvious or subtle, and is perceived as desirable or undesirable. Why do we care about hiding our difference? Because we all have a desire to fit into a group. (He adds that even “nonconformists” hang out with other nonconformists.) Ironically, we also have the urge to stand out, to attract attention, to separate ourselves from the rest, and to be unique so that we are not forgotten or ignored. To stand out, we desire some sort of extraordinary ability. Yet under certain circumstances, we find it dangerous to be extraordinary. Being ordinary is safer. Having contradictory desires is a beast itself—one that causes a dilemma for us. Another theme of X-Men discerned by Hopkins (2009) is the idea of passing, including the degree of detectability. In the X-Men series, some mutants can pass as humans, while others cannot because of their extraordinary appearance (e.g., Nightcrawler has blue skin and a devil tail; Angel has wings) or their inability to control their inherited power (e.g., Rogue cannot touch those whom she cares about without destroying them; Cyclops must wear eyewear at all times to contain powerful beams of eye energy). Thus, some minority people, including gender-nonconformists and people with disabilities, can relate to the experiences of mutants like Rogue and Cyclops. The difficulty of blending in or behaving according to human standards causes distress in the mutants, making their cohabitation with nonmutants more difficult, if not impossible, compared to the mutants who can control their powers at will and choose when to reveal their true selves. Furthermore, some mutant powers not only keep them from fitting into society but are also accompanied by debilitating pain and out-of-control

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power, as with Jean Grey, who experiences recurring headaches and whose uncontrollable power eventually kills her mentor, Professor Xavier, and her boyfriend, Scott. The controversy of passing resonates deeply in disability communities. Marlee Matlin, the deaf actress who won an Oscar in 1987 for her title role in Children of a Lesser God, can “fit in” easily; she is deaf and signs as her primary mode of communication but also uses her voice when she chooses.7 Ilea (2009) describes a scene in X-Men: The Last Stand in which Rogue excitedly reacts to the news about a “cure,” to which Storm responds coldly that there is nothing to cure. Nothing is wrong with them—with mutants. Overhearing this, another mutant replies, “Not all of us can fit in so easily.” Considering the social isolation, interpersonal difficulties, and emotional pains experienced by people with disabilities, the author feels it is understandable for some mutants to want to stop being different. Our society is not designed such that disabled people can participate fully. The author points out that the public transportation system, buildings and facilities, and household appliances are not properly equipped for people with mobility or vision impairments and that sufficient accommodations for people with all kinds of disabilities are not provided at work, at school, and in other public arenas. Furthermore, disability often leads to poverty and insufficient health-care coverage. One mutant asks rhetorically: Is it cowardice to want to avoid persecution? In other words, isn’t it understandable to want to fit in and avoid the pitfalls faced by other disabled people? Ilea (2009) observes that “Rogue’s eagerness to be cured reflects the fact that she views her power as a disability” (176). Warrant Worthington II of the clinical lab urges the mutants to have their “affliction” cured. Storm angrily snaps, “Since when have we become a disease?”8 Some mutants line up in the lab to receive the “cure,” but others are offended that humans see them as defective. Such polar opposite views represent diverse perspectives within the same mutant community: Some fiercely oppose the use of so-called cures, while others see their condition as something to be “fixed” and eagerly seek the cures. Just as a disability community is formed of a diverse group of people and opinions, so do the mutants of X-Men. Ilea sees the dispute as reminiscent of deaf people’s arguments about whether a cochlear implant is a “cure” for them. As described in chapter 1, the medical model defines disability as an undesirable condition in which an impairment needs to be fixed or managed; by contrast, the social model sees disability as only a label society imposes.9 Ilea (2009) points out an example of how

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deaf people become socially “disabled” in the hearing world when a lack of accommodations deprives them of publicly available services. Our own values are reflected in how we see disability. In an episode of The Last Stand, another mutant, Angel, is about to receive the cure but frees himself from the medical chair at the last minute. Angel’s father, Warrant Worthington II, urges him to stay, saying, “It’s a better life. It’s what we all want.” Angel retorts, “No. It’s what you want.” This scene exemplifies a parallel with the current state confronted by many deaf families. As Ilea (2009) points out, most hearing parents want their deaf children to receive cochlear implants, believing it is “best” for their children, who live in the hearing world. Although the author offers no definite answer as to whether preventing a child from receiving a cochlear implant is “harming” the child, she hints at the possibility that Warrant Worthington II, feeling inadequate as a parent, tries to force the “cure” upon his mutant son because being nonmutant is all Worthington knows. By analogy, if the mother of a deaf child does not sign or feel like a part of her child’s Deaf culture, she may wish her child to become a member of the hearing culture. Because that is all the parent knows, she thinks it is also the best for her child. In Yamamoto’s manga, My Finger Orchestra, deaf children are depicted being physically punished by their parents when they are discovered using sign language at home. The dominant belief at that time was that signing would prevent deaf children from learning to “speak” like members of the hearing culture. This gap of perception is featured, albeit reversely, in the US documentary Sound and Fury, in which a hearing grandmother clashes with her deaf son, who denounces getting his deaf child an implant because he believes it is best for his child to remain just like him. Unfortunately, this chasm is present between many people with disabilities and the able-bodied family members who cannot accept their loved ones for who they really are. j  j  j

The definitions of disability have changed throughout history and will continue to evolve in the future.10 Comics’ portrayal of disability is following the same path. While US comics and Japan’s manga continue to present inaccurate and stereotypical descriptions of disabled people, a minority of high-quality comic titles have been published to a receptive audience. As argued by Moeller and Irwin (2012), readers need to be exposed to disability issues and see how ableism is still a dominant perspective of humanity.

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Because we are still at a nascent stage, it is difficult to quantitatively measure the social impact of the manga stories featuring disabled heroes and heroines. However, we must keep pressing for an increase in serious comic representations of disability and high quality and accuracy in their portrayals so that the scientific examination of such social impact will soon be a reality. As demonstrated in this chapter, pathological views and negative representations of disability were common in earlier works of manga, and there still is no such genre as “disability manga,” even though genres such as sports manga and food manga have already been well established in Japan. However, contrary to the manga published in the 1970s and 1980s, in which discriminatory language was still used about people with disabilities, more recently published manga titles do portray disabled characters in a more positive and realistic manner. As I argued, the latter type of manga can serve as change agents, and only these types of manga titles were selected for this book. The manga masterpieces featured here accentuate the presence of the latter group. In part II, these fifteen highly popular and/or groundbreaking disability-themed titles will be analyzed, along with insights from my interviews with manga artists, disability rights activists, and other scholars.

CHAPTER 3

Portrayals of Deaf Characters

In a scene from Babel, a 2006 film directed by Alejandro Gonzalez Iñárritu, deaf teenager Wataya Chieko (played by Kikuchi Rinko) enters a restaurant in Tokyo. She is stopped by a waitress who asks, “Do you have a reservation?” Instead of answering, Chieko points to her group of friends at a booth in the distance and walks toward them. Not realizing that Chieko is deaf, the waitress frowns at her back. Later, Chieko and one of her friends play a video game machine in the restaurant’s backroom, and a male college student makes advances toward them. Because they do not respond to his initial “hello” and Chieko’s friend asks him to slow down so that she can read his lips, it finally occurs to him that the girls are deaf. He runs away, returning to his peers, who ridicule him: “You asshole. How embarrassing!” In the bathroom, Chieko steams about the boys’ reaction and says to her friend, “They look at us like we’re monsters!” Outraged, Chieko decides to seek revenge—she takes off her underwear and declares, “They’re gonna meet the real hairy monster” as she walks back into the restaurant. Back in the booth with the other deaf students, she exposes herself under the table to the boys sitting at a table across from them, and the boys see the “hairy monster” between Chieko’s legs.1 The term “monster” is frequently used in the film’s dialogue in association with the heroine’s disability. Monstrosity as a signifier of the Other has been examined by disability rights activists and researchers, as stated in chapter 1. In Abnormal, Michel Foucault describes a historical perspective in which individuals considered “abnormal” were often referred to as monstrosities. They did not have to be physically deformed, or even hairy, to be called a “monster.” By simply being different from “the norm,” one could fit into the category of “abnormal.” As Sharpe (2007) reminds us, the concept of “monster” is 45

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culturally constructed. In Western folklore, abnormality is signified in the myth of changelings and the tales of monstrous birth,2 and many changeling legends, such as Hedgehog in “Hans My Hedgehog” in Grimms’ Fairy Tales, are tied to the birth of children with disabilities (Schmiesing 2015). Although there is no equivalent to a changeling—a nonhuman child secretly left by a fairy to replace a human child who is taken away—katako (half child) is the negative representation of a child with a disability in Japanese folklore (Okuyama 2017). In ancient Japanese society, otherness signified either a child of good fortune (fukugo) or of misfortune (katako), depending on the social context or historical time in which the tale was told. The tale of Katako, in which the protagonist is born half human and half monster, is representative of the “misfortune” legend genre. Unfortunately, that old notion of the monstrous child continues to be embedded in contemporary media representations of disabled characters like Wataya Chieko. Another element that we can discern from this film is Chieko’s profound isolation. She not only has recently lost her mother but also feels largely disconnected from the hearing world. She is unable to communicate well with her hearing father, even when he signs with her. He works until late at night and is more or less “absent” from her life. Although the film appears to portray her lasciviousness as an expression of her frustration and loneliness, she is shown as more temperamental and impulsive compared to her other deaf schoolmates. Her personality is her own, yet her social isolation is an experience shared with many deaf individuals.3 From the standpoint of disability as a culture, a community of people with the same disability offers “a space of belonging, meaning, identity, and culture and historical heritage and social innovation,” and “if supported and nurtured, it can provide a strong basis for engagement with, and genuine recognition from, broader culture” (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 24–35). This chapter analyzes three manga titles that portray characters with hearing loss. The first two are Donguri no ie (Home of Acorns), Yamamoto Osamu’s pioneering work on deafness published in the 1980s, and Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru (Your Hands Are Whispering), an award-winning manga series from the 1990s that was made into a popular television drama. The chapter will then introduce the third manga, Sabishii nowa anta dake janai (Someone Else Also Feels Lonely) by Yoshimoto Koji, which focuses on the experience of being hard of hearing. The three titles have been chosen to illustrate Japanese media’s changes in representing disability in comic format by comparing them with other works, such as Gangsta (an action manga

Portrayals of Deaf Characters     47

series), that tend to feature deaf characters with the stereotypes discussed in chapter 2. I will begin with a brief overview of Japanese comic publishers’ attitudinal changes toward disability from the 1990s to the present.

The History of “Deaf Manga” The film director Makino Eri uses the term “deaf film” to refer to the genre of films that feature deaf characters or deaf cultural issues. Makino, who is deaf, told me that there is no clear definition of the coinage and that it has not yet entered the language of cinema.4 Similarly, in a casual manner and by analogy, I use “deaf manga” for a cluster of manga titles from the 1990s to the present that feature deaf characters. Whatever the coinage is, my purpose is to distinguish this group of manga from those of previous generations. In his seminal publication evaluating comic stories with disabled characters, which was mentioned in chapter 2, Nagai (1998) explains that one big shift is the attitude of manga artists toward disability. Nagai, who is deaf himself, points out that the manga stories created in the 1960s and 1970s rarely showed the creator’s sufficient understanding of deafness (or other disabilities). For example, deaf characters in those days were more likely to end up being physically abused, committing suicide, or meeting another tragic end. Furthermore, even in the absence of harsh consequences, the character was usually a minor figure, and his or her symptoms and conditions of impairment were incorrectly or too dramatically presented. By contrast, characters in the manga of the 1980s and after are portrayed with more authentic descriptions. As the background factor for the change, Nagai emphasized the year 1981, proclaimed as Kokusai Shōgaisha Nen, or the International Year of Disabled People (IYDP).5 As a result, the Japanese became more aware of one of the fundamental rights of human beings: everyone, regardless of gender, class, and other differences, has the right to live a good life. The declaration clearly indicates that it is critically important for people with disabilities to feel more comfortable sharing public space with people without disabilities. Furthermore, in 1992, the final year of the United Nations Decade of Disabled Persons (1983–1992), the years 1993–2002 were declared as the Asian and Pacific Decade of Disabled Persons by the governments of the Asian and Pacific region, which also proved to be an impetus for more media attention to disability issues (Saito and Ishiyama 2005). Subsequently, in 1993, Japan revised the law pertinent to people with disabilities, modeled after the 1990 Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) of the United States, and renamed it the Basic Law for Persons with Disabilities. Numerous other

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policies for people with disabilities were implemented to improve their circumstances and achieve what Japan called nomaraization (normalization), or inclusive society. Needless to say, manga readers became supportive of the perspective that regardless of disabilities, we all deserve to love, work, and pursue happiness. Although the outright negative depiction of deaf characters in manga disappeared in the 1990s, the stories were not free from the stereotypical perceptions of such characters as pitiful or innocent beings until two significant works appeared, one in the genre of seinen manga (marketed toward young adult male readers) and one in shōjo manga (primarily teenage female readers). (For specific genres of manga, see the introduction.) Dubbing it “the world of Yamamoto Osamu,” Nagai calls Harukanaru Kōshien, published in 1992, the first disability-taboo-breaking manga. This work not only features deaf main characters but also accurately depicts the culture of deaf people, especially their communication, by drawing the characters using the signs that match their dialogue. Nagai then presents Home of Acorns, My Finger Orchestra, and Fight, Sachiko (Tatakae Sachiko in the original Japanese title) as the other examples of the world of Yamamoto’s deaf manga. The first example for female manga readers cited by Nagai is Karube Junko’s Your Hands Are Whispering, which was serialized in a josei manga (women’s comics) magazine from 1992 to 1996. Both Home of Acorns and Your Hands Are Whispering will be analyzed in this chapter. For many years, manga’s portrayal of disability has been substandard. For example, some action comics, like Gangsta and Zatōichi, still follow the supercrip model of disabled heroes. In Gangsta (written and illustrated by Kosuke and published in 2011 in Shinchōsha Monthly Comics), the protagonists Worick Arcangelo and Nicolas Brown are assassins who accept jobs from both the police and the mobsters in a fictitious North American town. Nicolas is deaf and rather than using real hand shapes of sign language, his utterances are shown in white text on a black background to distinguish his mode of communication from that of the hearing characters and imply that he is “signing.” Also implied is Nicolas’ implausible proficiency in lip reading. The character is drawn as a taciturn, mysterious killer with superhuman swordsmanship, speed, and agility. By contrast, all the manga titles to be introduced in this chapter portray deaf characters not as supercrips but as real human beings who demonstrate their deafness authentically through the use of real signs. These works also present the characters’ strong agency by which the plot moves forward.

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Case Study 1: Yamamoto Osamu’s Donguri no ie

Yamamoto, whose manga career stretches over half a century, is the author of Harukanaru Kōshien (Far-Off Kōshien Stadium, vols. 1–10), Wagayubi no ōkesutora (My Finger Orchestra, vols. 1–4), and many other popular titles. Harukanaru Kōshien is based on a novel of the same title, written by Tobe Ryota (1987), about a baseball team at the Kitashiro School for the Deaf in Okinawa, the southernmost part of Japan, which experienced a rubella epidemic. The school, built in response to the acute need to educate the increased number of deaf

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children born during the epidemic, operated for only six years (1977– 1983). The term “kōshien” refers to both the actual baseball stadium for the national summer baseball competition for high school students and the signifier of the coveted championship opportunity for high school baseball players in Japan. In those days, high schools for the deaf were prohibited from participating in any national baseball games. The team from the Kitashiro School for the Deaf eventually broke down that long-standing barrier. When Yamamoto’s adaptation, Harukanaru Kōshien, became a national hit, contrary to the author’s expectation of modest sales and his editor’s initial worries about complaints by disability rights organizations, it broke the longlasting “taboo” against writing about disability in the manga industry. Yamamoto is now considered the first manga-ka to challenge the taboo and win.6 Wagayubi no ōkesutora is Yamamoto’s second deaf manga series and is a biography of Takahashi Kiyoshi, who, after abandoning his dream of becoming an orchestra conductor, dedicated his life both privately and professionally to the education of deaf children. He was the principal of the Osaka City School for the Deaf, which remained the only school that continued to use sign language at a time when all the other deaf schools supported oralism, an educational method that emphasizes the use of speech and lip reading and prohibits the use of sign language.7 I will also discuss his third masterpiece, Donguri no ie (Home of Acorns), because through it the reader can see the manga-ka’s own involvement in disability rights activism. In his book “Donguri no ie” no dessan: Manga de shōgaisha wo kaku (Rough Sketches of Home of Acorns: Portraying People with Disabilities in Manga; 1998), Yamamoto also explains how he developed his ideas for Home of Acorns, how he came to name the comic series, and why he drew on the “world of disability” for his manga. The seven-volume series Home of Acorns began to be serialized in Shogakan’s Big Comic Original magazine, which is aimed at adult male readers in their thirties and forties. To generate stable revenue, the magazine features titles by relatively well-established manga artists. Its contents are devoid of sexually graphic material and cover “conservative and NHK-like” topics that are not socially provocative (NHK, Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai, is the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation; Yamamoto 1998, 140). Yamamoto told me that he was nervous

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about presenting his proposal to write about the families and teachers of children with rōchōfuku, or deafness and multiple disabilities, and their efforts to build their group workshop, Home of Acorns in Omiya City, the first in the Tokyo area. Yet the magazine’s chief editor approved the proposal, knowing well that it was a gamble. Once the publisher issued the okay, Yamamoto sat down with the editors in the early 1990s to discuss the details. Rōchōfuku is a term used in Japan to refer to individuals who are both deaf and have additional disabilities. Internationally, Helen Keller is the most well-known representative of this group. Fukushima Satoshi, who is deaf and blind, is probably the best known rōchōfuku person in Japan (Fukushima 2009). Fukushima teaches at Tokyo University and has published several books, promoting the building of a barrier-free community. The deaf-blind are not the only representative group of rōchōfuku. The least known to the public are deaf individuals who are also intellectually disabled, whom employers tend to avoid hiring. These are the child, or sometimes adult, characters of Yamamoto’s manga Home of Acorns. Yamamoto, a hearing person, developed an interest in social activism at a young age. In the next chapter, I will elaborate on his encounter with the people who helped build this workshop for the rōchōfuku. The original manga series Home of Acorns received an award from the Japan Association of Manga Artists in 1995 while its anime adaptation was awarded an excellence prize, or yūshūshō, in the anime division of the First Media Art Festival by the Japanese government’s Agency for Cultural Affairs.

Discussion: Immersion with the Deaf Community Yamamoto’s first manga featuring deaf characters, Harukanaru Kōshien, is now regarded as the pioneering work of deaf manga (Nagai 1998; Tsuchiya 2010). Yamamoto told me that before Harukanaru Kōshien, he could recall Yashiro Masako’s Fly at Fortissimo! (Foruteshimo de tobitate! in the original Japanese title) as the only comic series that portrayed a deaf protagonist in a decent way. In the early 1990s, the manga publishing world was very hesitant to approve projects that would shed light on disability because of the growing number of protests and complaints by disability rights activists and organizations. They did not hesitate to criticize the inaccurate and biased

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representations of the disabled in manga and demanded stricter public scrutiny of such works. When he was asked by his publisher to create a manga about high school baseball, introducing a character with any disability into the plot was taboo. Initially, he struggled to find a niche in the popular baseball manga, which had already produced several hit manga, from Kajiwara Ikki’s Kyojin no Hoshi (Star of the Giants) to Adachi Mitsuru’s Tacchi (Touch). What new material could be generated on that topic? Then, at a bookstore, he stumbled upon Tobe Ryota’s nonfiction book. The theme of the deaf high school’s baseball team was fresh and interesting to him. To his surprise, his publisher did not wince at the topic of disability and allowed him to give it a try for one year. The manga became the talk of the media, and an offer for a film adaptation was made as he was finishing the third episode. The rest is history. How did Yamamoto become involved in the Deaf community in Japan?8 At first, he joined a shuwa (sign language) circle to draw the deaf characters’ interactions in Harukanaru Kōshien in an authentic manner.9 He came to meet many deaf individuals, their families, and activists in Saitama Prefecture and was invited to a fundraising bazaar supporting causes for deaf people. There he bought an anthology of essays written by those attempting to build Donguri (Acorns), a workplace for rōchōfuku children. He had known about deafness to some extent because of his connection with the shuwa circle in Saitama. But the term rōchōfuku was new to him. To learn more, he read writings by the families and educators who took care of such children. He proposed a new manga project titled Home of Acorns and began to participate in activities from fundraising events to public presentations while creating episodes for this new manga. He went to Kyoto and Osaka for research and even went with other activists to lobby politicians. The manga Home of Acorns tells of the earlier period of activities documented in the anthology and the peak activism period in which Yamamoto himself played a significant role, including the final stage, in which two hundred million yen were collected to construct a workplace for the rōchōfuku people, a minority who had been more neglected and ostracized by society than any subgroup of the Deaf community in Japan. Far more nuances and backstories led this manga artist to dedicate close to ten years to deaf manga in the 1990s. These details can be read in his essay “Donguri no ie” no dessan: Manga de shōgaisha wo kaku (1998).

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Case Study 2: Karube Junko’s Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru (Your Hands Are Whispering)

Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru is a manga serialized for Mimi, a women’s comic magazine published by Kodansha. When I interviewed author Karube Junko, she was accompanied by her editor at Kodansha. Frequently appearing as a topic during our interview was the theme of

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pure love tested by challenges, a long-lasting element of romance in the world of josei manga (women’s comics). This theme will be discussed in depth in the next section. The comic Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru, or Your Hands Are Whispering (hereafter, Your Hands), is a story of family life featuring a deaf woman, Nobe Mieko, and her hearing husband, Nobe Hirofumi. Their story is divided into three parts: Your Hands, volumes 1–10; New Your Hands, volumes 1–13; and Your Hands, Finale, volumes 1–3. Mieko and Hirofumi’s only child, Chizuru, is born in volume 3 of Your Hands, and the story revolves mainly around their home, Hirofumi’s office, or Chizuru’s school life. Your Hands is a “legendary” deaf manga and has been designated by the disability studies scholar Tsuchiya (2010) as the monumental work in deaf manga in the women’s comics genre, the same expression used by Karube’s own editor during the interview. This series won the eighteenth Kodansha Comic Award in the category of Girls’ Magazines in 1994. The heroine, Mieko, is born deaf. Against the objection of her protective parents, she decides to start out in the hearing world as an employee at a trading company. Her parents try to discourage her from that idea by pointing out that she has been in an environment that is accommodating to the deaf, with parents who sign, deaf classmates, sign language interpreters, and people studying sign language in shuwa circles. Yet, determined to come out of that protective shell, she accepts the job offer to see if she can do well for herself. On her first day as an office worker, she encounters her future husband, Hirofumi, in a rather unpleasant way. Her coworkers are unable to understand her speech because they are not accustomed to her pronunciation, and she feels isolated because she cannot hear what they are chatting about. Still, she keeps telling herself that “everything will be all right” because “we are all human beings” (vol. 1, 15). Her coworkers attempt to include her by inviting her to lunch and by asking her to complete some tasks. But because of a series of communication barriers, they begin to avoid her. Mieko is the only deaf employee at this company. She goes to lunch by herself and is assigned simple, repetitive tasks such as photocopying documents, typing out handwritten memos, and even washing used teacups. At this point, Mieko tells herself that to earn their trust and prove she is reliable and capable, she must become highly efficient at every task she is given, no matter how insignificant

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or boring. Hirofumi and Mieko work in the same office, and he notices her commitment and diligence. One day she makes a serious mistake. For her, it is the last straw, and she doubts whether she is qualified to work for the company. Fortunately, Hirofumi notices and brings her a cup of coffee to cheer her up. He delegates some work to her to show he has faith in her ability. Later he is alone at a coffee shop, surrounded by a group of women who are signing among themselves and having a good time. Because he is the only hearing person there, he feels shut out. He vicariously experiences Mieko’s isolation at the office. That event prompts him to learn some rudimentary sign language and start communicating with his sole deaf coworker. Hirofumi’s change in attitude energizes and empowers Mieko. As Hirofumi learns a new sign each day, Mieko begins to feel a bit more included and slightly more confident. But this is the only improvement in her work situation, as her other coworkers feel irritated and annoyed at having to work with her. One coworker complains that involving her slows down productivity while the other utters, “Nobody expects anything from her,” implying that she was given a job only to satisfy the company’s obligation to hire people with disabilities. As such, volume 1 of Your Hands illustrates the reallife situation many deaf people encounter at work. At the end of the volume, Mieko and Hirofumi’s baby girl, Chizuru, is born, and their parenting begins in the next volume, from which the story focuses on their family life as a threesome. Throughout the twenty-six volumes, Your Hands touches upon many serious social issues, such as workplace discrimination, as well as topics germane to the lives of many deaf people (e.g., chōken, or hearing assistance dogs, and the challenges of being a CODA, or a hearing child born to deaf parents). That is why I call it a work of social realism. In response to my comment, the author Karube chuckled and humbly said, “I was just creating an ordinary home drama.”

Discussion: Love and Disability At the interview, Karube’s editor revealed that so-called love stories in women’s comic magazines typically utilize a challenge that hampers a couple’s pursuit of love and tests their degree of commitment to each other. Disability, like other socioeconomic or ethnic differences, serves as a “challenge”

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device.10 However, Japanese publishers, including Kodansha, which published Your Hands some twenty years ago, are much more selective when choosing stories that deal with disability today compared to ten years ago. In the past five years, the editor had noticed the publishing industry’s change of culture toward using nondiscriminatory language, including more characters with disabilities, and portraying minority figures and their social issues. As an example, she mentioned the guidelines for editors on those topics and the relevant workshops or guest-speaker seminars that editors are required to attend every year at Kodansha. However, Karube said she began her series during a time when publishers did not hold to such a high standard or provide guidelines for those who tackled a “sensitive topic.” Karube based the episodes of Your Hands on deaf people’s experiences that she either heard about or witnessed through her interaction with deaf friends. She seemed to have become involved with Deaf culture almost by chance. But there were some dots she could connect; signposts that led to friendships with deaf people and the inception of Your Hands. Her aunt’s parents-in-law were deaf, and she first became interested in signing as a mode of communication when young. She also recalled an NHK television program for deaf students as a reinforcing incident. When she stumbled upon it, her family told her not to watch “that kind of program.” In the 1960s, people with disabilities, including deaf people, were “hidden” from public view. In spite of her family’s warning, she continued to watch the program secretly, feeling as if she had just stepped into a forbidden garden. That sense of prohibition only heightened her interest in this minority group. Karube said she found a chance to participate in a shuwa circle in Setagaya, Tokyo, at age twenty-five or twenty-six, since she had “more time as a homemaker back then.” At the circle, she met a deaf wife and her hearing husband, from whom she developed the main characters of Mr. and Mrs. Nobe. She was invited to their home frequently and came to understand the issues deaf people, their spouses, and their CODA children deal with.11 Although she had a genuine interest in getting to know deaf people, she never thought of producing a hit manga by writing about a provocative topic or raising social awareness about a particular type of injustice. She embarked upon this project partly because of her editor’s encouragement when she humorously related her deaf friends’ unique experiences. At that point in her life, she felt she was at a crossroad in her career in the manga profession and decided to accept the suggestion because “if it [the project] bombs, I will be able to quit with the satisfaction that I have tried out something that I truly cared about.” For her, it was a Hobson’s choice: take it or leave it. There was

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another coincidence: the magazine happened to have an empty slot for one short story, a perfect situation for a test drive. To her surprise, the short story about her deaf heroine received much attention from readers. So began Your Hands in 1992. In 1997 the series was made into a television show, with a popular actor and actress playing Mr. and Mrs. Nobe.12 A Chinese broadcasting company recently adapted the manga, a rare case according to Ka­ rube’s editor, because China is highly protective of its domestic intellectual and entertainment material and does not adapt foreign publications for Chinese viewers unless the works are deemed absolutely significant. The theme of pure love tested by external pressures and its strength in spite of cultural differences is a topic with which many female consumers of manga identify. The formulaic pattern is that a couple’s love is put on trial when faced with a challenge and is proven “real” when they persevere. Karube’s editor said it is a kind of love worthy of storytelling. Discussing the meaning of “disability” as a theme in the women’s manga genre, Tsuchiya (2010) points out that in the post 24-nen-gumi era,13 during which manga began to be consumed by women of a wider age range and occupation and even by some male readers, a need arose in the 1990s for a manga genre for more mature female readers that would deal with themes directly relevant to them, such as marriage and parenting. Quoting Fujimoto (2008, 28), Tsuchiya states that the most ideal life for women in Japan was to “fall in love, get married, and make a happy home.” In that idealistic view, the purest love is that challenged and preserved by both the heroine and her partner. Tsuchiya includes Karube’s Your Hands and Aruite ikō (the manga title mentioned in chapter 6) as examples of such formulaic love stories, in which the main character is dealing with a disability or life-threatening illness. In Aruite ikō, for example, Tsuchiya illustrates how the heroine’s sense of selfworth is elevated by her lover’s unflappable devotion and faith in her despite her disability and the prejudice, interference, and overt criticism from other characters, confirming that their love is pure and strong. From the perspective of storytelling, Otsuka (2013) argues that one necessary element for making a tale popular is the motif of saisei (regeneration; reformation). This motif can be expressed in a variety of ways, including spiritual rebirth, especially in the stories structured with the “leaving-andreturning” pattern. In this story template, at the beginning of the tale the hero visits another world in which he “lacks” something he yearns for before returning to his original place at the end (which may not necessarily be the same geographical location). In this template, Otsuka explains, something “lacking” serves as the engine that pushes the story forward, and the hero

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achieves or attains transformation. Applying this theory of storytelling in the first few episodes of Your Hands, I see Mieko’s story beginning with her “lacking” inclusion and membership in the hearing culture and, in particular, in her workplace, where she is the only deaf employee. As the story unfolds, Hirofumi’s love strengthens in dramatic ways (e.g., to win back Mieko’s trust, Hirofumi climbs a fence so that she will notice him, although he almost kills himself by falling into moving traffic). At the end of Your Hands, Mieko is shown with a smiling Hirofumi and Chizuru, who are signing to each other—a scene confirming that the heroine has finally achieved inclusion and membership via familial love and the use of sign language. Similarly, the next series concludes with Mieko’s secret wish, revealed to her family on her wedding anniversary, that she would want to be born again as who she is—deaf, Chizuru’s mother, and Hirofumi’s wife. This scene is followed by a panel showing Hirofumi’s unuttered Imano mamano kimi ga ii (I love you the way you are) above the image of Mieko’s face, which is crying happy tears. In this series, she comes to learn that her disability is not the absence of ability; it is her deafness that makes her who she is and shapes her three-member family. In Karube’s sequel, Your Hands are Whispering, Finale, the heroine’s daughter, Chizuru, is stricken by sudden hearing loss and decides to have a cochlear implant. Even with this surgery, Chizuru remains hard of hearing. Regardless, she continues to act as a bond between Mieko and Hirofumi. Chizuru as the source of happiness for Mieko in the story is a reminder of the benevolent child (fukugo), the Japanese folkloric concept mentioned earlier in this chapter. This ancient term, fukugo, refers to children with a disability who are said to bring happiness and prosperity to families and their communities and was used with a sense of awe and admiration (Okuyama 2017). Fukugo was a signifier of good fortune, representing one of these two contrasting images attached to the child with a disability. This positive signifier of the Other has engendered a unique genre of Japanese folklore about the good-luck child, the fukugo-densetsu (lit., the legend of the good-luck child), a theme pioneered by Ono Tomoya and Shiba Masao (1983) and further studied by other scholars (e.g., Yamada 1993, 2011; Tsubo 1983; Hanada 2002; Sakihara 2007). The fukugo trope has evolved into a quintessential embodiment of purity or sainthood.14 The hypotexts in which the fukugo metonymy appears are also found in Japanese children’s literature, such as Haitani’s (1974) Tokochan’s Yacht (Tokochan no yotto) and Akagi’s (1969) Naked Angel (Hadaka no tenshi). This archetype of the god’s

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child bringing happiness to the family (Mishima 2010) seems to be well embedded in the story line of this sequel. Your Hands is now considered the monumental work of deaf manga in the women’s comics genre. The formulaic use of disability exists in several other love stories in manga for adolescent and adult women. One example is Aruga Rie’s Perfect World (analyzed in chapter 6) and another is Ōima Yoshitoki’s 2013 megahit manga, A Silent Voice (Koe no katachi), originally serialized via Kodansha’s Magajin.

Case Study 3: Yoshimoto Koji’s Sabishii nowa anta dake janai

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Sabishii nowa anta dake janai (Someone Else Also Feels Lonely) portrays hard-of-hearing people, a subset of the hearing-impaired population that is not as widely covered by the media as deaf people. The author Yoshimoto tackles the problems of misunderstanding toward and discrimination against this lesser-known condition of hearing loss. I have selected Yoshimoto’s Sabishii nowa anta dake janai (hereafter Sabishii nowa) over Ōima’s Silent Voice despite Ōima’s beautifully drawn characters and marvelous plot because of one thing: the main theme of Ōima’s manga is ijime (bullying) rather than deafness. Ōima’s two main characters, Nishimiya and Ishida, are authentically drawn, communicating in sign language throughout the seven-volume series. The deaf character, Nishimiya, as well as several other hearing students, is bullied and ostracized by her classmates, including Ishida. The story follows the concept of otherness and depicts the characteristics of bullying in the collective environment of school; it does not educate the reader much about deafness or deaf communities. By contrast, Yoshimoto’s Sabishii nowa is a “documentary manga” in which each scene is based on the author’s research and interviews with real people with hearing impairments. The last and most decisive factor is that the reader of Sabishii nowa is informed of the difference between being deaf and being hard of hearing.15 Most hearing people do not know the distinction, although a romance novel by Arikawa Hiro (2006), World of Delight (Reintsurii no kuni), which was also made into a film, recently popularized the notion of the latter. As hearing impairments are not as conspicuous as more visible disabilities, the need for accommodation is not perceived right away. Congenitally deaf individuals are very likely to have acquired sign language either at home or by communicating with other deaf friends in school and have developed their membership in and identity with the Deaf culture.16 However, for those who lose their hearing later in life, the primary mode of communication is speech, at least for output. Using the language of and sharing a lifelong history with the mainstream culture rather than the Deaf culture, they suddenly find themselves isolated from both. For this reason, Yoshimoto’s manga is exceptional.17 As in the United States, Deaf culture in Japan has been relatively well publicized, partly because of popular manga stories like Yamamoto’s and Karube’s. However, the majority of the hearing population in Japan does not know much about those who are hard of hearing. Ironically,

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because of their residual ability to detect sounds, their disability is less noticeable, causing more miscommunication and false expectations that they hear like anybody else. Others may think they are pretending to be unable to hear for personal advantage, as illustrated both in this manga and in novels such as World of Delight (2006).

Discussion: Being Deaf versus Being Hard of Hearing The word sabishii in Sabishii nowa means “lonely” or “feeling left out.” The author, Yoshimoto, emphasizes that hard-of-hearing people are likely to be excluded from ordinary activities such as dating, watching films, or going drinking with friends. And their exclusion is not just from the hearing world but also from the Deaf community. In the first episode, Yoshimoto attempts to educate the reader about different degrees of hearing impairment for those who might erroneously assume people are either hearing or deaf and nothing in-between. In fact, being hard of hearing is not the same as being deaf.18 The main point is that hearing impairment covers a wide range of hearing loss. Earlier in this chapter, I pointed out that deafness is an “invisible” disability. Unlike those who are in a wheelchair or walking with a white cane, deaf people are not easily noticed unless their hearing aids are visible or they are communicating in sign language. Hard-of-hearing people are even less conspicuous because they often behave just like hearing individuals, especially if they lost their hearing after having acquired their native language.19 They are able to speak as clearly as anyone and usually do not use sign language at all, or not as well as congenitally deaf people. This does not mean they can hear as well as their hearing counterparts, however. Being unable to sign fluently and identify culturally with the Deaf community, they typically find themselves part of neither the hearing nor the deaf population. Because their combined hearing impairment is not as severe as that of deaf people, hard-of-hearing individuals do not receive the governmentassisted services to which deaf people are entitled. Like rōchōfuku children, hard-of-hearing people are a hidden minority of the hearing-impaired population. Yoshimoto specifically interviewed people with this type of hearing loss and revealed their unique symptoms of impairment, as well as the discrimination and isolation they experienced once they lost their hearing

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ability. In volume 1 of Sabishii nowa, Yoshimoto appears as the main character in his real-life persona, and together with his editor, Mr. Sakurai, he documents the actual voices of hard-of-hearing people. What is strikingly unique about Yoshimoto’s manga is that the experience of hearing loss is visually rendered in such a way that the reader can almost feel what the characters are experiencing. For example, a man is drawn walking in the middle of a crowd, sealed up in a glass box that resembles a display case. This scene graphically demonstrates what it feels like to be hard of hearing and surrounded by hearing people chatting, laughing, and greeting each other. He is shut out from almost all environmental noise or is, at best, hearing only muffled sounds seeping through the glass shield. Yoshimoto Koji graduated from Nihon Fukushi University, a fouryear university specializing in fukushi, or social welfare. Although he did not become a social welfare specialist, the type of professional his university was designed to cultivate, his art provides a fresh viewpoint of social welfare in representing this least-understood minority group with hearing loss. He calls his style of storytelling “a documentary manga,” which seems to be a cross between a semidocumentary (a fictional story with real-life events embedded) and a docudrama (a dramatized real story). In this story, Yoshimoto and his editor work in tandem as an investigating pair, researching the topic, reporting the voices of ordinary hard-of-hearing people, and interviewing Samuragōchi Mamoru, who is technically hard of hearing but was accused of lying to the public about being a “deaf musician” and capitalizing on their sympathy for commercial advantage.20 In this regard, it makes sense to call Yoshimoto’s storytelling approach a “documentary” style to distinguish it from the manga of completely fictional stories. In an interview conducted by the alumni association of Nihon Fukushi University, Yoshimoto said that he is not interested in creating epic dramas with superheroes.21 The first volume was published in 2016 and the second and third volumes in 2017, by Shogakukan. We can look forward to more works of documentary manga by this young, talented artist. j  j  j

The first two case studies to illustrate Japanese media’s history of presenting disability in comics were pioneering manga about deafness: Yamamoto Osamu’s Donguri no ie (Home of Acorns), targeting adult male readers, and Karube Junko’s Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru (Your Hands Are Whispering),

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for young adult female readers. Both were published in the 1990s. The third work was a much more recent manga series, Sabishii nowa (2016–present) by Yoshimoto Koji, published in a male comic magazine, Big Comics. These titles were chosen because they cast ordinary deaf individuals in title roles without reinforcing a typical supercrip or other stereotype and also because they offer insights into a variety of conditions and issues affecting the hearingimpaired population. As Nagai (1998) argued, the 1960s–1970s manga stories with disabled characters showed the lack of the manga-ka’s understanding of disabilities. By contrast, the 1980s manga portrayed the characters with more authentic descriptions (e.g., the use of sign language). In the 1990s, manga finally began to treat the subject with much more care and realism, as exemplified by Yamamoto’s and Karube’s work. In the millennium, with some exceptions, manga-ka have delved into the subject through research, civil engagement, and, sometimes, activism. As shown in the next four chapters, manga is evolving and strengthening its muscles as an agent of social change.

CHAPTER 4

Gender and the Wheelchair

It has been said that the study of minority groups, including people with disabilities, tends to be more neglected in Japan than in the United States (e.g., Heyer 2015; K. Hirose 2015b; Tsuzuki and Nonaka 1995). There is an unspoken sentiment in society that those with disabilities who “receive special education should not do anything that would be a nuisance to” able-bodied people (K. Hirose 2005, 398). That sentiment may be behind the lack of sufficient accessibility and accommodation for the disabled. An elevator for people in wheelchairs is often located at the furthest end of a train platform, for example. In public transportation, users of mobility devices that are more than the standard 120 centimeters (approximately four feet) are also more likely to experience difficulty when riding the train; first-class cars on bullet trains and express lines are not wheelchair accessible.1 Similarly, objects such as parked bicycles take up much of the space on a tiny street, preventing people in wheelchairs from navigating the city safely (Gotō [1995] 2004). The notion of the physically different as the Other, or ijin (see chapter 1), is deeply ingrained in Japanese culture, especially in present-day hegemonic ideas about what is “normal” and what is not. Revisiting ancient attitudes toward disability in historical and sociocultural contexts helps us see the roots of the conflicting characterization of disability in today’s Japanese society. Stories of figures representing otherness are exemplified in the tales of legendary Shinto characters with disabilities, such as Kusunahiko (a god with dwarfism), Kuebiko (a nonambulatory god), and Homuchiwake-no-Miko (a prince with either a speech disorder or selective mutism), especially in the first- and secondoldest chronicles of Japanese history, the Kojiki and the Nihonshoki (Okuyama 2017). 64

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As for Japan’s old narratives about physical disability, Hiruko is a wellknown example of a mythological figure with a birth defect. Gotō ([1995] 2004), Yokota (2015), and Hanada ([1997] 2010) all cite the Shinto legend of Hiruko as the first historically documented case of a murdered figure with a disability.2 According to the ancient tales of the Kojiki (compiled in 712 AD) and Nihonshoki (compiled in 720 AD), Hiruko is the first child of Japan’s creation god and goddess and was born with a physical disability. He is deemed “a no-good child” by his own parents and is cast away into the ocean. Hiruko’s birth defect is attributed to the manner of mating, which was “improperly” initiated by the female deity (Shimazaki 2013). In Shinto mythology, Hiruko’s birth is marked as “no good” because of his lack of physical mobility, a condition deemed unfitting for a deity (Inao 2000). In the Kojiki tale, a hiru- (leech) ko (child) is born to Izanagi and Izanami, the male and female deities of the Japanese creation myth. The tale relates that the baby was set adrift in a reed boat in the ocean to perish because he was unable to stand by the age of three. As Tsuzuki and Nonoka (1995) point out, the tale can be read to imply that “disabled people were summarily disposed of or killed” in ancient society (226). Noting that the Japanese phrase of mizu ni nagasu (flush out in water) is synonymous with doing away with someone or something, Yokota (2015) argues that the subtext of “flushing out” in the Hiruko tale is reflected in present-day societal attitudes toward people with disabilities and that disability was, and still is, regarded as an “absurdity” (or fujōri na mono, in his words) to be feared and obliterated (92). Physical disability can manifest in many ways. Yet the most iconic representation of physical disability is the presence of a wheelchair.3 In their 2003 report of an international convention on disability and media, the Nihon Shōgaisha Rihabiriteishon Kyōkai (Japanese Association of Rehabilitation Medicine4) quotes Dominic Lyle for stating that in advertisements, wheelchairs typically serve as an all-inclusive, visual signifier for the entire disability community. Furthermore, because of the differing visibility of disability, a person with hearing loss probably receives a less intense stare in public than a person in a wheelchair.5 What does a wheelchair mean to the user as well as to the bystander? In this chapter I will focus on the symbolism of the wheelchair. I chose to analyze as case studies of physical disability three manga titles whose main characters are in wheelchairs. I will also discuss gender and disability as signified by the wheelchair. The selected titles are Kondo’s Oguri hangan (Lord Oguri), Inoue’s Real (also Riaru), and Aruga’s Pāfekuto wārudo (Perfect World). I will also compare Orihara Mito’s Kurumaisu no

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kaunselā (The Wheelchair Counselor) with Aruga’s Perfect World, as both titles share the same target readership of adolescent and adult women.

Wheelchair Symbolism In Japan, Ototake Hideto, author of No One’s Perfect (original Japanese title: Gotai fumanzoku), is probably the best-known public icon of a wheelchair user. His book, published in 1998, became an instant best seller and has been translated into several foreign languages, including English. Ototake has congenital tetra-amelia and was born without arms and legs. He stays active by using a powered wheelchair for commuting, socializing, and public engagements. In his book Ototake recalls that his mobility has been hampered by a lack of accessibility in buildings and public transport, rather than by his chair’s mechanical quality and reliability. He sees the fact that he is not ambulatory as “nothing more than a physical trait” (212). A similar sentiment is echoed by Western scholars such as Jeff Shannon, who regards his own physical impairment as an accepted fact of life, disassociated with the stigma of disability (Kuppers 2007). Kuppers (2007) writes that many wheelchair users consider their chair to be an extension of themselves, often decorating it with personally identifiable frame colors and wheel ornaments. A wheelchair user herself, Kuppers considers the wheelchair a signifier with multiple meanings. To those who use it, the wheelchair is a transporter for everyday purposes, and onstage or on the silver screen, it is a rhetorical device that marks a certain identity, carries negative stereotypes, and even offers a narrative shortcut to the identity of the person. The wheelchair can serve as a cultural icon of disability: “For some of us members of disability culture, the wheelchair is a cherished cultural object invested with a fascination well beyond what narration or function might warrant” (88). Kuppers (2007) also reveals that the wheelchair is one of the signifiers typically used on stage by able-bodied actors playing a character with a disability, just like a white cane. The actors use the symbols to visually signify a performance of disability. The actors who wheel around in the wheelchair tend to “reinforce negative stereotypes of disabled people as victims” (Kuppers 2007, 81). In a stage performance, the chair symbolizes immobility and wounding, signs of “other than the norm,” against the valued concept of wholeness, creating in the viewers a sense of unease toward the Other. In such a performance, the wheelchair represents “suffering.” On this point, Kuppers quotes Paul Longmore and Lauri Umansky (2001): “Americans often perceive disability—and therefore people with disabilities—as embodying

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that which Americans fear most: loss of independence, of autonomy, of control; in other words, subjection to fate” (7). What does the wheelchair signify in media, including film? Murderball (2005), a documentary film about disabled male athletes directed by Henry Alex Rubin and Dana Adam Shapiro, features wheelchair rugby, in which the chair is not a regular wheelchair but rather a customized sport device. Kuppers (2007) describes the athlete’s chair as a competition chair, “customized and aggressively wielded” (82); a tool that gets brutally scarred during the battles of rugby games; a sign of freedom as well as hypermasculine sexuality; and a retooled symbol of machoism. It is the chair that opens up mythic opportunities for battle scars, like a chariot of war. Similarly, the featured athletes describe how they metaphorically turn into “gladiators” on the court. Comparing the wheelchair signifiers in Murderball, Kuppers (2007) analyzes what Professor Xavier’s wheelchair symbolizes in the X-Men fiction films. In the X-Men movies (2001, 2003, and 2006), Charles Xavier, played by Patrick Stewart, is the head of a mutant group. His sleek, stylish wheelchair, made of hard, glistening steel or sometimes of clear, lightweight glass, symbolizes Professor Xavier’s “voice of rationality and moderation arguing for the peaceful coexistence of humans and mutants” (84). The posters and advertisements of this film series feature an X logo, which “denotes both imprisonment, finality, and futurity,” simultaneously referencing Xavier’s wheelchair spokes. Xavier’s study is equally posh, and his steel wheelchair “looks like an executive’s chair, complementing Xavier’s dark blue business suit.” His graceful wheelchair movement represents “an orderly man/machine hybrid, a being who creates his own environment as an extension of his telepathic mind.” His “clear, clean, British upperclassness is an icon of the X-Men’s rationality and humanity.”6 In deciphering wheelchair symbolism, Alaniz (2014) starts with what he calls a “wheelchair-user menace” metaphor in which the wheelchair is the marker of disability (119). The metaphor refers to the stereotype that people in wheelchairs are threatening, cyborg-like individuals. That is why in superhero comics, he points out, villainous characters in wheelchairs receive “othering” depictions. However, Professor Xavier does not fit that stereotype. To Alaniz, this character’s wheelchair appears as a signifier of “weakness, passivity, and dependence” (122). Unlike the film version of Xavier played by Patrick Stewart, the comic character is drawn with a bald head and lean body, with an implication of asexuality. He is a physically helpless,

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defenseless man who is a “passive, horizontal, static, desperate being” (124), although his mental prowess still makes him a powerful mutant. Alaniz points out that Xavier is almost always drawn with an attendant pushing his chair, emphasizing his need for assistance with mobility. In multiple instances Xavier is shown off his chair and splayed on the floor, awkwardly confronting Lucifer or Juggernaut. Xavier’s wheelchair is a marker of his disability, while for the other disabled character, Caulder, a wheelchair serves to highlight his aggressive personality. When his wheelchair moves, its progress is drawn with speed lines, emphasizing his masculinity. Caulder’s wheelchair “functions as a prosthetic, a full-blown extension of him, his scientific genius and aggressive personality.” He is not a “self-loathing, docile, bitter” character. Caulder’s chair is a “fortress,” “action chair,” “fully equipped for battle” (126). Snyder and Mitchell (2010) offer the analysis of wheelchair symbolism using different media materials. In the 1994 film Forrest Gump, directed by Robert Zemeckis, Lieutenant Dan Taylor is a double-amputee war veteran using a wheelchair. In one scene the film shows the character’s amazing, if physically impossible, feat of lifting himself from the floor to the wheelchair, which was performed by an able-bodied actor whose legs were digitally erased from the screen using special effects. To the authors this scene of the wheelchair user is nothing but a cinematic representational device, and they argue that this particular scene presents the viewer with a rare opportunity to stare at and witness the amazing physical display of a wheelchair user “from the safe social perspective offered by a movie theatre seat (or one’s own furniture)” (180). This type of safe-zone stare by able-bodied moviegoers is also mentioned by Garland-Thomson (1997). Snyder and Mitchell (2010) see the nature of a “spectacle” in showing the filmed disabled body, pointing out that we viewers have the desire to see these sorts of “body-based spectacles,” as they call it. This filmic image of Lieutenant Dan is the “imagery of disability in mainstream Hollywood visual texts” (181). They also recognize in viewers a desire to know the unknown, something hidden regularly from the public view, with a hint of “downright prurient curiosity” (180). The authors assert that because bodily difference, especially one forbidden from public view, serves as an exotic and almost obscene spectacle, disability plays the role of satisfying that desire in most Hollywood films.7 It provides “an opportunity for viewers to witness spectacles of bodily difference without fear of recrimination by the object of this gaze” (182). It is our deepest psychic element, suiting our “guilty pleasure.” In my view, it is reminiscent of the sentiments of spectators at the nineteenth-century freak shows.

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What does the wheelchair signify in manga’s portrayal of physically disabled characters? What is it like to live with a disability that interferes with mobility and independence? The next section introduces three manga titles that feature physically disabled characters.

Case Study 1: Kondo Yoko’s Oguri hangan

The manga Oguri hangan was written and drawn by Kondo Yoko. The series was first published in 1990 by Hakusensha. I first learned about this manga in Nagai Akira’s (1998) list of manga stories that

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feature characters with disabilities. Kondo adapted for her manga a sekkyō (sermon ballad) about a legendary samurai, Oguri Hangan, who is murdered but returns to this world as a disfigured man with multiple disabilities. The kanji characters for the sekkyō connote a Buddhist sermon. The first chanting performance of the sermon ballads took place in 598 CE in response to a request from Regent Shotoku Taishi, and the plot was drawn from the teachings of the Tendai and Shingon sects of Buddhism during the Nara (710–784) and Heian (784–1184) periods in Japan (Morrison 2013). Despite the ballads’ strong religious affiliation, during the Heian period, priest reciters began to be replaced by storytellers from the commoner class. In this transition, the main purpose of reciting the ballads became entertaining the commoners while educating them in Buddhist teachings. In my interview with her, Kondo told me that in creating this manga, she based her imagery on the drawings of the Edo-period illustrator Iwasa Matabei (1578–1650) and had a male sekkyō storyteller in mind.8 The sekkyō tale of Oguri Hangan appears to be derived from the temple records, and the protagonist is the heir to the Oguri clan of the Taira lineage in the Hitachi region conquered by the Ashikaga clan in battles at the end of the Heian period. In the original tale, Oguri Hangan (Lord Oguri) lives in Kyoto but is banished to a remote town in Hitachi by his father as punishment for having committed a youthful indiscretion. There, Oguri falls in love with Terute, the beautiful and intelligent daughter of a local samurai, Yokoyama. He marries Te­ rute without waiting for her father’s permission. Enraged by the rude act of the young prince from the capital city of Kyoto, Yokoyama tries to kill Oguri by challenging him to ride Onikage, an untamed horse known to devour humans. To Yokoyama’s dismay, Oguri skillfully manages to break the horse. This episode highlights Lord Oguri’s exceptional horsemanship. Yokoyama then arranges a welcome banquet and attempts to kill him and his ten retainers with poisoned saké. This time he succeeds. Emma, the guardian of the underworld, takes pity on Lord Oguri and resurrects him. However, Oguri is reborn, not as who he was but as a disfigured, deaf, and blind man. In this tale disability is embedded as a pretext to Oguri’s resurrection and serves as a narrative prosthesis to Terute’s pure love and dedication to her husband. The famous scene of rebirth, a motif performed in kabuki, jōruri, and other dramas, is depicted by Iso (2012) as follows:

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One evening, as the worthy Daiko Shonin, lord abbot of the great temple of Fujisawa, was returning from his ministrations in a distant part—he marveled to behold a grave in the wilderness of Uenogahara covered with myriad birds. Flitting about between them was a weird apparition, formless and featureless, hovering and fluttering amongst the dilapidated tombs in the rank grass and bushes of that deserted spot. At first the good priest was at a loss to explain the phantom; but he soon recalled a strange tradition, according to which certain souls cut off prematurely by violence from their earthly career were permitted to return to the world in the form of gaki-ami, a kind of ghost. Becoming convinced that for this reason the ghost had returned from purgatory, the benevolent abbot determined to render it all possible aid. He caused a little wheeled cart to be constructed for the gaki-ami, and placed within the vehicle a notice-board whereon the circumstances were recorded. (Iso 2012, 358)

In this version, Oguri’s appearance is that of a “ghost.” In drawing the Oguri of this stage, Kondo used the imagery of a cross between a mummified priest (sokushin butsu) and a patient suffering from leprosy, a very common and ubiquitous illness of medieval Japan. She faithfully adopted the text from the original sekkyō as the priest’s noticeboard message, which read: “Take pity upon this unfortunate being, and help it upon its journey to the hot springs of the temple of Kumano. Those who draw the cart even a little way, by pulling the rope attached to it, will be rewarded by great good fortune” (Iso 2012, 358). Upon reading the message, many compassionate travelers pull his cart on their way in the hope that the souls of their loved ones will benefit from this act of charity. Carrying the deformed and blinddeaf Oguri, the cart moves toward its destination in Kumano, little by little, inch by inch. Soaked in the hot springs in Yunomine, his original features begin to reappear within fourteen days of being in the healing water. A week later, the ghostly body turns into Lord Oguri’s youthful physique, “valiant and imposing as in the days of yore!” (Iso 2012, 360). In Kondo’s rendition, he is back to being a young, good-looking samurai with a healthy body. It is important to point out that from the contemporary perspective of disability studies, the hero’s miraculous resurrection from his

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ghostly state to a completely able body subscribes to the medical model of “curing,” the view that a disability is something to be fixed. What is more, the narrative’s literary quality also appears to decline as the story ends with a deus ex machina: the emperor is so impressed at Oguri’s enduring journey that he confers the lordship of two new areas, Sagami and Mino (today’s prefectures of Ibaraki, Kanagawa, and Gifu), to the resurrected Oguri. However, in my interview with Kondo, the manga author, I learned that she had become seriously ill after finishing a previous big project and found this myth of rebirth to be her source of inspiration.9 Another key point to recall is that at the time in which the original tale of Oguri Hangan was written, a hidden purpose behind the public performances of chanting the sekkyō was to advertise the miracle-performing god of Kumano and the healing power of the hot spring. Furthermore, combining the commercial purpose with the jubilant, entertaining aspect of the tale, the myth of rebirth was what the public yearned to hear. Kondo explains that the story probably struck a chord with the commoners in medieval Japan who had seen, on a daily basis, people with debilitating illnesses like Oguri, as well as people with leprosy and other disfiguring diseases, and that Oguri’s miraculous restoration was used as a narrative device to strengthen their beliefs about charity and worldly rewards in that particular historical context. As a female artist with a four-decade-long career as a manga-ka, Kondo takes a special interest in drawing Terute, the wife of Oguri. Many pages are spent on her tragic wandering after Oguri was poisoned by her adoptive father, Yokoyama. The ancient walking aid in Japan was called izari-guruma (Kohsaka 2004),10 and this oldest form of wheelchair is the cart that carries Oguri on the long journey from Hitachi to Kumano. Terute manages to take a few days off work and gets to pull the cart for the spirit of her deceased husband, not knowing the gaki-ami is actually Oguri himself. At the end of her journey of pulling Oguri in the cart, she writes on the noticeboard her wish that in return for her assistance, the gaki-ami visit her after his health is restored. This manga ends with Oguri visiting her and their happily-ever-after marriage. As a typical “romance” comic written for girls and young women, Kondo’s story emphasizes Terute’s devotion and strong belief in a reunion with her love. It also offers us a glimpse into medieval beliefs about charity and family devotion.

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One may criticize the story’s primary focus on the miraculous cure of the protagonist’s disability as a narrative that perpetuates the medical model. As pointed out by Ellis and Goggin (2015), the motif of “resurrection” is an undeniable aspect of popular culture. Similarly, this manga story Oguri hangan indicates that, unfortunately, the public continues to ascribe the myth of rebirth to the modern-day narrative of disability.

Discussion: Japan’s Welfare History for the Physically Disabled The welfare of people with disabilities in prewar Japan relied heavily upon people’s charity based on religious teachings, as seen in Oguri hangan. No governmental support facilities, specialized medical and caregiving services, or disability laws existed in ancient Japan. Most welfare systems in the world were initially founded to take care of disabled war veterans because of their contributions to the nation (Mori 2008). To this day, the nonveteran disabled are not a high priority to the governments in many underdeveloped countries. According to Mori (2008), in North Korea, for example, congenitally disabled children have no right to live. In some developed countries such as Japan, the elderly and their impairments are under different care systems than those of nonelderly, disabled people. In the transition from an agrarian society to an industrial nation, people with disabilities have been excluded from the labor market. Although healthy-bodied women could participate as factory laborers, women with disabilities could not. The employment of people with disabilities is an issue deeply affiliated with the ability-based philosophy of economics and consumerism.11 Tagaki (2011) argues that people with physical disabilities not only face a serious decrease in support for medical fees but also need an increase in income, a more acute problem than the need for social understanding of disability issues. Citing a 2009 survey by the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare, the researcher states that about 5.6 percent of the population in Japan, or 7.238 million people, are disabled. Among them, 3 percent of those who have physical disabilities, 25 percent of those who have intellectual disabilities, and 12 percent of those who have mental disabilities are institutionalized. He also points out that the current legal quota of hiring disabled individuals is 1.8 percent for private companies and 2.1 percent for statutory corporations, the central government, and local governments. In 2016, Japan finally enacted its antidiscrimination act, the Shōgaisha

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Sabetsu Kaishōhō, which resembles the United States’ Americans with Disabilities Act.12 Interestingly, Tagaki (2011) also describes how the relationship between masculinity (or manhood) and disability is intertwined. Some previous studies reported that former rugby and football players with spinal cord injuries felt that their masculine and athletic identities had been diminished (e.g., Sparkes and Smith 2002) and that men who suffer spinal cord injuries in sports and other physically violent accidents are more likely to struggle with changes associated with their sexuality (Ostrander 2008). Spinal cord injuries may result in either paraplegia or quadriplegia. Paraplegia, or tsui-mahi (paralysis in pair), is paralysis that results in the partial or complete loss of movement in the legs but not in the arms and hands. By contrast, quadriplegia, or shitai-mahi (lit., paralysis of all four limbs), refers to paralysis from the neck or shoulders down, with the partial or complete inability to move one’s arms and legs. Some people with quadriplegia need a ventilator to breathe since the higher the damage to the neck, the more severe the person’s impairment. Christopher Reeve, the film actor who played the protagonist in Superman, was probably one of the best-known real-life figures with quadriplegia. Although people with less severe paralysis can walk, people with total paraplegia and quadriplegia require a wheelchair for mobility. In the next section, we will examine a manga that features contemporary young men with paraplegia who play wheelchair basketball.

Case Study 2: Inoue Takehiko’s Real Real is a manga series (1999–present) created by Inoue Takehiko, the author of two other popular comic series, Slam Dunk, a story about a high school delinquent whose talent lay in playing basketball, and Vagabond, a fictional version of the historical swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. Inoue Takehiko, a pen name of Nariai Takehiko, was born in 1967 in Kagoshima, in the southern part of Kyushu, Japan. Inoue practiced kendō (sword fighting), for years before his passion switched to basketball in high school, which is one of the reasons this manga-ka is so adept at illustrating both swordplay in Vagabond and basketball in Slam Dunk and Real. Inoue was captain of his high school basketball team, just like Takahashi, the “alpha-male” character in Real. Inoue’s

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other passion in his formative years was drawing manga, and near the end of his high school years, he leaned more toward becoming a manga-ka than a professional basketball player. Inoue is now one of the best-selling manga-ka in Japan. The theme of the comic Real is wheelchair basketball. By placing his main characters in the world of this unique sport, Inoue deals squarely with the reality of physical disability. Real, originally serialized in a seinen-manga (i.e., a genre for young adult male readers) magazine, Shūkan Young Jump, is now available as a tankō-bon (collected editions of manga) series, both of which were published by Shūeisha. In a 2008 interview with Inoue, as reported in an English-language

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article, “Inoue Keeps It Real,” one learns how Inoue, a person with no disability, became interested in wheelchair basketball. Many episodes of the comic Real are humorous even though it deals with serious issues pertaining to people with physical disabilities.13 A self-proclaimed “Kobe” (referring to Kobe Bryant, the famed National Basketball Association [NBA] player), Nomiya Tomomi is a high school dropout. In a nation with a low school dropout rate and few children who are homeschooled, he is a social outcast and seems to receive very little respect from his peers and community. Buried in his sometimes comical, sometimes antisocial outlook is the pain of being branded a “loser,” which reinforces his self-loathing. Thus, Nomiya portrays a member of a minority group in Japan: an adolescent subcultural group, tsuppari (hoodlum or delinquent). Seen in the social context of the tsuppari subculture, the reader can discern a host of visual signifiers that mark this character’s distinctive identity. Dubbed “Vince” (after another NBA star, Vince Carter), Togawa Kiyoharu is a former high school track star whose mobility is dependent upon a wheelchair due to kotsunikushu, or osteosarcoma—a cancerous tumor of the bone that develops during the rapid-growth stage of adolescents. Before being diagnosed with osteosarcoma, he was like any other healthy teen. Early in the plot, Togawa is trapped in misery, unable to find a “space” in which he feels he truly belongs. His thick eyebrows signify his strong will, a common style of illustration in manga (Yoshimura et al. 2007). Togawa is, therefore, an archetypal hero of a supokon manga (a genre of manga featuring male protagonists in sports, as described in the introduction). It is an unstated rule of manga that a hero of good nature and virtue is drawn with features considered charming (e.g., blond hair; big, bright eyes with double eyelids; tall, well-proportioned body) and that the hero’s superior inner qualities and superb appearance go hand in hand as a package deal (Yoshimura et al. 2007). This aesthetics-ethics equation translates into other character stereotypes. For instance, a smart yet awkward otaku male is drawn with an overweight body that symbolizes awkward physical movement; a cruel and calculating villain is marked by sharp, intimidating eyes; a sleek Tokyoite is contrasted with a bumpkin whose bandy legs, oversized glasses, or missing teeth imply a lack of sophistication. In other words, in manga the way characters are drawn signifies not only their gender, race, and physical

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characteristics but also their intelligence, personality, skills, virtues, and even birthplace and food preferences (Yoshimura et al. 2007). Multiple symbolic meanings are encoded in images. This coding system cuts both ways: while it helps to conventionalize manga signifiers and makes the reader’s job of interpretation easier, it also creates stereotypes of minorities (e.g., otaku; tsuppai; OL, or “office lady,” referring to an underpaid, unskilled female office worker). I am particularly concerned about manga’s tendency toward the latter. The reader of Japanese comics needs to know that manga characters’ faces are heavily coded. In Togawa’s case, his face is considered good-looking, with well-defined features (e.g., long eyelashes, double eyelids, a high-bridged nose) and serves as a synecdoche for a hero figure in a manga story.14 The heavy semantic weight on face drawing is a phenomenon mastered by Tezuka and his contemporaries after World War II (Yoshimura et al. 2007). Albeit unrealistic and illogical, synecdoches such as a high-bridged nose stand for the character’s hero status. Takahashi Hisanobu is an equally handsome character. Yet at the beginning of the story, he is portrayed as an overconfident, mean high school bully. Almost the antithesis of the convention of goodlooks-equals-good-person in manga, Takahashi’s attractive face is incongruous with his shallow, antagonistic character. As the most popular student, he dominates his classmates, and as the captain of the basketball team, he intimidates and controls his teammates. His manipulation is often subtle yet effective. For instance, he ensures that the ball never gets passed to a less-skilled player, making the player feel ostracized and causing him to quit the team voluntarily. Endowed with multiple talents, including his natural-born athletic skills, Takahashi does not have to work hard. Unlike Nomiya, Takahashi does everything effortlessly, with excellent results, including his schoolwork. His cunning yet charismatic personality charms some schoolmates. Eventually, his overblown ego leads to tragedy, and Takahashi suffers an orthopedic impairment after a serious traffic accident. Ironically, Takahashi’s face also changes dramatically as he journeys on a path of redemption and begins to transform himself into a mature, sensible, and thoughtful young adult—this time, with much-labored effort and serious commitment. His metamorphosis from a prideful, able-bodied man to a humbled individual with a physical disability corresponds

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with his visual transformation from a clean-cut high school jock to a thin man with unkempt hair, haggard cheeks, and dull eyes in a rehabilitation facility. These visual tropes signify this character’s descent into a dark world, like a mythological hero. From a disability studies perspective, Takahashi is not only an alpha-male archetype but also an ableist who becomes one of the peo­ ple he despises—a weakling, a “burden” on others, a physically unfit male. In analyzing this manga’s intertextuality, the reader may notice another text hidden in the story: a subtext of supokon manga embedded in both Takahashi’s and Togawa’s episodes. As mentioned in the introduction, heroes in the supokon manga genre are typically drawn with thick eyebrows that signify masculine power, virility, and endurance. The character Togawa fits this supokon hero archetype neatly. Although visually less distinctive, Takahashi begins to show his supokon hero characteristics in later postaccident episodes in which he silently endures a self-imposed Spartan training program to build upper-body strength as a wheelchair athlete. The image of a perspiring young man suffering painfully while pushing his wheelchair uphill is reminiscent of the virility and determination demonstrated by earlier supokon heroes, such as Yabuki Jō (from Tomorrow’s Joe) and Hoshi Hūma (from Star of the Giants). These natural-born athletes of supokon-manga display the feisty, competitive personas typically associated with strong masculinity, just as Togawa and Takahashi. Wood (2013) regards this manga as a rare example of sports manga that “explores cultural attitudes toward disability in Japanese culture” (638). Mentioning a wide range of sports topics, from baseball to horseback riding to karate, covered by Japanese comics, Wood says Inoue’s work and skillful visual style allow the reader to examine ableist attitudes typical of the world of athleticism, visit the mental landscape of adolescents with physical disabilities, and observe the social perceptions of the “broken” male body. In Wood’s view, Takahashi is most unlikable when he embodies everything that represents hegemonic masculinity—height, physical fitness, attractiveness, and position as the captain of the basketball team, along with ableist attitudes— but the character becomes more relatable as a fellow human being after he experiences the loss of his “perfect” body, masculine power, and school status. He is “most physically and emotionally vulnerable after becoming disabled” (655). In one of his carefully analyzed

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scenes from the manga, Wood reads into Takahashi’s fear of not only vulnerability but also invisibility when a group of schoolboys walk by him and one boy’s schoolbag knocks him over. These boys did not “see” him. The character is profoundly shaken by this symbolic experience of social invisibility and seeks a means to reclaim his identity through his renewed commitment to sports. In the next section, we will examine the impact of wheelchair athleticism on male identity.

Discussion: The Wheelchair Trope and Hypermasculinity A recurring theme of Real is marginalization by society, a common thread that connects the three main characters of the manga: Nomiya, Togawa, and Takahashi. These men experience frustration, disappointment, and anger since they desire to be included and accepted by others, just as most of us do. Despite their similarity, Togawa’s and Takahashi’s orthopedic impairments visibly distinguish them from the character of Nomiya. In Japan, people with orthopedic disabilities make up the largest group of the physically disabled population (53.9 percent), and many children with physical disabilities attend special schools (Ishikida 2005). Legally, they should be allowed to attend the same schools as their able-bodied peers. However, local schools claim they lack facilities and services for disabled children and so refuse them, and no law can force schools to accommodate children with disabilities. Because of the many obstacles to overcome, parents of disabled children cannot make a final decision about where their children should go to school. In contrast to current laws in the United States that make integration more common, children with disabilities are a minority kept away from the mainstream lives of members of Japanese society. Furthermore, regardless of disability type the employment rate in Japan for high school graduates with disabilities is much lower than their counterparts without disabilities. Adolescents who have physical disabilities face the harsh reality of the employment situation for the disabled once they reach adulthood. Togawa’s and Takahashi’s disabled status is also framed as a sign of diminished masculinity in the characters’ minds. As mentioned earlier, visible signifiers of disability, including a wheelchair (for the orthopedically impaired) and a white cane (for the blind), serve to reinforce negative stereotypes of the disabled as “victims” or “weaklings” by able-bodied

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people. However, what the wheelchair signifies is not necessarily negative from the user’s point of view. In Murderball, the 2005 documentary about professional players of murderball (wheelchair rugby) mentioned earlier, the wheelchair is “the sign of freedom, sexiness, and regained masculinitymachismo” (Kuppers 2007, 81). The wheelchair gives the disabled athletes not only the mobility to conduct daily chores but also the ability to compete in the physically demanding game of murderball, which negates the dominant social image of the disabled as inferior. Murderball shows how a player in a wheelchair maneuvers a curb on the court in a way that a bipedal player finds impossible. Similarly, in Real, the wheelchair symbolizes power and advantage. In one scene of Real, the able-bodied Nomiya asks to use a wheelchair to compete on the same level as Togawa. Although well intended, this point of view may be interpreted as an attitude of ableism. Referring to a recent Guinness beer advertisement in which a group of men play wheelchair basketball, Ellis and Goggin (2015) see a hint of ableism in the commercial. They share their interpretation as follows: Widely received as inspirational, the ad concludes with all but one of the men standing out of the wheelchairs as the group go to the pub with a voice over explaining “the choices we make reveal the true nature of our character.” The men in this ad, shown to be “free from disability” by standing and walking away, are represented as having able bodies. The fact that they all walk away, except for one who remains in a wheelchair (perhaps to illustrate the “dedication, loyalty, friendship” of his able peers) positions able-bodiedness as the foundational identity for athletic men. This compulsory able-bodiedness that pervades media and culture conceals ideologies regarding disability. (Ellis and Goggin 2015, 33)

That reading adds to the multiplicity of this trope. Recall that in other comics, the wheelchair offers a sign of rhetorical value. As described earlier, in the X-Men film series made in 2001, 2003, and 2006, the crystal wheelchair used by Charles Xavier symbolizes the British upper-class status and the character’s “rationality and humanity” (Kuppers 2007, 85). Xavier’s wheelchair, constructed of a “contained, restrained, smooth, metallic or plastic” material, signifies his personality as order and containment, in contrast to Magneto, who fits the Hollywood cliché of a villainous, maniac stereotype (86).

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Wheelchair basketball is just one of many wheelchair sports, including wheelchair fencing, wheelchair tennis, and wheelchair racing. Murderball, a documentary film mentioned earlier, features wheelchair rugby. According to Garland-Thomson (2005), the film presents a positive example of combining masculinity, sexuality, and a shared sense of community and is a narrative of masculine sportsmen preparing themselves for battle, evoking the image of gladiators, not only to defeat their rivals in tournaments but also to fight against discriminatory social views that “emasculate” disabled men. The sexuality of quadriplegic rugby players is also intensively discussed by Kuppers (2007), Barounis (2009), and Ellis (2012). Kuppers (2007) describes how quiet and eventless the opening scene of Murderball is, in which Zupan, a tattooed, short-haired, well-built player, is laboriously putting on his uniform before the game. While pointing out that this demonstrates his vulnerability—his struggle with ordinary activities like getting dressed—Kuppers also refers to Rubin and Shapiro’s statement in the DVD director commentary that this scene of Zupan’s transformation into the fighter is the Clark Kent moment, suggesting Superman’s change from his business attire into his bodysuit and cape in the phone booth. She states that Zupan’s tattoo implies his way of identifying with his body and that the rugby game signifies a prosthetic transformation of his body, with the sounds of duct tape ripping and wheels whirring and clanging. The film also shows the image of screws surgically implanted in a neck and a subsequent shot of a scar on the neck of one player. She interprets these shots as visually signifying how both the player and his chair are “the product of custom-built state-of-the-art manufacturing,” and the athletes are the cyborgs made of “steel fused with flesh” (115). Therefore, instead of subscribing to heteronormative masculinity, this documentary provides a fresh image of disabled men’s masculinity or, more precisely, their alternative sexuality (116). To Kuppers, the film is about masculine athleticism. Barounis (2009) also sees this film as a narrative of gender and sexuality, placing visual emphasis on physical strength and using these images to reinforce the normalization of power and masculinity by presenting these athletes as the embodiment of masculinity’s excess. She, however, speaks more directly of manhood when referring to conversations in which the murderball players use phrases such as “that still works,” “all fully functional,” and the “ability to have an erection”; they regard male sexual ability as an essential aspect of their lives after a spinal cord injury. In Barounis’ view, these statements are meant to replace the stereotype of the impotent quadriplegic with the image of a quadriplegic “whose erection is being

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celebrated by the community of women surrounding him,” as well as by the image of those who are the “heteronormatively functional elite among the disabled” (59). It is this image of sexuality portrayed in the film that offers an alternative sense of manhood, albeit constructed in the theory of rehabilitation and transformation. Youth, independence, physical strength, and perfect bodies are not only the stereotypes of masculinity but also the images of normalcy. Ellis (2012) argues that the film, while chronicling the lives of hypermasculine rugby players with disabilities, also reinforces the idea that success is “measured in terms of how well disabled people are able to approximate normalcy” (6). The rugby wheelchair symbolizes not only the athletes’ sexiness (or “masculinity-maschismo,” in her words) but also their freedom. Unlike the stereotype of the wheelchair as a loss of masculinity, here it signifies the players’ “access to a hypermasculine world” (7). However, Ellis points out that the film’s portrayal of the wheelchair sport showcases one possibility of finding a meaningful life rather than languishing because of disability. In my opinion, Murderball reveals a troublesome aspect of elitism beyond the issue of male sexuality. One of the paraplegic athletes’ comments clearly indicates that he separates himself from the mentally disabled athletes in the Special Olympics. In addition, the film contains a hint of sexism. As Kuppers (2007) points out, these men’s trash talk, including their comments about “big tits,” serves as “a metonym of idealized femininity,” which not only excludes female athletes, whose bodies are stereotypically deemed muscular yet flat chested, but also marks “able-bodiedness as a property of heterosexual femininity.” Images abound in the film of these men constantly surrounded by supportive nurses, concerned mothers and girlfriends, and cheering female fans at games (61). Thus, Sam’s comment in the film about his preference for athletic women is taken by his teammates as an antinormative sexual desire. Furthermore, with its focus on disabled masculinity, the film keeps physically disabled athletic women in the margins, having only some minor footage, such as brief shots of female leg amputees playing volleyball and a female Paralympic swimmer. She argues that disabled female athletes are still “a ‘freakishly’ embodied other,” and their athletic body is “a palpable threat to the narrative glue that holds masculinity, disability, and heteronormativity firmly together”; therefore, they are not considered “objects of the voyeuristic male gaze” (61). Regardless of gender, wheelchair sports are not for everyone. In the next section, we will examine a story that does not revolve around athleticism.

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Case Study 3: Aruga Rie’s Perfect World

Perfect World is a currently serialized manga by a budding manga-ka, Aruga Rie. The series won the 2016 Best Girl Manga Award and has sold more than five hundred thousand copies. Volume 5 was released in February 2017. Like Real, the series features a man in a wheelchair. However, there are several differences between the two. First, with adolescent and young adult women as the target readership, the protagonist of Perfect World is a heroine from whose point

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of view most of the episodes are told. Kawana Tsugumi, twenty-six years old, begins her work at an interior design company, Cranberries, in Tokyo and discovers that her first love, Ayukawa Itsuki, a former basketball star at their high school, is also employed there. Upon their reunion, she is impressed with Itsuki’s professional title as a Class-1 architect but is shocked to see another change in him:15 he is a wheelchair user. Itsuki tells Tsugumi that when he was a junior in college, he was riding a bicycle on a rainy day, was hit by a car, and ended up with a spinal cord injury. Second, although Itsuki plays wheelchair basketball as a hobby, his identity is strongly tied to his profession as an architect. This character is drawn with a slender body, and his physique does not signal strong masculinity, although many male characters in the shōjo manga genre are typically drawn this way. Like Real, this series informs the reader of the ins and outs of life in a wheelchair, such as the difficulties Itsuki encounters in dealing with non-barrier-free buildings (not many restaurants built in the cramped spaces of central Tokyo are wheelchair accessible, for example), as well as pain management and health scares. Third, while the story focuses on the maturing of Tsugumi as a woman, it also reveals her challenges in being committed to her first love despite her parents’ overt rejection of Itsuki as their daughter’s ideal spouse. (Furthermore, unlike Terute, whose devotion to Oguri is unwavering, Tsugumi’s feelings toward Itsuki fluctuate.) Itsuki’s disability and medical needs are told mainly from the point of view of the able-bodied Tsugumi. Therefore, the ablebodied reader can relate to her observation of the paraplegic Itsuki as his caretaker, coworker, and lover. By contrast, the episodes related to Togawa and Takahashi in Real are told as their direct experiences of disability. Fourth, while the theme of Real is the two boys’ commitment to wheelchair basketball, the main focus of Perfect World is the couple’s romance and their troublesome path to an unknown destiny in which they may or may not remain together. Thus, the reader who is interested not in sports but in the development and survival of love, tested by life’s hurdles, will enjoy this manga.

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Discussion: Gender and Disability During my interview with one of the manga artists, it was pointed out to me that the author of Perfect World is the type of artist her publisher, Kodansha, entrusts with the challenge of building a character with a disability. When presenting such a serious social topic as disability, manga publishers are very careful at every step, including the decision about who should write the story. In the manga publishing world, manga artists, especially those with fewer years of experience in the profession, work in tandem with their editors, from brainstorming to final revisions. Aruga Rie initially had no knowledge or strong interest in the topic of physical disability. Once the theme was suggested to her, however, she researched it and incorporated it into the manga’s character and plot development. Indeed, at the end of volume 6 Aruga thanks those who allowed her to interview them about the topic. She met and conversed with people with spinal cord injuries and visited factories that make wheelchairs. In an online article, she also discloses that she consulted Abe Kazuo, a real-life architect in a wheelchair, for advice.16 In the article Abe discusses his experiences as a wheelchair user in public and shares a small episode about the unabashed stares that he and his wife often experience. He attributes the staring to the fact that people rarely see individuals in wheelchairs. The character Itsuki is not based on Abe Kazuo, however. Abe became paralyzed from an accident in a motorbike race, which was his hobby. He had married and had children prior to the accident. Abe is also heir to and president of an interior design company, which he has been running since 2005. In this sense Aruga’s Perfect World is unlike Orihara Mito’s manga The Wheelchair Counselor (original title, Kurumaisu no kaunserā), whose story was modeled after the life of Hasegawa Taizo, a mental health counselor who suffered a spinal cord injury in a motorbike accident in his youth. Hasegawa’s memoir, Inochi no kaunseringu (Counseling for Life), was made into a television program. Hasegawa was a neglected child who became a juvenile delinquent in high school. After the accident, he attempted suicide a few times, as he could not bear the tragedy of being paralyzed for life. However, with counseling, peer support, and his own determination, he embarked on a new path as a counselor for those dealing with childhood trauma and neglect, suicidal ideation, and other serious mental health issues.

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The Wheelchair Counselor is not Orihara Mito’s first manga about a person in a wheelchair. She has created a few manga titles featuring wheelchair users, one of which is Aruite ikō (Let Us Go on Foot). The manga was serialized in 2004. The protagonist is a nurse whose life is shattered by a motorbike accident that causes paralysis from her waist down. Yet she returns to her profession, marries a firefighter, and gives birth to a daughter. The story highlights the heroine’s ordinary life after the accident and is based on the experiences of a real-life couple, Mr. and Mrs. Shizu. Analyzing Orihara’s Aruite ikō, Tsuchiya (2010) points out that disability, or any crisis in life, is a typical narrative prosthesis for love stories. In the genre of shōjo manga, in which romance is a recurring theme, the narrative prosthesis of disability has been used to emphasize the value of true love in marriage as well as acceptance of the heroine with or without her disability. The typical plotline is that the strength of a couple’s love is tested when the factor of disability is added to the equation, since the condition often leads to discrimination and alienation and even socially “devalues” the protagonist. Tsuchiya describes how this formula worked during the boom of “pure love” stories in which the boyfriend, fiancé, or husband of the heroine loves “who she is the way she is” (sono mama no kimi) for qualities having nothing to do with her disability. Readers can trace the formula in both Orihara’s Wheelchair Counselor and Aruga’s Perfect World. However, one difference between Orihara’s 2004 manga and Aruga’s newer manga is that the latter offers more detailed information on the wheelchair user’s social disability. Perfect World provides the reader with more practical, context-specific tips on how to interact with and assist wheelchair users and understand their needs. Furthermore, Itsuki and Tsugumi’s relationship is strained not only by external pressures and obstacles but also by their own prejudices, weaknesses, and inability to accept the disability. This is true of both the disabled Itsuki and the ablebodied Tsugumi. The characters are far from being “heroic” and are confronted with issues associated with youth and inexperience with disability. Even the reader who is unfamiliar with physical disability can find both characters relatable because they are neither superhumans nor saints but ordinary people struggling with growing pains. j  j  j

In this chapter we saw how paraplegia affects us, as in the cases of Real’s Togawa and Takahashi and Perfect World’s Itsuki. Many people with spinal

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cord injuries lose the ability to regulate blood pressure and sweating and have difficulty controlling their body temperature, a situation Itsuki faces in Perfect World. Besides spinal cord injuries, conditions such as tumors, scoliosis, and spina bifida can cause paralysis, as in the case of Togawa in Real. In this regard, both Real and Perfect World illustrate a variety of circumstances that result in wheelchair use in real life. Furthermore, all the titles analyzed in this chapter feature male protagonists with physical disabilities. What does the wheelchair signify in manga’s portrayal of femininity? Wheelchair-using heroines do appear in Aoyama Kumiko’s Aruite ikō (published by Kodansha in 1995) and Wada Naoko’s Flower (by Shueisha in 2000). However, written in the same “challengedlove” formula, these titles add little to our understanding of femininity and physical disability. Karr and Weida ([2012] 2013) offer a good analysis of the Barbara Gordon trope, describing how the female character in a wheelchair acquires her disability and grows personally throughout the Batman series. Wickman (2008) and Hargreaves and Hardin (2009) provide insights into the lives of female wheelchair athletes. Unfortunately, however, a more in-depth analysis of manga’s portrayal of femininity and wheelchair symbolism must be saved for a future publication, partly because of the limited space of this book but primarily to wait until more manga feature female wheelchair users in the main role.

CHAPTER 5

Narratives of Blindness

Tom Shakespeare, a renowned disability studies scholar in England, wrote about his impression of Japan in 2006. During his one-week visit to Sapporo and Tokyo, he spotted only one disabled person despite “widespread access facilities” such as many lifts and ramps for people in wheelchairs and tactile paving for the blind in most subway stations (Shakespeare 2006). Shakespeare himself has achondroplasia, a condition caused by a mutation that results in dwarfism, and he uses a wheelchair for mobility. Interestingly, he pointed out, while Japan seems to hold high regard for people with visual impairments, as evidenced by their beloved blind hero Zatōichi, the Japanese keep people with disabilities at home or institutionalized. Who is Zatōichi, and what does this cultural icon symbolize in terms of disability in Japan? Zatōichi is a fictional blind masseur with exceptional swordsmanship created by Shimozawa Kan for his novella set in nineteenth-century Edo, Japan.1 He is a solitary wanderer who normally earns his living from massaging but, when pressed for money, also by gambling. Contrary to his meek appearance and the vulnerability ascribed to his disability, he is a killer sword master. Zatōichi uses his prowess not only to defend himself from people who would take advantage of his blindness but also to rescue women and children who, like himself, are deemed weaklings of society by bullies and scoundrels. Shimozawa’s Zatōichi series was first adapted into twenty-six jidaigeki (period drama) films in the 1960s and 1970s, in which actor Shintarō Katsu played the title role. As the blind hero, Zatōichi has become the nation’s beloved popular-culture icon. Each episode has some element of justice and retribution paid to the oppressed, giving Zatōichi hero status. The story also offers viewers an exhilarating experience from 88

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seeing Zatōichi in unexpected acts of fantasy. For example, one scene shows him walking gingerly with a cane, followed by another scene in which he is slashing down robbers who underestimate him as an easy target. In another episode, assuming the unsighted can be easily fooled, gamblers try to cheat Zatōichi. He draws strength from his heightened ability to hear the dice and detects the mischief. Thanks to Katsu’s skilled performance in sword fighting, the film series was a long-running hit. The series has been made into cinema and manga.2 How is this supercrip received by people with visual impairments? Dr. Hirose Kojiro is a Japanese anthropologist at the National Museum of Ethnology. He lost the sight in both of his eyes at age thirteen. In his book Shōgaisha no shūkyō minzokugaku (The Religious Folklore of People with Disabilities; 1997), he describes Zatōichi as a fictional figure who embodies shinpi-sei/hinichijō-sei (something mysterious or extraordinary), which sighted people tend to associate with blindness (104). Using this popular cultural icon and another example of a fictional figure from literature, he argues that the superhuman power often associated with a blind hero derives from the medieval shōgaishakan (view of people with disability) pertinent to visually impaired people in Japan.3 During my interview with Hirose, I asked how he personally feels about the blind masseur. Is he offended by the supercrip image of blind people perpetuated by Zatōichi? Does he think the image interferes with people’s correct understanding of the disability? Contrary to my expectations, Hirose sees the Zatōichi film series as superhero entertainment that provides sōkaikan, or an invigorating feeling, to viewers like him. He prefers that depiction over representations of disability designed to pump up pathos. He came to know this character when he was a high school student; as a history buff, he was interested in Shimozawa’s work. He is also a fan of chanbara, the genre of swordplay film, and has practiced several martial arts, including iaido (the art of sword drawing), which he began while studying at Kyoto University.4 I pressed Hirose to comment on the unrealistic representation of a blind man with extraordinary swordsmanship. Because of his knowledge of martial arts, he understands fully that what this character does is humanly impossible. Yet once he accepted Zatōichi as who he is—a hero of the imaginary world—Hirose never compared him with actual individuals with visual impairment. Therefore, rather than criticizing the media’s portrayal as unrealistic or misleading, he enjoys seeing a hero defeat able-bodied villains. As a martial arts practitioner, he also knows he could use ki, or the life force (qī in original Chinese),

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to his advantage without seeing the opponent. In an article, Hirose writes about an episode in which Shintaro Katsu, the actor who played Zatōichi, visited the headquarters of an aikido martial arts school and was advised to “move according to the force” without opening his eyes (K. Hirose 2015b, 403). Hirose himself has acquired the skill to stay away from walls and other practitioners on the same mat by reading ki to detect distance and movements in his surroundings. Superhero imagery could potentially mislead able-bodied viewers to an inaccurate understanding of what it is like to have a disability. However, not all blind people may feel that way. Some may identify with the angst and challenges of the underclass and find the aggressive supercrip more liberating and even empowering than the pitiful portrayal of disability in the media. Ichi’s blindness serves to disguise him as a weakling at first, but he uses the misconstrued image as his “weapon,” in Hirose’s words, to shock and overpower his opponent. As he said, that twist may bring kaikan (pleasure) to viewers, especially those who practice martial arts.5 An American equivalent of the blind superhero is Marvel’s Matt Murdock, also known as Daredevil. Both Zatōichi and Daredevil are crime-fighting “supercrip” heroes that remain within the boundary of fantasy. They are spectacle indeed. But no one seriously compares these far-fetched characters with real-life blind lawyers such as Takeshita Yoshiki and Ōgoda Makoto in Japan and blind politicians such as Lieutenant Governor Cyrus Habib of Washington State. Yet if narrative prosthesis (see chapter 1) is constantly and invariably employed as a mere narrative device to move the plot forward or entertain the audience, there is little or no social benefit to any disability community. Therefore, I argue that if we are to aim at erasing the “otherness” label from people with disabilities and building a more inclusive society where everyone is treated as an equal, we must put more effort into portraying “normal” aspects of living with a disability (e.g., cooking, dating). This chapter began with the cultural backstory of the iconic blind hero Zatōichi to contextualize the three narratives of blindness to be analyzed. While reading about these manga titles, the reader will learn how “widespread” Japan’s access facilities for blind individuals are now, compared to when Tom Shakespeare was in Japan some ten years ago, as well as how these individuals use guide dogs to facilitate their mobility and what issues they face when commuting or traveling in Japan. The first story is Ask, Lo, the Flowers!, a manga about a young man with congenital blindness who has a knack for finding happiness in mundane life in modern-day Japan.

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His character is the polar opposite of the supercrip Zatōichi, who must survive on his own in the dog-eat-dog feudal world. The second manga introduced in this chapter is Itsukushimi no shiya, another modern narrative about a blind woman who juggles work and family responsibilities. The third manga is Happy!, a story about a blind heroine and her service dog named Happy. In discussing these three titles, I will also expand upon issues such as public transportation and accessibility, which are either thoroughly addressed or briefly touched upon in these stories. I will also incorporate “print disability,” a topic none of the three titles addressed, unfortunately, but that is particularly relevant to this population. A thorough discussion of print disability can be found in Harpur’s Discrimination, Copyright and Equality (2017).

Case Study 1: Sasoˉ Akira’s Ask, Lo, the Flowers! (Hana ni toitamae) Ask, Lo, the Flowers! is a tankōbon manga (collected editions of manga) created by the award-winning manga-ka Sasō Akira. His professional manga career commenced while he was studying at Waseda University in 1984, when his first manga won a Chiba Tetsuya Award. The Prodigy (1997–1998), or Shindō in the original title, earned him both a Japan Media Arts Award for Excellence and a Tezuka Osamu Cultural Prize in 1999, and his Maestro (2003–2007) received another Japan Media Arts Award for Excellence in 2008. Besides drawing manga, he teaches at Kyoto Seika University. Comprising twelve episodes, Ask, Lo, the Flowers! ran from 2014 until 2015 in Action Comics by Futabasha, whose target readership was originally adult male readers but is now any adult reader. Its Japanese title is Hana ni toitamae. The original title signals the literary atmosphere in which the story unfolds, as tamae is a polite command addressed to an equal or subordinate in classic Japanese. The protagonist is Ichitaro, an average-looking, long-haired young man who walks with a white cane—the canonical visual signifier for blindness. His face is drawn with his eyes shut, as seen in the comic’s cover. However, he wears no dark sunglasses, exemplifying a more realistic depiction of real-life blind people in Japan. Other than the fact that he lost his sight in infancy and his mother during his childhood, he is an ordinary person

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who is witty, well-mannered, and adept at reading others’ feelings. Flowers (hana), as used in the title, signify precious things that Ichitaro can identify by simply touching (and perhaps smelling) and serve as a visual prop in several scenes of this manga. In the novels, movies, and comics that feature blindness, touching is typically portrayed as the character’s primary means of figuring out the world even though, in reality, the other senses—hearing, taste, and smell—are actively and simultaneously utilized.6 In relation to the sense of touch, also depicted in this manga is a shokusatsu-shitsu, a room filled with objects to feel and experience, such as stuffed animals. According to Hirose, not every school for the blind has such facilities, but enthusiastic

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educators would create the opportunity to strengthen haptic perception in visually impaired students by taking the time and effort to set up a shokusatsu-shitsu or make a three-dimensional map. His alma mater, Tsukuba Daigaku Fuzoku Mōgakkō (National University Corporation’s Special Needs Education School for the Visually Impaired), had plenty of materials for haptic perception training. Perhaps because of that enriching experience, Hirose is now a strong advocate for threedimensional galleries and museums, in which not only blind but also sighted visitors can “perceive” and appreciate artwork through the sense of touch.7 Equally central to the story is another character, Chihaya, a roughand-tumble young woman whom Ichitaro meets in the first episode. Since her mother left, Chihaya has been taking care of her alcoholic, unemployed father while juggling multiple part-time jobs, one of which is scrubbing dirty public toilets, work that makes her feel like the lowest form of life in existence. She is no traditional “tragic heroine” waiting to be rescued by a prince, however. She has neither the interest nor the time for romance and dons gender-neutral clothes such as jeans or baggy gym pants. Ichitaro’s and Chihaya’s paths cross for the first time while he is standing on the uphill escalator and she runs up, trying to catch the next train.8 Chihaya accidentally kicks Ichitaro’s cane away. Seeing the oncoming train, Chihaya feels torn: Should she go back and pick up the cane for the blind man, or should she take the train so that she will not be late for work? She chooses the latter. Ironically, she is late anyway because her hair gets stuck in the train doors (presumably when the train pulled in at her station, the passenger-exit doors opened on the other side, a common phenomenon in the Japanese train system). Scenes at train stations are an integral part of this manga and the culture of the blind that the story attempts to depict. Chihaya speaks mostly in male language and is quick to react physically.9 In one scene she knocks down the chabudai (old-style, low dining table) to express disapproval of her father’s crude remark about Ichitaro’s blindness. Her pet phrase is “Yamero-yo!” (Cut it out, asshole!), which she utters to anyone, including Ichitaro, when she is in a bad mood. In one episode Ichitaro’s blind friend comments that Chihaya’s palms feel like the hard and bumpy surface of a braille-engraved handrail in a train station.10 Embarrassed at this insensitive remark, Ichitaro

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gives his blind friend a bear hug from behind. The blushing Chihaya responds angrily, “My hands are rough because I’m a manual laborer!” Although she is an atypical, foulmouthed young woman, she connects with Ichitaro because of her own hardships and challenges as an underdog in society. As her life intertwines with that of Ichitaro, Chihaya finds moments of peace in their time spent together and is surprised that she likes Ichitaro’s aura of comfort, which she has never before sensed in anyone else. Most importantly, this man embodies the hope and optimism for which she has been yearning. Ask, Lo, the Flowers! presents many episodes rife with themes related to blind people and social issues germane to this particular disability. Of the most relevant to the community of the blind is the theme of public transportation hazards. One day Ichitaro falls from the train platform as Chihaya walks away in the opposite direction. Hearing a little commotion, she runs back, losing her shoes, and finds Ichitaro on the track. The moment she sees a train fast approaching the platform paralyzes her with fear. Fortunately, a stranger jumps down to the track and quickly lifts Ichitaro up to the platform. This Good Samaritan happens to be standing nearby, feeling miserable after getting laid off that very day. Yet he instinctively reacts to save his poor fellow human even though it means risking his own life. Later, Ichitaro lightheartedly tells Chihaya that all his blind peers have fallen on the train track at least once and that this is not his first time, either. The Good Samarian episode may sound too good to be true; however, platform accidents with blind passengers are no joke to the Japanese.11 Takeshita Wataru, director of Japan Lighthouse in Osaka, informed me during our interview that the visually impaired community was increasingly concerned after a series of blind men had died from falling from station platforms in the previous year. The accident that shocked the public and the disability community most occurred in August 2016, when a blind Japanese man fell off the subway platform in Tokyo and was run over by a train. The man was walking with his guide dog and was neither pushed nor bumped off by anyone (Japan Times 2016b). This news immediately caught the attention of Kokudō Kōtsūshō (the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism), which now plans a more widespread installation of automatic safety barriers. In a letter sent to the Mainichi shinbun (February 25, 2017) newspaper, a visually impaired middle school

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student called for awareness and cooperation from sighted people to avoid standing or placing belongings on the tactile pavers for the blind. Some of Hirose’s blind friends have also fallen from the platforms, although they were able to crawl off the track safely. He added that, at least in the Osaka area, train announcers now warn passengers to stay behind the yellow tactile pavers.12 Ask, Lo, the Flowers! allows the reader other glimpses into the culture of people with visual impairment. However, this is both the advantage and disadvantage of this manga. While the following scenes poignantly illustrate the themes germane to this minority, because this tankōbon manga contains only twelve short episodes, it fails to provide an in-depth depiction in each issue. First, Ichitaro helps his aunt’s business on the riverside without pay. Judging from the aunt’s reluctance, she is not desperate for his free labor. On the contrary, Ichitaro appears to be using the opportunity to belong to a community. This scene could have been expanded to illustrate how difficult it remains for people with disabilities to achieve strong community involvement. In Japan, the three interrelated occupations of masseur, acupuncturist, and shiatsu therapist were once licensed primarily to those with severe visual impairment. After higher education opened the doors to them in the 1960s and 1970s, however, these occupations began to hire able-bodied candidates, inadvertently forcing the blind to compete with sighted job seekers in the same market. According to the Japan Federation of the Blind’s 2006 report posted on its website, only eighty-one thousand people are employed from this minority group, of which only 29.4 percent hold one of those three occupations. Second, a scene set at a special film screening for the blind shows Ichitaro and his blind friends enjoying the movie assisted with voice guidance. According to a 2014 report, currently only 6 out of 615 newly released films in Japan (as of 2014) are available with that feature (Japan Media Access Support Center 2015). This is another missed opportunity that could have been expanded upon to achieve media accessibility. The report claims that Japan is still behind when it comes to equal access to media products in comparison to the United States and England, the countries in which visually impaired people’s easy access to film viewing is protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 and the Disability Discrimination Act of 1995 (replaced by the Equity Act of 2010), respectively (27).13 Third, when Ichitaro

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and Chiyaha pretend to play baseball in the dark, Ichitaro jokingly says to Chihaya, who complains about the lack of visibility, “It’s a disadvantage of sighted people.” I wish the manga had included more episodes about what Ichitaro can do that sighted people cannot.14 Although these episodes regrettably fall short in raising and examining key disability issues, Ask, Lo, the Flowers! authentically depicts some of the challenges that visually impaired people encounter in Japan, including the public transportation system in spite of its widespread tactile pavers and braille signs. Another advantage of this manga is that it presents accurate drawings of the blind protagonist without falling victim to a trope employed in films such as Daredevil (2003) and Scent of a Woman (1992) and the manga Until Death Do Us Part (2005–2015)—the blind hero constantly wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.15 In reality, sunglasses are mostly worn by those with some vision to block painful glare from the bright sun, and none of my blind friends regularly wear them. In the next two sections, I will analyze two more manga titles that both present a relatively genuine portrayal of people with visual impairment.

Case Study 2: Sone Fumiko’s Itsukushimi no shiya The Vision Field of Affection was written and illustrated by Sone Fumiko, a manga-ka who debuted when she was still a high school senior. Her other titles also deal with social themes such as prostitution (Oyanarumono dangai), autism (Konohoshi no nukumori, adapted from Mori Naomi’s autobiography), and child abuse (Shibosei no niwa and Kodomotachi!). In 1992, she received a Japanese Cartoonists Association Award for Oyanarumono Dangai (serialized 1988–1989), a story based on the Showa-era (1926–1989) practice of selling children from poverty-stricken villages into prostitution, which was revived as an e-book manga in 2015. The protagonist of The Vision Field of Affection is Yuko Inoue, a twenty-eight-year-old married woman who works as a telephone operator. Soon after her birth, she was diagnosed with congenital glaucoma. Her husband, Ryōhei, has both low vision and tunnel vision. In the first episode, suspecting that she may be pregnant, Yuko

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asks Ryōhei to find an obstetrician’s number because his remaining sight still allows him to read print materials, such as a phone book, with a magnifying glass. I have seen this sort of work in tandem when one is assisted by a sighted spouse. When I dined at an izakaya (a casual drinking establishment, similar to a tapas bar, where customers share the food at the table) with Hirose and his wife, numerous small communal dishes were used to serve the different foods we had ordered, unlike regular restaurants that bring your meal on one plate. I noticed that his sighted wife constantly filled his plate with food from each dish. When I dined with him in a noodle shop, all I did to assist was to read the menu for him, as he was able to eat from his bowl of noodles by himself. Hirose’s wife signs documents for him as well. Although he is quite independent in terms of commuting to familiar

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destinations and performing daily routines such as putting on clothes, situations often arise that require not only assistance but also thoughtfulness from his spouse. For example, at their home everything from furniture to tools must be placed back in its original spot after use. Otherwise, Hirose may bump into the moved object and injure himself. In one episode of The Vision Field of Affection, Yuko’s infant child accidentally swallows the cigarette butt that her husband had inadvertently left out and is taken to the emergency room. Yuko scolds Ryōhei that night for not being more careful because she cannot spot objects that are hazardous to the baby by herself. The manga tells the reader what it is like to live with a blind person and what challenges they face as a couple. Two other manga titles that feature a sightedblind couple are Nagareda Masami’s Kimi ga mienakutemo (Even if I Cannot See You) and Hoshino Memi’s Ringo no himitsu (The Secret of an Apple).16 Both were published in women’s manga magazines and were written in the typical love-comedy manga genre, but they account for the opposite experience wherein the heroines are sighted, assisting their blind boyfriend or husband. Published as an e-book in 2015, the story of Sone Fumiko’s The Vision Field of Affection is somewhat similar to that of Karube Junko’s Your Hands Are Whispering, a story about a deaf mother and wife introduced in chapter 3. In The Vision Field of Affection, however, the heroine is blind. Both manga apparently share the target readership of young adult women. Why does this type of slice-of-life story featuring a heroine with a personal challenge—be it poverty, class, or disability— continue to be popular? One explanation may be that many Japanese women still feel that happiness resides in the traditional family of a husband and children. In 2003, Sakai Junko pointed out the die-hard picture of “female happiness” that still exists in society in her best-selling story Make-inu no tōboe (Grumblings of a Loser), in which make-inu (underdog) is a euphemism for a childless, unmarried woman over age thirty. While the “underdog” connotation is saved for unmarried women in general, a positive term, bari-kyari (shortened from bari bari no kyaria ūman, or high-powered career woman), has begun to be used for career-oriented women with elite, metropolitan feminist attitudes. The original title, Itsukushimi no shiya, literally means a visual field (shiya) of affection (itsukushimi). At the end of the first episode, the heroine says, “I can see. I can see circles of warmness intertwined with

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each other. These circles connect us [visually impaired people] to the world. I shall keep widening this vision field of affection. Forever and ever.” At first, the utterance is too vague to comprehend. But toward the end of the second and third (final) episodes, the heroine makes similar utterances. The reader realizes by the final episode that the heroine is doing well in her career and is a happy mother of two young children. On the last page, she identifies the vision field she has been referring to as hers, implying that she has developed a way of “seeing” (or connecting with) the world through the support and goodwill of many (sighted) people. Although the story depicts blind people and their personal challenges, it neglects to shed light on those with low vision, or jakushi, like the heroine’s husband, Ryōhei.17 As a partially blind person, Kuramoto (2010) alerts us to the fact that the degree of disability does not correlate with the degree of discrimination. He cites some instances in which he has experienced more discrimination, compared to a totally blind person, from those who know little or nothing about visual impairment because his disability is not readily apparent. The importance of both able-bodied and disabled people being equals is emphasized in this manga through the heroine’s positive experiences with helpful others. In a culture in which pressure to conform is strong, people with disabilities face more opposition when requesting accommodation. This challenge echoes in Takeshita Yachiyo’s autobiography, Otoshizuku (Sound Drops). Her experiences as a blind woman also relate to some of the heroine’s issues. Yachiyo is the wife of Takeshta Wataru, mentioned earlier in this chapter, who is the head of Japan Lighthouse in Osaka. She was blinded in a car accident and lost her sight completely when she was a sophomore in college. One day as she and her then boyfriend were driving to the beach, a car crossed over the centerline into their lane and hit them. Both survived, but Yachiyo, who was asleep and not wearing her seat belt, was thrown through the front windshield. Her eyes, unfortunately, hit the bumper of the other car and were severely injured. Soon after the doctors determined that she had sustained a complete loss of sight, her boyfriend broke off the relationship without any hesitation. Although she would soon meet her future husband, Wataru, her adjustment from a sighted person to a blind one was a long, arduous process. Compared to people who are blind at birth or become

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blind in early childhood, there are more individuals who experience chūto-shitsumei (adulthood sight loss), and they are more prone to depression, loss of well-being, and suicide (e.g., Takeshta 1998; Morita 2015). In the next section, I will analyze a manga that features a heroine whose story commences with her chūto-shitsumei.

Case Study 3: Hama Nobuko’s Happy!

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Happy!, Hama Nobuko’s manga, was serialized from 2005 to 2010 in Be Love Magazine for young adult female readers. It was produced in thirty-three volumes and adapted for the 1999 television drama Happy: Tale of Love and Emotion. Its sequel Happy! Happy! was published in six volumes and made into the 2000 television drama Go, Happy, Go as part two of the previous drama. The popularity of this manga is self-evident. The plot revolves around Kaori Takano, a young woman who was blinded in a ski accident three years prior to the story’s beginning. At the start of her story, Kaori is informed by her best friend, Nozomi, that Kaori’s boyfriend is cheating on her. After breaking up with him, she feels devastated; she has lost both her sight and her love. Her struggle to build a new life with her disability continues for a time. Her heart sinks as she experiences discrimination and insensitive remarks from sighted people, such as “You shouldn’t be roaming around alone on the street when you can’t see.” The heroine feels her world is shrinking because of her disability. With Nozomi’s insistence, however, Kaori agrees to adopt a guide dog. Named Happy, her new aid brings her more mobility than her cane, as well as more connection with people, including her future husband, Noboru, who is a veterinarian. The story focuses on the quality of life guide dogs can bring to people with visual impairment while illustrating the various challenges one may encounter by taking a guide dog to public places. For example, Happy enables Kaori to travel to distant or unfamiliar places with ease, but Kaori learns that Happy is not welcomed by hotel employees, fellow train passengers, and restaurant owners, who assert that the dog is a nuisance to the others who are present. In earlier episodes, Kaori is not yet assertive of her rights as a newly disabled person. When she trips over a bicycle carelessly left on the street or a sighted passenger steps on Happy’s paw on the train, it is Kaori who ends up apologizing. With the help of her family and friends, and Happy as well, the heroine gradually gains confidence. Kaori may be more independently minded than most traditional female manga characters drawn decades ago. Yet readers may find the heroine of Happy! to be the quintessential tragic-yet-beautiful heroine who “overcomes” her trials and tribulations. She is blessed with supportive and caring parents and friends, especially her confidante, Nozomi. Furthermore, her husband-to-be is handsome and the heir to a flourishing

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veterinarian clinic. As if that were not good enough for the heroine, she is blessed with meaningful work and the birth of two healthy, adorable sons. The whole story is written in the typical rabu-kome (rom-com) genre, filled with cheerful and humorous episodes for young adult female readers. However, this manga is worth reading to understand two important issues the previous two titles do not cover: chūtoshitsumei and the benefits of mobility and companionship provided by guide dogs. Furthermore, the reader becomes acquainted with the challenges of raising a family and caring for pets without relying on sight. There are striking similarities between the fiction of Kaori’s marriage and the nonfiction of autobiographer Takeshita Yachiyo. As told in Otoshizuku (Sound Drops), Yachiyo was deserted by her boyfriend and soon after met her future husband, Wataru, a Christian and a more caring and responsible man who loved her regardless of her disability.18 Together, they created a happy family with two sons. Yachiyo was similarly blessed with good friends and mentors, as well as caring families, both her own and Wataru’s. In other words, the fictional story of the blind woman in Happy! is not unrealistically different from the true story of Yachiyo. Her life history is a telltale sign that achieving the traditional happiness of having a family is not impossible for women with disabilities in Japan, albeit with many obstacles and frustrations. As mentioned earlier, the sheer number of its thirty-three volumes indicates how popular this manga became in Japan. The series’ longevity also suggests that the Japanese love stories about canine pets. Calling this manga “light-hearted human drama,” Bryce et al. (2014) point out that another important benefit of Happy! is that it “emphasizes the relationships between disabled and non-disabled people” in which the heroine’s “otherness functions as a catalyst for a more inclusive society” (6). I argue that more manga stories of literary quality like these three samples should be published to help increase the visibility of this particular minority group. In the next section, I will discuss how an inclusive society can be built by helping the public to better understand the role of service dogs and also by following the kokoro no baria-furī (soft accessibility) slogan proposed by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism. In addition, I will attempt to bring awareness to one of the most important aspects of the culture of the blind—print disability—a topic overlooked by these otherwise excellent narratives.

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Discussion: Service Dogs, Kokoro no baria-furıˉ, and Print Disability Yachiyo’s husband is Takeshita Wataru, director of Japan Lighthouse in Osaka, mentioned earlier. Yachiyo and Wataru had a guide dog named Iriya, like the fictional Happy. They ended up returning Iriya to the Lighthouse when parenting became more demanding as they anticipated the birth of their second son. Yachiyo recalls the farewell with her longtime companion as a heart-wrenching moment: “Brushing and cleaning Iriya with warm towels,” she writes, was all she could do with her pregnant body that day (144). During my interview with Wataru, he told me that although guide dogs receive more funding from anonymous donors than any other cause for the visually impaired population in Japan, many difficulties and restrictions, including the demands of care and cost, as well as the lack of public access, prevent people from adopting them. In Japan, about one thousand service dogs are currently in use, and their training is a timeconsuming process (Shibata 2015). The revised Shintaishōgaisha Hojoken Hō (Law on Service Dogs for the Physically Disabled) of 2003 ensures the lawful presence of guide dogs in public facilities such as schools, libraries, and the transportation system in Japan. However, the law is not yet effective when it comes to the private sector. The Nikkei, formally known as the Nihon keizai shinbun (2017a; Japanese Economics Newspaper), reports that 62 percent of visually impaired users of restaurants and other services experienced rejection and other discriminatory attitudes because of their guide dogs. Being asked where they found it difficult to obtain services in the questionnaire, the respondents identified restaurants (76 percent), retail stores (13 percent), taxies (12 percent), and lodging facilities (12 percent). The Nikkei newspaper reporter laments that such discrimination is still happening despite the Shōgaisha Sabetsu Kaishōhō (Laws of Antidiscrimination for the Disabled) enacted in 2016. In chapter 1, I discussed baria-furī (barrier-free), the Japanese equivalent of “accessibility” in English. In 2016, partially sparked by the Tokyo subway incident that occurred in the same month, the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism issued a memorandum describing two types of baria-furī: accessibility to improve with structural renovation and technology and the other to improve with human involvement. The latter is labeled kokorono baria-furī (soft accessibility). The concept refers to the public’s awareness and effort to reduce misconceptions, including folk beliefs, about disabilities (Okuyama 2017). The ministry claims that to help improve the public transportation system, it is critical to enhance sighted

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passengers’ awareness and understanding of visually impaired people’s needs pertaining to commuting and navigating in public. In Happy!, Kaori’s seeingeye dog trainer tells her that she had chosen this occupation because she lost her nephew to a platform accident and believes the aid of a guide dog would prevent such incidents. Unfortunately, however, being accompanied by his dog did not save the fifty-five-year-old blind man from falling on the track and being hit by a train in the August 2016 Tokyo subway incident mentioned earlier. Tactile paving and guide dogs are useful, but the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism stresses that nothing is more helpful than fellow passengers who are ready to offer assistance to the blind when they need it. The announcement encourages commuters not to hesitate to approach someone with a white cane and ask, “May I help you?” The promoted approach is called okoegake (calling out) in Japanese. Another important issue of accessibility yet to be addressed by any manga is print disability. Even though at least one episode refers to braille in Ask, Lo, the Flowers! and The Vision Field of Affection, reading via braille is depicted as a matter of fact. Although literacy is not required for supercrips like Daredevil’s Matt Murdock to fight crimes, access to reading material was a must for Takeshita Yoshiki, the first blind lawyer in Japan. He lost his sight at age thirteen during sumo practice in school and later managed to get admitted to Ryukoku University Law School. Because he was not able to read regular books to study law, he first had about two hundred references translated into braille, with the help of ten-yaku (braille translation) circle members, and then studied for years. Hirose encountered a similar hardship when preparing for his college entrance exams. During his graduate school years, unlike his sighted fellow students, he did not have full access to all the necessary reading material for his research papers.19 The community of people without sight is deprived of visual culture, which includes full access to reading material. Therefore, Goggin identifies this group as “the print disabled.” The term “print disability” refers to a condition that prevents individuals from gaining necessary information from printed materials such as books, newspapers, and government documents. As Goggin (2017b) states, “Reading is at the heart of many ancient and most modern societies” (xiii). A variety of tools have been designed to make print materials accessible to the blind, including braille, audiobooks, and electronic formats (e.g., DAISY20). However, those with print disability are able to access only a fraction of the books in the world due to a formidable wall of copyright protection laws. “The continuing oppression of print disabled

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readers, and their exclusion from the world of books, can no longer continue— and it is something that should be an integral part of our university courses, research, public debates, and public policy discussion on digital technology” (Goggin 2017b, xvi). Print disability does not affect the blind alone; more women and economically disadvantaged people are also print disabled in underdeveloped countries. However, because manga is an art form in which stories are conveyed only with text and image, print disability is a relevant and serious concern. As of today, manga remains one of the least accessible materials to visually impaired people. It is my hope that in the future everyone will be able to read manga if they so desire. j  j  j

Compared to paraplegic or deaf characters, manga has not selected many blind figures to be main characters. However, as I have argued elsewhere (Okuyama 2017), a one-eyed hero trope has been applied from Japanese mythology to today’s popular manga characters, such as Ginko, the protagonist of the Mushi-shi series, and Ciel Phantomhive, the young master of Kuroshi­ tsuji (Black Butler). Kojiki, Nihonshoki, and other Shinto myths feature a cyclops-like deity named Katame-no-Kami (One-Eyed God) in several episodes, including the famous scene in which Amaterasu (Sun Goddess) hides herself in a cave, and the entire world turns dark.21 Katame-no-Kami has appeared with various names, from the ancient name Ame-no-Mahitotsu-noKami (God with One Eye) to the categorical name Katame-no-Kami, and is associated with the deity of the mountains in Japanese folktales (Fukuda et al. 2006). He is also linked with blacksmithing and is sometimes depicted as the god of blacksmithing (Hasegawa 2008). Yanagita ([1989] 2013) suggests that because of its association with the festival dedicated to the mountain god, the one-eyed god legend might have developed out of the brutal old custom of blinding the festival priest in one eye. Selected individuals would have one of their eyes poked out, either to reduce the likelihood of their escape or to elevate their sacredness by associating them with the one-eyed god legend (Fukuda et al. 2006). The notion that one-eyed individuals possess some magical power is a signifier embedded not only in Ginko and Ciel but also in Zatōichi, described at the beginning of this chapter. About three hundred million people worldwide are said to have visual impairments (Goggin 2017b). They live with either blindness or some degree of visual impairment, and 90 percent of them live in developing countries

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(WIPO 2013). The number of visually impaired people in Japan, given by the director of Japan Lighthouse (2017) in Osaka, is 1.64 million. In this regard, it is encouraging to see this particular minority group gain more media exposure through television drama, film, and comic books. However, blind sword fighters or one-eyed heroes with mystical powers will not advocate critical, real-life needs for a safe train platform designed for white cane users. As I argued in this chapter, manga should portray more ordinary blind and visually impaired characters so that sighted readers can relate and empathize and perhaps realize their own prejudice and discriminatory thoughts, thereby helping to build a more inclusive society for all of us.

CHAPTER 6

Heterogeneity of Autism

Born in 1992 and diagnosed with autism when still a kindergartner, Higashida Naoki marvelously and eloquently documented the ins and outs of his autistic mind, using a Japanese alphabet grid and a transcriber sitting next to him, and published it as a book at the mere age of thirteen. Jiheishō no boku ga tobihaneru riyū (The Reason I, an Aspie, Jump) was the original Japanese title, and his book answers questions typically addressed by those who have no direct experience with autism, such as “Why do you jump?” This book was translated by a British novelist, David Mitchell, and his wife, Yoshida Keiko, for English-language readers in 2013. In the book’s introduction, David Mitchell, the father of an autistic child himself, points out that autism is a lifelong experience for both the caregiver and the person needing care. As Mitchell describes in the book’s introduction, the word for “autism” in Japanese is a combination of three kanji characters, ji (self), hei (shut), and shō (illness or disorder). What is autism, or more appropriately, autism spectrum disorder (ASD)? Is this an illness that throws the affected into solitary confinement, as the Japanese word jiheishō implies? Is “self-shutting” a manifestation common to all types of autism on the spectrum? What sorts of symptoms are demonstrated by not only men but also women at different places along the autism spectrum? In recent years, individuals with so-called high-functioning autism have formed a community, and some feel their community membership is akin to a cultural group. Others see their condition not as a type of disorder but as a trait and use “neurodiversity,” or diversity in neurocognitive functioning, as their preferred term for the condition. What is Asperger’s syndrome (AS)? Is the condition of AS a cultural trait (neurodiversity) or an impairment (medical diagnosis)? In Japan, some members of the 107

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high-functioning autistic community argue that no matter what medical label is used, their condition is nothing but a personality trait (e.g., Ichikawa 2016). Although still controversial, this argument is called kosei-ron, or the theory of personality (Yamagishi 2009), and we will explore their point of view. In the next section, I will first define autism, partly to counteract the myths of autism and the pop-cultural stereotypes of the savant and partly to provide an overview of this disability before proceeding to manga textual analysis. As one can already see, the chapter’s focus is on the spectrum, which means there is a wide range of symptoms associated with autism. Therefore, I chose for analysis a set of diverse manga titles, one featuring AS (Pro-chichi) and one depicting the other end of the spectrum (With the Light), followed by a story told from the perspective of the mother of an autistic child after her “failure” to be a model caregiver (Can I Quit Being a Mom?). The third case study was selected because the primary caretaker, usually the mother, is an inseparable part of life with autism, and her voice needs to be heard. As Ku and Bryce (2011) state, “Autism does not merely affect the child. It can mean chronic stress for the entire family” (421).

Autism Spectrum Disorder Autism, or ASD, is a lifelong neurodevelopment disorder that comes with various labels such as AS and pervasive developmental disorder, and the “causes, mechanism and treatment of ASD have not yet been articulated, although early educational intervention is believed to be effective” (Ku and Bryce 2011, 421). According to Autism Speaks (https://www.autismspeaks .org),1 although autism is not linked to one cause, a combination of highrisk factors, both genetic and environmental, are associated with this disorder. A wide range of conditions exist within the spectrum, including AS. Three of the common difficulties associated with autism are (1) underdeveloped communication skills, (2) a lack of social awareness and interaction, and (3) repetitive behaviors, such as rocking oneself back and forth. This disorder is classified from mild to severe, or high functioning to low functioning, with AS placed at the high-functioning end of the spectrum. Those diagnosed with AS “have an average or higher IQ, language acquisition and an absence of physical impairment” (Ku and Bryce 2011, 421). The multiplicity of this disability tells us that Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man represents only one subgroup of people with autism. According to a Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) 2014 finding, one in sixty-eight children are on the autism spectrum, and

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children with ASD are “likely boys.” Boys are said to be five times more likely to be diagnosed with ASD than girls. Furthermore, as the autism community would say, “If you know one child with autism, you know one child with autism.” In other words, “Autism expresses itself differently in different individuals. There is no single autistic mind, brain, or point of view” (Rozema 2015, 60). The use of “spectrum” does not resolve all confusion and concerns addressed by the autism community, however. In fact, it has become a source of contention. Thomas and Boellstorff (2017) argue that the “spectrum” metaphor signifies the image of a linear progression of conditions with a hierarchy of socially valued “functions.” Nicolaidis (2012) argues that in this spectrum metaphor, high functioning is more valued, as it is considered “closer” to the neurotypical population in terms of ability, while low functioning is not as valued, as it frames autism in the deficit model. The metaphor, therefore, perpetuates a belief that “normal” (or neurotypical) is superior and thus more ideal (Davis 2013). In addition, it constructs a new binarism of high versus low by “the very idea of separating the autism spectrum into categories of ‘low-functioning’ and ‘high-functioning’” (Silverman 2012, 327). How did such a wide range of phenotypes come under one label of ASD? I will briefly share the history of the diagnosis in the next subsection.

History of Autism Spectrum Disorder The word “autism,” coined in 1943 by Leo Kanner, an Austrian psychiatrist, was initially used to refer to the severe symptoms shared among his child patients, including speech delay, motor coordination difficulties, hyperfocus with a restricted set of interests, and behavioral disorders, such as persistently performing highly repetitive acts. AS was defined by Hans Asperger, another Austrian physician, who first identified the set of autistic symptoms associated with this label today. Asperger published a paper on four case studies of children whom he diagnosed as autistic in 1944. It was Kanner’s term—“autism”—that became better known in the West because he was practicing medicine in the United States, and his papers were published in English (Fasulo 2015), even though these two labels were proposed for the same disability at around the same time in history. After the medical identification of autism by Kanner and Asperger in the 1940s, autism was construed as a singular psychological disorder despite the fact that each doctor worked with a different subgroup of autistics. Kanner used the term “autism” to describe the manifestation of severe autism exhibited by children he had examined in a psychiatric hospital. By contrast, Asperger worked in

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schools and came into contact with high-functioning children who had relatively normal language development and excelled at academic work in spite of the same social impairment and other behavioral difficulties characteristic of autism. Asperger’s paper was not discovered until 1981, when the English psychiatrist Lorna Wing found it and coined the condition “Asperger’s syndrome” (Fasulo 2015). That is when the syndrome “began to be recognized in significant proportions of the child and adult population” (Fasulo 2015, 170–171). The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM, was first released in 1952. The entry for autism was included in the third edition, DSM-III, published in 1980. By the 1980s, however, the “biological” accounts for autism first provided by Kanner and Asperger and later propagated by Bettelheim and other doctors had been challenged by environmental, physiological, and neurological theories. The difficulty in classifying differences in symptoms and degree in individual patients under the single entry of autism led to the rise of five related yet distinctive types under the umbrella term of “pervasive developmental disorders” (Thomas and Boellstorff 2017). The five types are autistic disorder, AS, childhood disintegrative disorder, Rett syndrome, and pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified (Willemsen-Swinkels and Buitelaar 2002; Johnson and Myers 2007). The Japanese equivalent of the term is kōhansei hattatsu shōgai, or hattatsu shōgai, and is still in use. In the late 1970s, Lorna Wing proposed that autism be understood in terms of a spectrum rather than by type of disorder. Wing, a medical researcher and the mother of an autistic child, developed this idea of the autism spectrum “as a device for translating and aligning the multiple interests of autism researchers, clinicians, therapists, parents of severely afflicted autistic children, and parents of near-normal autistic adolescents, and ultimately also these adolescents and children themselves” (Eyal et al. 2010, 225). In 1994, in DSM-IV, the new term “autism spectrum disorder” was introduced. Furthermore, because of the discovery of its genetic cause, Rett syndrome was discerned as separate from the other disorders. In 2013, in the fifth edition (DSM-5), the autism spectrum was realigned by removing Rett syndrome from the ASD classification and discontinuing the use of “pervasive developmental disorders” (Mayo Clinic Staff 2014, cited in Thomas and Boellstorff 2017). AS is not a clinical diagnosis, as the term technically no longer exists in the DSM. Some experts see it as a label of self-identity (e.g., Singh 2011). The proponents of the term feel that the removal

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of the AS diagnosis is a possible threat to their identity. They fear that the positive images, such as being “digitally gifted,” associated with being diagnosed with AS would disappear because of the broader classification. The diagnostic label of AS helped distinguish high-functioning autism from other, more severe, forms of autism. Unfortunately, the search for new, nonpathological terms of identity by the neurodiversity movement has run amok with identity politics in the United States (Ortega 2009, 427). Also in the same year, the DSM-5 not only removed the entry for AS but also placed the disorder under the ASD classification, even though Asperger’s was considered a distinct, milder form of autism for a long time. The revised DSM-5 lists “only two broad diagnostic criteria for autism: first, persistent deficits in social communication; second, restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interest, or activities” (Rozema 2015, 61). Many individuals previously diagnosed with AS were unhappy with the decision because the separate diagnostic term might protect someone from the social stigma associated with autism (Singh 2011, 237). To present an accurate portrayal of AS, I selected Ousaka Mieko’s Pro-chichi for analysis in this chapter. Today, the term “autism” continues to be used as the label for the disability associated with difficulties in social interaction, imagining, and speaking in culturally appropriate contexts, as well as a tendency to be inflexible and hypersensitive, the shared traits between the two subgroups (Ku and Bryce 2011). However, it is important to remember that manifestations of autism differ from individual to individual, even though the difference, unfortunately, is still understood only in the binary term (Thomas and Boellstorff 2017).2 What is it like to have autism or care for someone with the disability in Japan?

Autism Spectrum Disorder and the Family In Japan, high-functioning autism is tucked under the umbrella category of hattatsu shōgai, or developmental disabilities, which comprises ASD (including AS) and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), according to Iwanami (2017). Hirose Hiroyuki (2015) lists six types of hattatsu shōgai, including ASD, ADHD, and learning disorder (LD) and points out that these components overlap to some extent. Both Iwanami and Hirose are medical doctors specializing in mental disorders. What hinders successful intervention for children with autism the most is not a discrepancy in defining hattatsu shōgai in the medical field, however, but the following interferences of a cultural nature.

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First, Japanese culture maintains a strong ideology of family in which caring for people with disabilities is considered the primary responsibility not of the government but of the family (e.g., Kamio et al. 2013; Stevens 2013). It is this cultural logic of disability that is closely adhered to in Japan to this day. At the same time, Japanese parents tend to withdraw their disabled family members from the public eye because of their shame-oriented cultural thinking (Stevens 2013). They regard the child’s disability as ie no haji (the family’s shame), while their lives are seriously affected by the child’s need for support and their lifelong responsibility for the child’s care (Iwakuma 2003). Even though residential institutions were heavily criticized in the 1960s and the shōgaisha jiritsu undō (independent living movement) of the disabled took place during the 1970s in Japan (Iwakuma 2003; Hayashi and Okuhira 2001),3 most adults with ASD continued to live with their families (Kamio et al. 2013). Together with insufficient social support, these overprotective and shamed parents have come to interfere with the independence of people with disabilities (Nagai 1998; Stevens 2013). Second, from the earliest school days a degree of dōchō atsuryoku (peer pressure) emphasizes the importance of children developing social skills, especially attaining social harmony, over academic skills in Japan. By Japanese cultural standards, failing to empathetically understand other people’s feelings is destructive and self-centered (Ku and Bryce 2011). As an example, KY, which stands for kūki ga yomenai (an inability to “read” the atmosphere), is treated as a major social flaw. In general, Japanese culture demonstrates a high level of “intolerance of difference” in school. Furthermore, the researchers point out that the Japanese tend to be more intolerant of those who are “slightly” different (e.g., people with a milder degree of disability or a hidden disability) than of those who are “very” different (e.g., people with a severe degree of disability or with a disability that is visually signaled by, say, the use of a wheelchair). Japanese mothers with autistic children may have to “bear social pressure, which lowers their self-esteem and confidence” (500) and are particularly hard-hit by the self-containment of autistic children. As Ku and Bryce (2011) write, the inability to bond with their own children because of autistic traits causes “heartbreaking hardships for caregivers, especially their mothers, more so than for children with ASD, as it may well prevent their natural nurturing of a mutual, affectionate bond and communication” (492). Mothers of autistic children

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experience various types of emotional distress, including depression. In Japan, in a social practice called kōen-debyū (debut at the park), a mother takes her child to a nearby park for the first time and introduces the child to the other children there.4 It is an initiation rite for the child to enter a social network and begin to acquire interpersonal skills. As a friend of mine recalls, this social occasion can be a punishing experience for those with autistic children. For these reasons, as Ku and Bryce (2011) argue, the mothers’ voices should be more valued and integrated into the strategies for increasing the genuine and effective social inclusion of autistic children. These days, many mothers are writers of books about autism, at least in the United States, and other mothers, politicians, professionals, and the general community should be encouraged to speak up (Lilley 2011, 2). Therefore, I included Yamaguchi Kako’s 2016 manga, Can I Quit Being a Mom?, as the third manga to analyze in this chapter. As Marshall and Long (2010) point out, “few disorders in children pose a greater threat to the psychosocial well-being of parents than autism” (105). Other studies have documented real-life cases of such distressed families (e.g., Tarakeshwar and Pargament 2001; Benson 2010; Catalano et al. 2018). At school and in the community, families of children with autism are often alienated by other families with typically developing children, and constant arguments and fights within the home may even lead to divorce. Ban Ki-moon, the then secretary general of the United Nations, said on World Autism Awareness Day in 2010 that families with autistic children suffer “a double burden”—the daily challenges brought by their child’s disability and the unfriendly attitudes and discrimination of society, coupled with insufficient support for the child’s and the family’s needs. Even if families are fully aware that their involvement is the most critical factor in support of their children, they become easily overwhelmed from the chronic stress, anxiety, and worries of caring for their children, who often seem to be unaffectionate. As Ku and Bryce (2011) point out, the early years of parenting are especially stressful, and that is when most families begin to search desperately for the right diagnosis and treatment. This is also when they are extremely sensitive about how other people react to their child’s condition, which “leads to significant lowering of their selfesteem” (Ku and Bryce 2011, 493).5 Because of this immense impact on family life, I elected Tobe Keiko’s manga Hikari to tomoni (With the Light) for analysis in this chapter.

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Case Study 1: Ousaka Mieko’s Pro-chichi

Pro-chichi is a four-volume manga created by Ousaka Mieko about an unorthodox hero—a stay-at-home father, Nao—who has AS. Ousaka revealed that although she has not been diagnosed yet, she has the “tendencies” of ASD. As a background for Nao’s AS, I will discuss how the invisibility of this disorder leads to discrimination while sharing the comments provided by the author in my interview. Pro-chichi is a made-up word, short for “professional chichi” (father), in reference to the protagonist, Tokuda Nao. Nao is an unemployed, stay-at-home father while his wife has returned to her

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publishing company after maternity leave. He had worked at an elite electronics company after graduating from college with the highest marks. Unlike his time in college, Nao did not fit into the office atmosphere. A series of interpersonal problems kept occurring, and Nao was eventually pushed by his boss to leave and find a workplace that fit him better. But word got around, and Nao was not able to get rehired. His wife, Kaho, on the other hand, was at the peak of her career as the editor of a star manga-ka. She made a good income and enjoyed her work. So after she gave birth to Taro, their only child, they decided that Nao would stay home to care for Taro while Kaho returned to work and became the family breadwinner. In the first episode, Nao is left alone with Taro and feels troubled because nothing goes as planned. He is unable to maintain the rigidly structured schedule for Taro’s feeding, changing, napping, and going out. He fears that his baby will die because he is “failing” at everything he is supposed to do as the parent of an infant. Just as Nao is about to have a meltdown, he recalls many incidents at his previous workplace. Behind his back, his coworkers had whispered that he was a weirdo and that there was something wrong with him. One of the workers had suspected Nao had a hattatsu shōgai (developmental disorder). Using that term, Nao searches the Internet with his right arm while holding the sleeping Taro in his left arm. He recalls the specific symptoms his coworkers listed: he swings back and forth sometimes; he avoids eye contact during conversation; he becomes obsessed with minor issues, which had disrupted his team at work, and so on. He also recalls that because he has difficulty recognizing faces, he does not even know his teammate greeting him in the street, inadvertently hurting the man’s feelings. In no time, Nao discovers that he has Asuperugā shōkōgun (Asperger’s syndrome). Fasulo (2015) points out that there are still many undiagnosed adults with AS who continue to feel uncomfortable. They need to “come out” and reintegrate into society before too much time is wasted in isolation and segregation. Fasulo (2015) believes that a diagnosis, even at a later stage of life, can give some relief because it would explain an individual’s current as well as lifelong behavioral issues. A fifty-three-year-old male with AS whom Fasulo interviewed said he is glad to finally know why he has always found the world so incomprehensible and that the diagnosis relieved him of his feelings of personal inadequacy.

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The manga-ka Ousaka, a self-proclaimed “Aspie,” points out that she has never been diagnosed with AS by a doctor and neither has her character, Nao. Ousaka feels she has found the right workplace—her own room, working as a manga-ka—where she does not have to deal with a situation like Nao’s. Besides AS, parenting is another aspect of her personal connection with this story. Unlike the infant Taro, her own son was already in junior high school when she was writing Pro-chichi. So Ousaka had to observe young people’s parenting styles. Another point of personal connection is Nao’s “outsider” status. The Japanese live in a collective society where, by and large, the majority rules, and there is strong peer pressure, and she hopes that things will change for the better for people like Nao. Iwanami (2017) reports that his AS patients with overseas experience found it “easier to live” outside Japan, citing Japanese culture’s overemphasis on kūki wo yomu (reading the atmosphere) in school and at work (224). In addition, Nao’s ikizurasa (hardship of life), a buzzword popularly used in the Japanese disability studies discourse, is exacerbated by initially appearing to be neurotypical. Pro-chichi depicts how easily his “failures” in social interaction are misidentified as arrogance, rudeness, or even lack of effort by those who do not understand AS, including his own mother.6 I will describe how the ikizurasa of many Aspies stems from the invisibility of their disorder.

Discussion: Invisibility of Autism Because able-bodied individuals rely on visible cues to identify others, the invisibility of AS poses a serious problem to those with the condition, whether diagnosed or undiagnosed, akin to people who are hard of hearing or have low vision. Alaniz (2011) asserts that too much emphasis on physical impairments skews our social awareness toward more visible disabilities, pushing aside invisible disabilities such as “Tourette’s Syndrome, deafness, epilepsy, depression,” and “especially autism” (515). AS tends to remain hidden and receives little or no public recognition. Compared to children with visible markers of difference such as prostheses and wheelchairs, autistics do not have identifiable physical impairments but fail to behave in socially expected ways; they are thus more likely to be seen as selfish (Ku and Bryce 2011).7 In the collective society of Japan, especially, insisting on a personality

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difference is tantamount to breaking the social code of conduct, and Japanese children with this relatively invisible disability are typically ostracized and bullied by the neurotypical (Bryce et al. 2014). Children with severe ASD are more identifiable than those with high-functioning ASD because of the recognizable characteristic of severely impaired speech and the noticeable behaviors of hand flapping and repetitive twirling. As the latter’s speech development is comparable, and they do not behave like Raymond in Rain Man, these children with mild ASD are almost indistinguishable from their neurotypical peers of the same age (Rozema 2015). Therefore, those who can “keep” their autism hidden until their moment of meltdown are more likely to come under scrutiny only upon the accidental exposure of their symptoms. Consequently, Aspies are more likely than those with severe autism to be judged as lazy, self-centered, or mannerless by able-bodied, neurotypical teachers and peers in school and bosses and coworkers at work. Albeit unintentional, it is a form of discrimination against the disabled (H. Hirose 2015; Ichikawa 2016; Iwanami 2017).

Case Study 2: Tobe Keiko’s With the Light: Raising an Autistic Child Hikari to tomoni, or With the Light: Raising an Autistic Child, is a manga story written and illustrated by Tobe Keiko and serialized in For Mrs. magazine from 2001 to 2010.8 The English version of the story was published by Yen Press in the United States in 2011 (Rozema 2015). Shtum: A Novel (2017) is the story of a father and his lowfunctioning son whose silence (shtum in Yiddish) signifies a profound form of interpersonal communication to him. It was written by Jem Lester, who also raises a son with autism. Similar to Shtum, Tobe’s manga, With the Light, presents a realistic account of family life with a child with autism and intellectual disability, devoid of the autistic savant myth that films like Rain Man have created. With the Light informs the reader of this largely neglected subgroup of autistics and how different Hikaru is from Nao, the character with AS in Pro-chichi. A new insight emerging from With the Light is the importance of the father’s understanding and involvement in raising an autistic child. The narrator of the story is Hikaru’s mother, Sachiko Azuma. Sachiko represents many mothers who are the main caregivers of

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children with disabilities in Japan. Japan is a society in which mental illness is still stigmatized (Horiguchi et al. 2014). With her husband, Masato, working long hours and coming home late, only Sachiko is left to look after Hikaru. As the child’s behavior grows uncontrollable, Masato’s mother blames Sachiko for poor mothering. Sachiko is left to combat the problems presented by Hikaru’s condition, receiving no help from her initially withdrawn husband, her disapproving motherin-law, and the unsympathetic mothers of nonautistic children in the playground. Each episode revolves around Sachiko’s handling of Hikaru’s reactions to the environment around him as she learns how

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to prevent his panic attacks. The readers of the magazine are typically mothers with young children who can relate to Hikaru’s school life. Those who are raising autistic children can place themselves in Sachiko’s shoes. The manga also educates the reader about the family’s concern regarding integration or special education. Sachiko agonizes over whether to send Hikaru to the local public school with neurotypical students or a special education program located far from home. Using different supporting characters, the manga also features related developmental disabilities, including ADHD and, toward the end, AS, along with the latest legislative changes in Japan pertaining to support systems for children with autism and newly implemented transportation regulations designed to assist people with disabilities. With the Light introduces Hikaru as a child having both jiheishō (autism) and chiteki-shōgai (intellectual disability). Focusing on social interactions in Hikaru’s life, the manga shows the significance of not only his family but also people in the community helping to overcome the wide-ranging hardships arising from his autism. Whether one has a good support system in both school and the community at large makes a huge difference in dealing with this disability. The manga correctly illustrates the precarious existence of devoted and well-trained teachers for children with autism in Japan. It shows the disastrous consequences when the right teacher is replaced by a poorly prepared teacher who is ignorant and unwilling to learn about this disability, leaving Sachiko in shock and distressed. The first part of the With the Light series was made into a television drama and broadcast in 2004. Ku and Bryce (2011) claim that this media representation effectively promoted social awareness of ASD. The first episode of With the Light opens with the entry of Masato and Sachiko Azuma’s first child, a baby boy, into this world with the beautiful morning light. Sachiko suggests Hikaru, meaning “light,” as his name.9 Masato, agrees, uttering innocently, “Azuma Hikaru sounds like the sunrise, symbolizing his eventual success in society.” She agrees, saying, “I will do my very best in raising him.” The world appears to be bright and hopeful for the baby and his parents on that day. All is fine with this middle-class family living on the outskirts of Tokyo until Sachiko finds something wrong with Hikaru. He refuses to be fed while being held, gets upset when hugged, and cries a lot at night. He is also unusually sensitive to light and sound, is delayed in

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potty training, and does not even look Sachiko in the eye. All of this completely exhausts Sachiko. Masato, an elite businessman with whom Sachiko worked and fell in love, is initially indifferent to her struggles, as his main focus is climbing up the company ladder. After long hours of work, he comes home exhausted and collapses into bed, leaving no time to listen to Sachiko’s problems. After multiple yet fruitless visits to pediatricians, Sachiko comes across the term hattatsu shōgai at a social welfare center and reads about it. Out of fear she immediately suppresses the information deep in her subconscious. A year later Sachiko returns to the center with Hikaru, where the child is finally diagnosed with autism by a child psychologist. At the center, the staff repeatedly tell Sachiko that Hikaru’s developmental problems have nothing to do with parenting styles. Sachiko hears what she desperately wanted to hear: it is not your fault. She cries with relief in front of the psychologist. Sachiko tells her mother about it, who provides emotional support and an offer to give her occasional breaks from childcare. However, her husband initially reacts negatively to Sachiko’s openness in informing their neighbors and friends about Hikaru’s diagnosis. He is angry when he comes home, and he yells at Sachiko. Hikaru responds with a panic attack. Outraged at her spouse’s lack of understanding and frustrated with her son’s reaction, Sachiko slaps the crying and kicking Hikaru and immediately regrets it. Masato says coldly, “You made him worse. Do something! You are his mother!” “And you are his father! Don’t leave everything up to me,” she retorts. Sachiko confronts Masato, pointing out that he is ashamed of Hikaru and his disability and runs away from his own responsibilities. Their argument turns volatile, and Sachiko leaves with Hikaru, going out into the cold night. The remainder of the story shows both Masato’s and Sachiko’s personal growth as mature and wise parents of an autistic child. They actively work with autism specialists and, whenever they have a chance, explain Hikaru’s disability to their friends and family members. There are, of course, some uncaring people no matter how much they try to seek their understanding. Time and time again, they run into neighbors, family members, and parents of Hikaru’s classmates who stubbornly stick to their own interpretation of his disability. Yet they slowly begin to spread awareness and nurture empathy from others. Each episode informs the reader about the characteristics shared by

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many children with low-functioning autism, including delayed speech development and the inability to regulate emotions, along with moments showing Hikaru’s sweetness and beautiful mind. Rozema (2015) states that social awareness of autism is quite different in Japan now as opposed to when this manga was published some fifteen years ago. But the reader can still appreciate reading about “all the hardships and joys of raising an autistic child” and learn its key message that “society must make efforts to understand, accommodate, and welcome individuals with disabilities” (67). Bryce et al. (2014) inform us that one of Tobe’s aims was for the reader to gradually and sympathetically build an understanding of autism by illustrating the average person’s perception of this disability and how he or she responds to the child with autism. She also aimed, they state, to promote perceptional and attitudinal changes toward disability in the public. Letcher (2010) believes that the character of Hikaru has helped dispel the myths and stereotypes about autism and that Tobe’s lifework is “a multipart, detailed, and moving account of a young couple who must cope with the realization that their infant son has autism” (114). He adds that it was a highly acclaimed manga series in Japan and so is its six-volume, English-language version abroad. VanBergeijk (2011) praises the unique combination of informational narrative and powerful imagery in this manga by claiming that “Tobe’s series on raising a child with autism simultaneously entertains and educates its readership” and that “Tobe draws her readers into the daily struggles and successes of the Azuma family in raising their son with autism” (382). Hacking (2009) finds this manga to be “one of the few fictional accounts that moves beyond stereotypical accounts of autistic people as inevitably having savant-like abilities” (quoted in Bryce et al. 2014, 6). Tobe based her manga on a real-life mother and child—Ms. Sato Kazumi and her son Aaru-kun (Kawasaki 2016). Kazumi recalls that Tobe’s goal was to help build a society in which upon hearing the word “autism,” everyone understands its meaning without explanation. Six years have passed since Tobe first met them at her son’s day care and had no clue what this disability was, and Aaru-kun has turned twenty-one years old. Having graduated from a high school for special education students, he began vocational training. He had cast his first vote the previous year. Regrettably, Tobe died unexpectedly in January 2010, leaving the series unfinished after Hikaru’s entrance

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into junior high school. One of her close friends, Kawasaki Mei, who is also a manga-ka, completed the drafts of two episodes Tobe had left and published them as the final installment, volume fifteen.

Case Study 3: Yamaguchi Kako’s Can I Quit Being a Mom?

Hahaoya yamete mo ii desu ka? (Can I Quit Being a Mom?) is Yamaguchi Kako’s autobiography, which was illustrated by manga-ka Nishikawa Taku. Its subtitle is Musume ga hattatsu shōgai to shindan sarete (After Having My Daughter Diagnosed with Autism). The story is based on

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the parenting experience of Yamaguchi Kako, the very mother who admitted she “abandoned” her autistic daughter. Kako did not have a nagging, judgmental mother-in-law like Sachiko’s fictional motherin-law of With the Light. Nor was her ex-husband an indifferent, workaholic father. Kako represents the majority of ordinary, utterly exhausted mothers who have been battling this relatively unknown mental disorder without a community support system. Kako is the narrator of this story. It opens on a steamy summer day when she is nine months pregnant. A hopeful mother-to-be, she aspires to form the traditional mom-dad-child happy family. She names the baby Takara (Treasure) thinking she is her treasure, the most precious thing on Earth. But her dream is shattered when she is unable to form a warm relationship with the newborn Takara, who does not respond to her mother like babies usually do. In the nomenclature of Takara, I also see the fukugo metonymy. As mentioned in chapter 1, this ancient trope of “the harbinger of good luck” associated with a disabled child is evoked in the finale. Kako confesses that although she had thought her dream was lost, her Aspie child was actually a treasure (hontō wa takara-mono wo azukatteitakoto) in her hands (Yamaguchi 2016, 203). Takara is not an unlovable child. She just has her own ways of expressing affection. The first word she utters is not “Moma” but denki (fluorescent light). She does not smile much and constantly cries. On top of her seeming lack of a bond with her mother, Takara becomes a little tyrant at home. For instance, she is obsessed with repetition and forces her mom to keep eating the snacks Takara offers her. If her mom refuses, saying she is completely full, Takara goes into an uncontrollable temper tantrum. She physically attacks Kako when things do not go the way her autism demands. Rife with unexpected and painful “lessons” like this, every day is nothing more than survival for both. But Kako is a loving and feisty mother. Without a strong support group and well-defined medical and welfare services for those with autism, she sets out on a lonely journey of finding “a cure” for Takara’s condition. However, after exhaustive efforts, including Internet searches and doctor visits, in the end she finds no miracle cure. She feels defeated and crestfallen. Every time she overhears other mothers proudly sharing mile markers of their children’s healthy development, she is reminded of her “failure.” She becomes depressed

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and contemplates oyako-shinjū (parent-child murder-suicide).10 A rift emerges in her marriage. She thinks, albeit wrongly, that the only way out is to escape all this; she falls victim to online dating. Afterward, her life falls apart quickly. Kako is a relatable figure, especially to those of us who are or have been similarly overwhelmed with the demands of care and isolation.11 The publication began as a comic book project arranged by Tokyo Bungei shunjū, a publishing company established by the famous novelist Kikuchi Kan that has published numerous award-winning works. The author decided to expose her “mistakes” by publishing them in the accessible comic format so that other mothers would pick the book up and learn from her errors. In the book, Kako reveals that her biggest failure was her inability to accept Takara’s autism. She encourages readers, presumably mothers and wives, to embrace a person’s disability as it is and avoid the defeatist mentality. Why is it that the mother, the primary caregiver in Japan’s current family structure, blames everything, including her child’s disability, on herself? To find the answer, let us view maternal parenting and disability in the context of the “refrigerator mother” myth.

Discussion: The Refrigerator Mother The US documentary Refrigerator Mothers (2002), by Kartemquin Educational Films, features five mothers who are caretakers of now-grown autistic children. The film shows how these women have cared for their sons and daughters, almost single-handedly, in spite of the label “refrigerator mother” ascribed to them in the 1960s and 1970s. The demands of caregiving often took a toll on their marriage and relationships with their other children. During that period in the United States, mothers were likely to be condemned for “causing” autism. Each mother’s story describes how they were unexpectedly put into the role of caring for an autistic child and tried to keep their head above water without support groups, let alone the autism community. These mothers’ self-doubts and struggles resemble those of Sachiko and Kako. The film also shows that each autistic child is different—some are more affectionate, others appear indifferent; some autistic behaviors are easier to contain, while others can be quite violent.

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According to Kriske (2004), due to Bruno Bettelheim’s widely circulated publications in the 1940s and 1950s in the United States, the onset of autism was attributed to the mother’s “cold” parenting style. Contrary to an often-stated misconception that it was proposed by Bettelheim as one of the theories of autism, Epstein (2014) explains that the term “refrigerator mother” was first used by Leo Kanner. He was an Austrian Jewish child psychiatrist who immigrated to the New World just like Bettelheim, although Kanner was the first to land in America and publish his writing about autism and the ice-box-mother theory (the original term for the refrigerator-mother theory). His work, together with that of Hans Asperger (after whom AS is named), provided the basis of autism theories and therapies at that time. However, of the three experts, it was “Bettelheim who gained the most widespread popularity and has had the most lasting impact” (Epstein 2014, 24). Bettelheim propagated the theory that autistic symptoms such as repetitive motion, social withdrawal, and emotional detachment are the child’s reaction to the mother’s cold, selfish, controlling demeanor. Grandin (2014) believes that both Kanner and Bettelheim mistook the cause for the effect: it was more likely that the mother responded to the child’s refusal of physical contact and emotional withdrawal by staying distant to avoid triggering panic attacks. Epstein (2014) argued that it was not simply mothers who were blamed for the disability; femininity was under attack in mid-twentieth-century North America. Regrettably, the archetype refrigerator mother was characterized as a woman feminine in body but masculine in soul, and that masculine part made her self-focused and independent but unable to nurture her offspring. A child psychologist and survivor of the Nazi concentration camps, Bruno Bettelheim was raised in a secular middle-class Jewish family in Austria and immigrated to the United States in 1939. In 1944 he became director of the Orthogenic School, a residential educational facility founded in 1915 on the property of the University of Chicago to rehabilitate “emotionally disturbed” children and adolescents with no intellectual disability. One of his first tasks was to significantly reorganize the school through enrollment policy by recruiting a certain set of students—mostly autistic children without visible physical disabilities. By replacing the students who had epilepsy or cerebral palsy with students who had autism, Bettelheim transformed the Orthogenic School into a place for a “fixable” population of young patients, at least in theory. Bettelheim’s aim was to rehabilitate the minds of these youths whose bodies seemed congruent with their “normal”

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counterparts (Garland-Thompson 1997). In Bettelheim’s mind, autism was a curable condition, and he transferred the “cause” from the child’s brain abnormality to the mother’s parenting. He believed that disorders, including madness, were transmitted via a matrilineal path (Epstein 2014) and were triggered by poor parenting (Pollack 1998). In the late-1970 discourses of both the mass media and the medical profession, the refrigerator-mother theory became a popular hypothesis about what caused autism (Singh 2015) and was quite influential in twentieth-century America (Bryce et al. 2014). Behind the curtains, however, the Orthogenic School was beset with allegations of physical and psychological abuse (Pollack 1998). In the end Bettelheim found neither a cure for autism nor a solution in maternal parenting. He committed suicide in 1990. j  j  j

Stories about autistic individuals have increased in recent years in the English-speaking world. For example, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon (2002) is a recent best-selling novel. In addition, the publishing industry has seen a boom in autobiographies by the very persons affected by the condition, including “autie-biographies,” memoirs written by autistic adults. In Japan, an increasing number of novels and graphic works featuring autistic characters are being published. Although Rozema (2015) states that to her knowledge With the Light is the only graphic novel series in Japan about autism, that is probably because these recent manga titles with the theme of ASD remain untranslated into English for the larger manga reading-community in the world. Several of these titles were written by insiders on the autistic spectrum, so individuals with the same diagnosis can relate to and empathize with the main characters. For example, those who are interested in reading about the authentic experience of a person with AS would find Okita Bakka’s works fascinating. As one of the manga editors I met through this project said to me, even though Okita is “not so good at drawing manga,” the editor values the legitimacy of a real-life story written by a person with autism more than her crude drawing style. Okita published Nitoro-chan (Little Nitoro) based on her childhood beset with trouble with classmates and teachers, Gaki no tameiki (Sighs of a Child) about her childhood and adolescent development cursed with autism, and Mainichi yarakashitemasu: Asuperuga de mangaka de (Making a Bad Break Every Day: I’m an Aspie Manga Artist), the

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subtitle of which is Asuperugā de manga-ka de (I’m an Aspie and Also a Manga-ka) and that showcases her own and other Aspies’ unique characteristics (Bakka 2011–2013, 2013a, 2013b). Ku and Bryce (2011) also recommend Komichi Moko’s Atashi kenkyū: Jiheishō supekutoramu Komichi Moko no baai (Self-Analysis), published in 2009 as material for the reader to understand autism. In Atashi kenkyū, the author Komichi, who is an Aspie herself, reflects upon her social interaction with others in order to explain the inner world of the autistic through illustrations. These series present the points of view of autistic individuals, who are quite often misunderstood by neurotypical peers as having “personality flaws.” This gives their peers the excuses needed to ostracize them at school and work. Another manga based on the real-life experience of autism is Kono hoshi no nukumori: Jiheishōji no mitsumeru sekai (This Planet’s Warmth: The Inner World of an Autistic Child, published in 1997). This manga was written and drawn by the manga-ka Sone Fumiko, based on Moriguchi Naomi’s (2014a, 2014b) autobiography about her life as an autistic child. Moriguchi states that she was inspired and motivated to write the memoir by reading Nobody Nowhere by Donna Williams (1998), an Australian woman with autism. Moriguchi is a high-functioning autistic. In her book, she describes the environment as a white sphere filled with floating, colorful circles; people, however, appear to her as objects—scary, shadowy things. Although Sone’s manga does not delve into the social issues associated with autism, she visually reconstructs her perception of the autistic world. Such personal descriptions of the autistic mind provide realistic images of the nonsavant, ordinary people with AS. Robert Rozema (2015), who has a son who was diagnosed with highfunctioning autism, claims that manga can serve as an educational tool for students with autism. As we have seen in the analysis of the manga titles selected for this chapter, many topics related to ASD—from parenting to guilt trips to fighting prejudice and misconceptions—transcend culture and are relatable to the readers of manga in English-speaking countries.12

CHAPTER 7

Gender Identity Disorder/Gender Dysphoria

Generally, gender is considered separate from biological sex.1 Drawing on the works of Green (2004) and Sears (2005), Grossman and D’Augelli (2007) define “gender” as “an umbrella term used to describe people whose self-identification or expression transgresses established gender categories or boundaries” (528). Traditionally, gender has been considered binary—male or female. This binary gender distinction is called genderism (or gender binarism). The LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender) community regards the belief that only two genders are legitimate as discriminatory.2 Genderism is parallel to sexism, which reinforces institutionalized authority and power over the female gender. The association between disability and gender is complex. As Margaret Price (2011) points out, their relationship is an uneasy one, and the very concept of disability is also in flux. The facts that disability itself is an unstable category and the semantics of gender continues to evolve further complicate the matter. Although prominent scholars of disability studies such as Allison Kafer (2013) and Robert McRuer (2006) have shown how queer studies is intertwined with disability studies, it is controversial to associate gender with the topic of disability, especially within North American transgender communities. As Spade (2003) argues, trans people’s rights should not depend upon medical diagnoses such as gender identity disorder (GID). Globally, trans people have charged that choosing the gender identity they desire is not a disability. For a long time, activists have been fighting to “depathologize” being trans by eliminating terms such as “GID” and wresting control of their lives from the medical establishment. GID is now an archaic medical term in the United States, replaced with the new term “gender dysphoria” to refer to the distress experienced by 128

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individuals whose biological sex assigned at birth is incongruent with their true gender identity.3 Furthermore, the World Health Organization (WHO) removed gender dysphoria from the category of mental illness in the 2018 draft of the International Classification of Diseases, or ICD-11. For culturally specific reasons, however, the trans community in Japan is not yet on board with the world trend. As Kafer (2013), Price (2011), and McRuer (2006) delineate, there are many shared issues between these two aspects of humanity. For instance, being trans is a condition frequently discriminated against, similar to the predicament of any disabled group. Just like deafness or blindness, gender nonconformity is a form of human diversity that has been stigmatized, and more public understanding is necessary. Typically, trans individuals keep their true gender identity secret—even from family members and close friends, making it even less conspicuous than deafness or Asperger’s syndrome—until they decide to “come out.” Thus, disclosure may be another shared issue. Trans people’s issues of access, stigma, and sterilization are very similar to those of many disability communities. Especially on the topic of public bathroom use, the issue of accessibility is where gender and disability crisscross.4 As Kafer (2013) argues, “Reading disability narrative alongside trans or genderqueer narratives makes this shared inaccessibility readily apparent” (219). She even suggests that working for bathroom access is a step to coalition building between queer and crip studies. Furthermore, some disabled people are simultaneously trans and genderqueer (157). To be clear, by introducing Japanese comic stories that feature gender nonconforming characters under the category of GID, I am in no way implying that transgenderism is an illness or endorsing the idea that the transgender body is “broken” and needs to be rehabilitated.5 In fact, the condition of being trans would require no special medical or legal treatment if society were not based on rigid binary genderism in the first place. Without framing anyone’s gender identity as a disability, I am attempting to explore the intersectionality between transgenderism and disability in this chapter. Three representative manga titles featuring sexual-minority protagonists will be examined. The first two titles, Double Happiness and To Go from “He” to “She,” are self-portrayals of alterity in the medium of manga. The third manga, Wandering Son, has recently become hugely popular in both Japan and US LGBT communities. As I analyze these titles, I will discuss the ostensibly pathological label of GID in Japanese cultural contexts more thoroughly. The term “trans person” (or “trans people/individuals”) will be

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used throughout to refer to people as well as comic characters who identify with the transgender population.

Case Study 1: Sugiyama Fumino’s Double Happiness

Drawn by Yorita Miyuki, Double Happiness (2007) is the manga adaptation of Sugiyama Fumino’s (2006) autobiography by the same name. An essay-style memoir about his own experience as a trans

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teenager, the book commences with the chapter title “Nyotai no kigurumi tsukete” (lit., In a Female Body Costume), which implies that Sugiyama, born biologically female, had to “wear” a female body like a costume over his true male gender identity. Sugiyama Fumino is one of the leading activists in promoting a better understanding of sexual minorities in Japan. I met him for an interview in his cozy, pub-style restaurant in Tokyo.6 Sugiyama was born the second daughter of the Sugiyama family in 1981 in the Ōkubo area of Shinjuku, Tokyo’s “most multiethnic” town, in his estimation. He remembers crying hard on the first day of kindergarten because, for the first time in his life, he had to put on a skirt to comply with the private school’s requirement that all attendees wear uniforms. In his memoir he writes, “Even in my little child’s brain, the skirt represented the female gender, and I resisted it.”7 His childhood memories are mostly about playing soccer or hide-and-seek with boys. The only time he recalls having played with girls is when he was brought into their princess-make-believe play, or ohimesama gokko, as a “prince.” Upon reflection, he had no conscious awareness of his biological sex as female in those days. Sugiyama attended an all-girl elementary school and endured putting on seirāfuku (the typical girls’ school uniform with a sailor suit top and a pleated skirt). Out of school, however, he dressed as a boy by wearing a T-shirt and short pants. Because of his boyish figure, his parents allowed him to wear boys’ attire on the Shichi-Go-San of November 15, the day of celebration for boys ages three and five and for girls three and seven in Japan. He held a vague hope that he would turn into a boy one day. His parents did not make an issue out of his desire to wear boys’ clothes, and everything was rather uneventful—until puberty. In the sixth grade, Sugiyama was forced to become reacquainted with his biological sex: his menstrual cycle began. He was so shocked and horrified at the occurrence that his mind went blank for a while. He believes this to be the most psychologically devastating day for FtM (female-to-male) trans people. One time, his period began unexpectedly, and he had no sanitary pads with him. He was mortified at having to buy menstrual pads while dressed in his regular boy’s clothes. Walking toward the cashier with the product, he pressed his cell phone to his ear and pretended to be talking to his sister or a female friend and buying them for her. The whole thing seems foolish to him

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now when he thinks about it, but at that time in his life it was an excruciating experience. Such humorous yet humiliating episodes of his days as a biological female are documented in Sugiyama’s autobiography Double Happiness (2006). Adapted into a gakuen mono manga (a genre of comic narrative centering around school life and teen romance, targeting young adult readers), the book is based on his experience as an adolescent with the biological condition seidōitsusei shōgai, a Japanese translation of GID. In the report compiled by his alma mater’s research center, Waseda Daigaku Sōgō Kenkyūjo (2014), Sugiyama reveals, “As for me, I needed surgery, not because I wanted to change, but because I wanted to be united with my true self (motoni modori takatta)” (32). He tried to avoid surgery at first but eventually chose to have his breasts removed in Thailand after traveling overseas alone and realizing that no matter the location, he could not escape the pain caused by the disparity between his body and his gender identity. When he saw himself in the mirror after the surgery, he felt that his body and his gender were finally aligned (motoni modotta). He no longer had to bind his breasts. “Oh, this is how living a normal life is (futsū ni ikiru),” he thought (36). That feeling was incredible, he added. When Sugiyama came out (with his book published in 2006), the low recognition rate of the term seidōitsusei shōgai by the general public indicated that people knew very little about trans people and associated them with workers in nightclubs in areas like Shinjuku Ni-chōme.8 Derogatory expressions used mainly for workers in the mizushōbai (lit., water business, a euphemism for bars and nightclubs), onabe (woman acting male), and nyū-hāhu (shemale) are still incorrectly applied to trans people by the media, as well as in regular conversation.9 Many trans people in Japan, Sugiyama emphasizes, desire to be disassociated with those terms due to negative connotations with the red-light district and use FtM (pronounced ehu-tī-emu in Japanese) and MtF (emu-tī-ehu) to refer to themselves in a more positive way (30). He adds that when celebrities such as Apple CEO Tim Cook come out—“power coming-out,” as he calls it—trans people are empowered because of the positive impact on the social status of LGBT communities in Japan. Thanks to celebrity activists such as Torai Masae, the presence of trans individuals is more visible in Japan now than decades ago. Torai

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is an FtM trans writer, and his 2000 publication Toransujendā no jidai: Sei dōitsusei shōgai no ima (The Age of Transgender: Gender Identity Disorder Today) includes a memoir about his FtM surgery in the United States. Torai is one of the earlier trans figures in Japan. His adolescent life was featured in an episode about a trans middle school student in 3-nen-B-gumi Kinpachi sensei (Mr. Kimpachi, Teacher of Class 3-B), a highly popular 1990s television drama series by the Tokyo Broadcasting System. After Torai came out, a number of trans people began to speak up for their gender identity under the protective umbrella of the newly identified medical term “GID.” These early identifiers, including Sugiyama Fumino, are considered the pioneers of Japan’s trans community. Torai popularized the idea that Japan is “far behind” in accepting and accommodating trans people and is “the most difficult” country to live in for trans individuals. Since then, the trans community has been “importing” progressive ideas from LGBTQ-friendly foreign countries to “underdeveloped” Japan. Next, I will elaborate on this social context in which transgenderism capitalized on the notion of disability to embark upon its campaign for equality and social awareness in Japan.

Discussion: Seidoˉitsusei shoˉgai in Japanese Sociocultural Contexts In Japan, the diagnosis of GID works to trans people’s advantage. Although there have been debates about whether seidōitsusei shōgai is a real shōgai (disorder), Japanese trans activists like Sugiyama Fumino personally think they have no choice but to call it a disorder, considering that many trans people desire surgery to reduce the “pain” they feel (Waseda Daigaku Sogo Kenkyūjo 2014, 30). What is the social and cultural background of the emotional pain, or, more specifically, ikizurasa (hardship of life), implied in his statement? First, calling it a “medical” condition helped legitimize trans people’s minority status based on gender identity. Years ago, being gender nonconforming was perceived as a transgression or perverseness; thus, having a disability “elevated” Japanese trans people’s perceived social rank (Sakura 2006). In 1998 in Japan, when the Ethics Committee of Saitama Medical University acknowledged seidōitsusei shōgai as a type of psychological disorder, this medical term entered the public discourse, and the public perception of this sexual minority group changed from objects of curiosity to objects of pity. Dale (2012) illustrates how, ironically, this “pathologizing” process

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helped legitimize trans people in Japan: because their gender identity was not a hobby or personal preference but a “disorder,” the public became more sympathetic to their assertions and concerns.10 Here, it is important to clarify that not all trans people feel their biological sex is incompatible with their gender identity, as Sugiyama felt, and get diagnosed with GID. In fact, only a fraction of trans people in Japan receive that diagnosis after meeting a series of medical criteria through psychiatric examinations (Sakura 2006). Because both “trans” and “GID” are frequently used interchangeably in the media, that perception creates an illusion in trans people that they must be diagnosed with GID or they will be labeled “transvestites” (Sakura 2006). According to Dale (2012) and McLelland (2011), many Japanese trans people prefer their condition not be labeled a mental disorder. They claim that Japan’s trans community has begun to disassociate from the pathologizing label of GID. Dale (2012) points out that in the United States, trans individuals usually identify themselves as “transgender man” or “trans man” and “transgender woman” or “trans woman” and began to use “transgender” to refer to themselves because of their assertion that being trans is who they are as human beings and not a condition to be “cured.”11 Dale adds that although the concept of being transgender was foreign to the Japanese, the term began to be commonly used in Japan during the 1990s. Unfortunately, he found more publications in Japanese with seidōitsusei shōgai (GID) titles than toransugendā (transgender), indicating, he thinks, that the former has established itself as the word of public discourse. Dale suggests that trans activists now work ardently on “depathologizing” the label for themselves, although he estimates that such a group is still small in number in Japan. Clearly, many people with GID in Japan, including Sugiyama and Hirasawa, whom I interviewed for this chapter, identify themselves as trans rather than by the clinical category shōgai (disability). These interviewees pointed out, however, that the real problem is that the term “transgender,” which is also used interchangeably with “transsexual,” is incorrectly extended to include crossdressers and gender benders (those with ambiguous gender expression). As mentioned earlier in this chapter, trans activists like Sugiyama try to rid themselves of the Shinjuku Ni-chōme trope. Second, before Saitama Medical University first treated trans people for GID, Japan already had a gender nonconforming subculture, represented by cross-dressing clubs and shops. In other words, trans people did not suddenly emerge; they have always been a part of the Japanese population. Yet

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their marked bodies are now being categorized as “disabled” by the medical field. Here, McLelland (2011) offers additional insights into the current public discourse of gender identity in Japan. First, he points out that transgenderism has always been a discernible part of Japanese theater arts such as kabuki and the Takarazuka Revue, as well as in nightclubs and bars in the postwar period (the 1950s and thereafter).12 Indeed, the public was exposed to the elements of cross-dressing, already integrated into the arts and the nightclub culture, before the establishment of the LGBTQ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer) community in Japan. K. Nakamura (2015) also foregrounds Japan’s embrace of gender fluidity with its history of the aforementioned kabuki theater performances in which onna-gata (female role) male actors are dressed as women, a tradition that dates back to the seventeenth century. The Takarazuka Revue, Nakamura adds, is another example. In this all-female theater performance dating back to 1913, the male roles are played by otoko-yaku (male role) female actors. Regarding cross-dressing and drag queens, Nakamura explains that “drag queens and other male-to-female (MtF) people have appeared in advertisements and on television since the ’90s” and remained hypervisible in the media “all throughout the ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s.” Here, it is important to recapitulate that transsexuality was not regarded as part of the ordinary, nonentertainment sphere of everyday life until the aforementioned activist Torai Masae publicly shared his experiences in the mid-1990s. His coming out focused public awareness “on the hardships faced by those whose gender identity and sexed bodies do not coincide” (148). This is a huge breakthrough in two contexts. One is the continuity established between transgenderism and ordinary citizens’ lives; the other is a fresh awareness of the presence of FtM trans people in Japan.13 Interestingly, in a newspaper interview, the manager of The Onnanoko Club (Girls’ Club), a cross-dressing bar in Shinjuku, Tokyo, says that he is very supportive of the media’s increasing interest in trans people but is also concerned about “the potential for cross-dressers to clash with transgender people” (Japan Times 2016a). Third, it is also a fact that the diagnostic label of GID is in practical use in Japan. A person qualifies for insurance and other assistance if medically proven to have a strong discontent with the gender assigned at birth. Furthermore, the social image of “eccentricity” has been altered to a medical status. K. Nakamura (2015) points out that in Japan, a country in which asserting one’s minority rights is not easy, the disability rights group has

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been one of the few successful minority groups. In addition, transsexuality “does not fall under the LGBTQ umbrella in Japan unlike in the US.” Instead of aligning themselves with the gay and lesbian community, many Japanese trans people began to frame their gender identity as a “disorder” in order to form their own representation in society. Thus, Nakamura claims, the label of people with GID was created as “an entirely new mi­ nority group in Japan.” With their medical legitimacy, Japanese trans people succeeded in asserting their rights to legally change their gender and receive acceptance in society, which Sugiyama admitted in the interview. As Nakamura points out, aligning oneself with the disability community made it easier to be accepted by family, friends, and employers, a decision often criticized by American counterparts. It is against this cultural backdrop that transsexuality has come to be framed as a disability in Japan. In the next section, I will introduce another memoir by a trans manga-ka who reveals more cultural constructs of intersexuality.

Case Study 2: Hirasawa Yuˉna’s To Go from “He” to “She” To Go from “He” to “She” is a 2016 comic book documenting the author’s sex reassignment surgery (SRS). The manga’s original Japanese title is Boku ga watashi ni narutameni, in which the word boku is the first person pronoun “I” used by a male, while watashi is “I” used by a female. This was Hirasawa’s debut manga, published approximately three years after she left her company and went through surgery in Thailand. To my surprise, the drawing of the heroine on the cover resembled the real Hirasawa, whom I met in an editor’s office inside the publishing company Kodansha’s huge building. She was an attractive, thirty-something MtF trans manga-ka, who greeted me with a smile. The first page of her manga introduces two key words, seidōitsusei shōgai (gender identity disorder) and seibetsu iwa (gender dysphoria) in parentheses.14 With no dramatic opening, the main character, who is the author herself, quietly explains what it means to live with a dysphoria resulting from a mismatch of one’s biological sex and psychological gender, suggesting that suicide may occur if the dysphoria is left untreated and becomes more severe. Hirasawa reveals that she decided to give the surgery a try as her last attempt to seriously tackle her dysphoria. All the episodes of the book derive directly from Hirasawa’s

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own experiences as an MtF trans person who underwent SRS and were drawn from her subjective point of view. In this regard, To Go from “He” to “She” is an autobiographical manga. As for why her manga came to be serialized in Kodansha’s Morning, a magazine targeting thirty- to sixty-year-old male readers, both Hirasawa and her editor offered three reasons. First, the magazine had published stories that dealt with serious social issues before, such as a manga by the popular manga artist Shōji Yoko (2006) about the very topic of GID. Second, the Shibuya Ward issued Japan’s first certificate for same-sex marriage in 2015, and LGBT issues became the talk of the town. Third, because Hirasawa had submitted another

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work to the same magazine, she knew an editor there. She came out to the editor as an MtF trans manga-ka and presented the draft of To Go from “He” to “She,” which was well received. So in 2016, the time was ripe for publishing her self-portrayal of gender transition. Although she was under pressure to finalize the story in two to three months, she regarded the whole experience as unexpectedly fortunate. Her editor, however, offered a broader perspective of the outcome: Because the magazine’s target readership is midcareer Japanese businessmen, this manga, the editor hoped, would “enlighten” the readers about transgenderism, a topic rather foreign to this particular generation of men in Japan. Perhaps it could help the work culture become more inclusive for trans employees in the future. I asked Hirasawa about her perspective on the label of seidōitsusei shōgai, which is the term also defined and frequently used in To Go from “He” to “She.” She said she has no aversion or affection for the term, although she is quite aware that many trans hate the shōgai (disability) part of seidōitsusei shōgai.15 She decided to use that term instead of sēbetsu iwa (gender dysphoria) because the public is more familiar with the phrase seidōitsusei shōgai. Some trans do support the use of seidōitsusei shōgai because it legitimizes society’s accommodation of people with GID as part of the disabled community. However, she emphasized that the label per se does not alter the traditional work culture of Japan nor does it make society more inclusive toward trans people.

Discussion: Being Trans in Japan Both Double Happiness and To Go from “He” to “She” tell the real-life experiences of trans individuals, with the former featuring the FtM transition and the latter, the MtF path. These manga titles differ from the based-on-a-truestory type, such as Your Hands Are Whispering and Perfect World, in that the storyteller has direct experience with this variant biological condition. The common theme that emerged from my interviews with Sugiyama and Hirasawa is that many trans people feel that it is hard to lead a normal life in Japan. It is not because of their disorder but because of the rigid societal view of gender as a binary, either-male-or-female categorization, instead of something multifaceted and fluid. If we apply the social model of disability to the case of being trans, this sexual minority group is indeed

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“disabled” by the way our society is structured. In this regard, trans people are a socially “disabled” group. Here, it is important for the reader to understand that trans people do not have a physical impairment or mental illness. As Wilkerson (2012) clarifies, being transgender is not a “motor, sensory, psychiatric, or cognitive impairment” (185).16 Rather, we must focus on the fact that they go through hardship because of who they are. Unlike poverty or a temporary illness, our sexual identity is not something we are “healed” from or “grow out” of. Therefore, unless we change society’s perceptions and attitudes toward them, the sexual minority will remain condemned to social ghettohood, just like women and racial minority groups of the past. With this point clear, I will share the Japanese trans voices represented by Sugiyama and Hirasawa from our interviews. I will also describe how each author came to disclose personal, rather painful experiences with the public through his and her work, respectively. Sugiyama informed me that the motive behind publishing Double Happiness (2006) was to clear up the misconception that so-called sexual minority people are those who work in nightclubs. He chose a catchy title and wrote in an approachable manner to attract readers who are not interested in trans people. He wanted the most uninformed to come to know him and his peers. He was contemplating how to market his book to a wider audience when the publisher Kodansha asked him to consider the “comicalization” (adaptation for manga) of his story. At first he hesitated because he did not want it to be made “comic” or ridiculed. But he was asked to meet with the manga-ka Yorita Miyuki, who was very interested in his story, before dismissing the offer entirely. He and the artist hit it off, and the rest is history. He also liked the idea that manga is a media outlet many people find approachable. Furthermore, Dessert, the magazine in which Yorita’s manga would appear, sells twenty thousand copies each month. He was also pleased that Yorita approached the theme seriously and frequently checked with Sugiyama to ensure that her style suited his taste. Hirasawa’s reason for publicizing her personal life is different from that of Sugiyama. She was about to make her debut as a manga-ka and needed material for a story. As with many people who undergo SRS, she kept a detailed journal documenting her experience. That journal became the foundation for To Go from “He” to “She.” Although she had no audacious wish to enlighten nontrans readers and only wanted to use the material as an experiment, she made sure the portrayal of herself was not offensive or

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insulting to trans individuals. She was particularly careful in her use of humor to avoid inadvertently hurting their feelings. Hirasawa hopes that her manga will help society become more tolerant of trans adults, especially in the workplace, as employment is an ongoing problem for this minority group. Although the Japanese in general are supportive of trans people on the surface, they are more resistant when it comes to changing the work culture and hiring practices to accommodate them. Because Japanese culture puts so much emphasis on one’s sekinin (responsibility), people are afraid of ending up with extra responsibility if they dare to change the status quo; thus, they become hesitant with a new approach, especially when there are no precedents. That sort of fear prevents the work culture from becoming more LGBT-friendly. The legal changes that enforce accommodations for trans employees are helpful only insofar as they lead to penalties. The practices that are discriminatory but not penalized by law are hard to change, in her opinion, because a sense of justice and heroism are still foreign concepts to the Japanese culture. People choose to be fair to others because the law requires them to be, not because they believe in the cause. At this point, her editor pitched in, offering her own view: It depends on the particular workplace. In the publishing industry, there is much more leniency toward employees whose ethnicity and sexuality are not mainstream. Admitting the variations, Hirasawa added that she was referring to the culture of the elite, traditional trade company where she used to work as a male employee. Profitable and internationally minded companies with a sensibility toward social welfare like Softbank are more accommodating. Here it should be reiterated that neither Sugiyama nor Hirawasa call themselves shōgai-sha, or disabled persons; they regard themselves as simply trans.17 Sugiyama has no qualms about the label seidōitsusei shōgai. In fact, the framing of transgenderism as a “disability” helped his LGBT activism gain support from others. Sometimes, he said, trans activists have an advantage over the other LGBT groups; for instance, school officials welcome lectures on trans rather than homosexual issues because they view the former as a “medical” condition and the latter as a “bedroom” topic. However, their association with disability has led to an unintended rift between trans and nontrans individuals. And, no matter how it is framed, much effort is needed to obviate a generation gap in the public’s understanding of transgenderism in Japan. Even though Japanese who have longer overseas experience are more likely to be familiar with LGBT issues and possess a better understanding of trans employees and coworkers, they are still a small

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portion of the population. In the future, Sugiyama wants to see Tokyo become a more diverse and accommodating place for everyone regardless of gender, race, and ethnicity. There have been positive legislative changes in Japan. In 1998, gender reassignment surgery was legally permitted in the nation for those medically diagnosed with GID.18 The GID Act (formally, the Act on Special Cases in Handling Gender for People with Gender Identity Disorder, or Seidōitsusē Shōgai no Seibetsu no Tori-atsukai no Tokurei ni Kansuru Hō) was passed by the Diet in 2003 and was officially enforced in July 2004. Since then, trans individuals who have completed the surgery are legally allowed to change their sex identification on their family registry, although its change comes with unfair restrictions.19 In May 2016 the political party Minshin-tō submitted a proposal for LGBT Sabetsukaishō-hō, or the Act Preventing Discrimination against LGBT Individuals.20 We have yet to see whether the proposal results in any legislative changes. Compared to Holland, which legalized same-sex marriage in 2000—the first country in the world to do so—Sugiyama feels that Japan is still very much behind, although it is progressive compared to more than eighty countries among the United Nations members, some of which even execute homosexual and trans people (Waseda Daigaku Sōgo Kenkyūjo 2014, 42). Mackie (2008) points out that because transgenderism manifests in a variety of ways, some prefer to make gender transformations, others choose not to undergo surgery, and others only adjust their dress and speech to conform to their desired gender. However, she stresses that many trans individuals share similar difficulties, such as obtaining stable, full-time employment. Because of Japan’s unique family registration system, one family member’s legal change of gender affects the rest of the family, as everyone is listed based on sex and birth order (e.g., an FtM individual may replace his younger brother for the title of chōnan, or eldest son, along with all prerogatives given to the eldest male offspring). It is not just at school and in the workplace but also in the media that trans people’s social participation becomes precarious. For example, the popular media is still a place where “gender variant individuals are treated as curiosities or made visible for their supposed entertainment value” despite more serious treatment by some television dramas and publications (Mackie 2008). Statistically speaking, Japanese trans individuals are said to be more likely targets for violence and to have a higher rate of suicidal ideation than their nontrans counterparts. In 2014 the Ministry of Education, Culture,

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Sports, Science and Technology (Monbukagakushō) announced the results of surveys of the current situations of transgender children conducted in various schools in Japan. Since then, some schools have begun to provide a more inclusive culture for trans students by allowing them to wear the uniform and use the bathroom of their identified gender, but they continue to face physical assaults and experience depression and mental illnesses (e.g., Lubbers 2015). Yakushiji offers more statistics on Japan’s LGBT community (Waseda Daigaku Sōgo Kenkyūjo 2014). For example, he states that according to a survey by Dentsu Sōken (2014), out of seventy thousand Japanese respondents, 5.6 percent identified themselves as LGBT individuals. That is one out of seventeen people in Japan. A different survey, conducted by the National Education Policy Center, shows a slightly different number: out of one hundred school-age students, 7.6 percent, or one out of thirteen respondents, identify themselves as LGBT. In a 2013 survey titled Inochi Risupeckuto (Respect for Life), conducted by the White Ribbon Campaign, 68 percent of those LGBT-identified respondents experienced bullying and violence while in school; of these, 20 percent reported that their teachers were the oppressors. Furthermore, their bullying experiences peaked between the upper grades in elementary school and high school, a so-called shushin-ki (time of pubescence). Specifically focusing on those diagnosed with GID in Japan, the survey yielded that 29 percent had experienced futōkō (truancy), 28 percent had engaged in self-cutting and had attempted suicide (but not successfully), and 69 percent had some degree of suicide ideation. Therefore, Yakushiji urges educators to discuss the topic of transgenderism and GID more openly in school. Compared with other psychiatric disorders, the population of people diagnosed with GID is still considered small—fewer than 0.1 percent in Japan, and FtM cases are higher in number even though penis reconstruction surgery is not as widely available as vaginoplasty in Japan (Okabe et al. 2008). However, the statistics of gender identity are rapidly changing as more people feel it is “safe” to come out. For example, contrary to the previous estimate of about 4 to 5 percent of the Japanese population, in a 2015 survey conducted by the Dentsu Diversity Lab of seventy thousand men and women ages twenty to fifty-nine, 7.6 percent of the Japanese surveyed identified themselves as LGBT. The Japanese Society of Psychiatry and Neurology recently reported that the number of Japanese who have received GID-related care totaled twenty-two thousand as of 2015, pointing to a 50 percent annual increase, or seven thousand patients per year, in three years

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(Nihon Keizai Shinbun 2017b). The group cites the enhanced public awareness of this “disability” (the term actually used in the newspaper) as the main reason for the increase. In this report, FtM cases (14,747) outnumbered MtF cases (7,688). However, the report also added that the number may be understated, as a team of professors in Hokkaido offered a higher estimate of forty-six thousand people with GID in 2013. Despite the “enhanced” awareness, the research on the psychological state of trans individuals still paints a somber picture. According to Terada and his team (2011), who were treating 500 patients (MtF, 189; FtM, 311) at the GID Clinic at Okayama University Hospital, the suicidal ideation of their patients (MtF, 75 percent; FtM, 70 percent) was widespread, as was their engagement in self-mutilation, including suicide attempts (both MtF and FtM, 32 percent). The team also found that the patient’s educational level is one of the indicators of suicide and self-mutilation: GID patients with a low level of education are more likely to use self-mutilation as a coping mechanism. Another indicator turned out to be age: younger age, combined with an earlier stage of therapy, leads to a higher rate of suicidal ideation, especially among MtF patients.21 This is the social, cultural, and historical background that has made Japan hesitant about following the world’s trend of demedicalizing transgenderism. In the next section, I will introduce and analyze a manga representation of genderqueer identity as the last case study of gender nonconformity in Japan. The manga to be introduced is not only very popular but is also quite significant from a queer studies point of view because, as Sugiyama argues (Waseda Daigaku Sōgo Kenkyūjo 2014), school-age LGBT children in Japan have no role models to grow up with and seek advice from.22

Case Study 3: Shimura Takako’s Wandering Son The manga-ka Shimura Takako does not explicitly use the term “transgender” in this manga. However, because the protagonist of Wandering Son (Hōrō musuko), Nitori Shūichi, is an elementary school boy who desires to dress like a girl, the manga has been embraced by the LGBT community in both Japan and in the United States. The story was serialized from 2002 to 2013 in Comic Beam, a monthly magazine of seinen manga published by Enterbrain (a branch of Kadokawa) and later as a fifteen-volume comic book series. Wandering Son was selected

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as the “recommended work” at the Japan Media Arts Festival in 2009. Prior to this manga, Shimura wrote The Blue Flower (Aoi hana), about lesbian high school friends and their postgraduation years. In Wandering Son, Shūichi was born male but secretly wishes to wear his older sister’s clothes, while Takatsuki Yoshino is a girl who strongly identifies with the male gender and actually dresses like a boy. The main themes of this manga are puberty and gender identity. Their stories span the time from their days in elementary school until their senior year in high school. The major difference between this manga and the previously introduced titles is that Shimura’s Wandering

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Son deals with the issue of gender identity as gender fluidity rather than by the divisive categories of male, female, and transgender. Instead of presenting Shūichi and Yoshino as MtF and FtM trans children (and later, adolescents), the author draws them more like a pair consisting of a feminine boy and a tomboyish girl. Shūichi is shy, likes girlish clothes, and has the demeanor of a cute little sister who blushes a lot. Although Yoshino confesses she strongly wishes to become a boy early in the story, Shūichi is not that articulate about his gender identity until he enters middle school. Furthermore, he never sees his biological sex as something to fix or his cross-gender desire as any form of disorder. Unlike Fumino’s strong aversion to her developmental changes such as menstruation and breast growth in Double Happiness, Shūichi expresses more nuanced concerns about voice change and becoming muscular at the onset of puberty in Wandering Son. Unlike the previous two manga titles discussed in this chapter, no reference to seidōitsusei shōgai is made, and no hormone injections or SRS is discussed. Shūichi and Yoshino have supportive families and are never bullied or ostracized by their classmates; in fact, their friendship is enriched by two other close friends, Chiba Saori and Sasa Kanako, who seem to be cis girls.23 It is Chiba who encourages Shūichi to embrace his secret desire and try her clothes on. She is rather aloof but is always a steadfast defender of Shūichi’s effeminate, or “sissy,” personality. Their unorthodox yearning for cross-dressing is presented as just a type of gender identity, and the cisgender and genderqueer characters form a long-term friendship. The story ends with Shūichi moving out of his parents’ home to live independently. This may disappoint some readers because we do not learn how he survives in the harsh world of adulthood. However, Shūichi seems to stop “wandering” as he finally confronts his unwavering desire to be female by writing an autobiographical novel in the finale.

Discussion: Genderqueer Characters Shimura’s Wandering Son is a manga that humanizes genderqueer identity and can serve as a perfect introductory graphic novel that sheds light on the fluidity of gender during adolescence. The term “genderqueer” is used to describe individuals who feel their gender identity does not fit into the socially

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ascribed heterosexual binary norms. It refers to an identity that falls somewhere on the spectrum of all gender identities. Thus, a genderqueer is a person who identifies with neither of the conventional gender distinctions. Under the transgender umbrella, this term is also increasingly preferred as a self-reference by many newer-generation trans individuals in the Western LGBTQ communities.24 That Japan’s equivalent, LGBT, lacks the Q (queer) component indicates that the genderqueer population in Japan is the demographic least properly understood by the general public. Thus, youths who are questioning their sexual identity like Shūichi—Wandering Son’s young male protagonist overtaken by his strong desire to dress as a girl—need to be better represented in the media. Any school-age reader will be able to identify with both the gender conforming and nonconforming school-age characters because of the manga’s focus on their shared anxiety and concerns about going through puberty, a period of heightened awareness about one’s own gender and identity. I find it especially interesting that the series ran in a seinen manga magazine that targets young adult male readers. Issues related to queering adolescents are embedded as part of the whole saga of growing up in a collective society where conformity is more valued than individualism. Although this manga does not “educate” the reader about specific genderqueer issues, one thing making the title outstanding is that cross-dressing is not treated as a comic release, as seen in many manga stories for male readership, but as a serious attempt to search for gender identity. One drawback of Wandering Son, however, is the comic’s more-thannecessary emphasis on a pleasing appearance. As Lubbers (2015) pointed out, the manga cast “beauty standards as inherently valuable” and is less critical about “the concept of ‘passing’ itself,” considering that “‘passing’ is a highly toxic and harmful idea” (n.p.). He hopes to see more manga titles that portray genderqueer people who do not necessarily pass but are leading happy and whole lives nonetheless. Furthermore, because Shūichi’s close friend Taka­ tsuki Yoshino begins to identify more with her biological gender, the reader may not find the finale of Wandering Son an empowering and affirmative episode for LGBTQ youths. Yet, in my opinion, this is precisely what makes this title unique and noteworthy: it is a rare work of art that undermines the fixed idea of gender, portraying maleness and femaleness not as permanent but rather as “evolving” ideas. In other words, it is okay to “wander off” the socially fixed binary opposition of gender and sex, as put by Zanini and Solano

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(2015). It is healthy and normal to find ourselves switching between gender realms like Yoshino (Zanini and Solano 2015, 18). The author never has Shūichi say in words that he wants to be a biological girl until the end. During his adolescence, Shūichi at first identifies himself as a boy who likes cross-dressing and loves his girlfriend. However, when writing the autobiographical novel, he fantasizes about kissing his girlfriend, Anna, while both are in sexy women’s underwear. (Because this is a comic targeting young male readers, this is the most graphic scene in this manga.) Yet in the final scene, Shūichi, wearing a cheerleader costume, confesses to his girlfriend, “Anna-chan, I want to become a girl.” Anna replies, “Does it make me a lesbian, I wonder.” Shūichi just blushes. Anna kisses him, presumably approving of Shūichi’s desire. One may suspect that Shūichi’s unorthodox sexuality was used as the narrative prosthesis. Similar to the way in which love with an obstacle to overcome may be considered somehow purer than an ordinary, uncontested relationship, this “forbidden” love between the teenagers Anna and Shūichi may appear more genuine and irreplaceable than ordinary male and female love to some readers, as discussed in chapters 3 through 5. In a society that tends to regard gender in a male-female binary outside of the entertainment industry, characters with variations such as androgyny, cross-dressing, hermaphroditism, and homosexuality are more likely to be cast as elements of “oddity.” As Lubbers (2015) argues, such manga characters are typically portrayed as nonstandard or abnormal, and their gender-sex mismatch is treated as a problem to fix as part of the “corruption” narrative, reinforcing the stereotypes of genderism (e.g., Stop!! Hibari-kun!).25 In this regard, I believe that Wandering Son stands out by “normalizing” the lives of genderqueer adolescents. j  j  j

Trans and genderqueer people in Japan face unique issues from a sociocultural perspective. Will an increased number of LGBTQ manga titles in the market help create a more inclusive atmosphere in society? I strongly believe so, even if the positive (nonvillain) and serious (nonsupercrip) representation of trans characters has just commenced. Unfortunately, however, there remain the manga titles that use trans characters to reinforce the hegemonic view of genderism, perpetuating cisgender biases and discriminatory views toward trans figures. The current situation, therefore, is like

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adding ice cubes to a hot beverage: it does not completely chill the old force of pathologizing gender-variant identities. Lubbers (2015) also argues that while trans manga humanizes the nontraditional character in general, many of them still frame the trans character as something foreign or unnatural. We can say, at least, that there is a light at the end of the tunnel; in recent years, the number of manga titles featuring ordinary trans characters has increased, which alters the image of LGBTQ people from that of nightclub entertainers to just-like-you-and-me figures. As Hirasawa’s editor stated during the interview, I strongly believe that manga will contribute to making school and work culture more inclusive for those who are traditionally considered the Other in a society like Japan with strong pressure to conform. The current time may be the zenith of trans/genderqueer manga. However, quality maintenance also requires critical reviewers of manga, like Ito Kimio (2008), to discern embedded biases toward any minority group, which are often undetected and perpetuated by insiders in the manga industry. Beyond the three selected manga titles’ potential benefits, let us now explore troublesome aspects of the two key concepts—abnormality and disability—to conclude this chapter. First, what does it mean to be normal or abnormal? As mentioned earlier, the Japanese law passed in 2003 allowing for a gender change in the family registry first requires a psychiatrist’s diagnosis of GID. The reasoning behind this is that, legally, seibetsu-tekigō shujutsu (SRS) “produces” new individuals in the registry. Regardless, officially accepting that we are “disabled,” not a “transgressor,” gives us only a false sense of security. Why do we have to depart our able-bodied status to cross over the heterosexual gender binary? Will we be tied to transgression or perversion if we refuse a diagnosis of the disorder? Why do we have to become physically “abnormal” in order to maintain the “normal” status of our gender identity? Is it not the societal expectation of either “manly” or “womanly” that is abnormal? Other specific questions have also been raised. For example, is SRS still necessary if our society abandons rigid genderism based on genitals? Also, to what extent is SRS different from breast augmentation? If SRS can be categorized as a type of “cosmetic” surgery like breast augmentation, we do not need a diagnosis of disorder, do we? Historically, homosexuality was considered a mental disorder by the WHO in 1975. After years of activism, it was removed from the WHO’s categories of disabilities in 1990, and in Japan, the Society of Japanese

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Psychiatrists determined that it was no longer a disorder in 1995. Ironically, the history of transgenderism went in the opposite direction because of its legal tie to the medical treatment that many trans people desire or need, such as hormone therapy and gender change surgery. Hormone therapy is necessary or desirable because it helps the person’s outlook change dramatically. Similarly, SRS is chosen because it is the only way to change the person’s genitals to those of the desired gender. Both help resolve the person’s dysphoria with her or his body through a collaborative doctor-patient alliance. There is a positive aspect of this medicalization. However, in this tight liaison, certified psychiatrists are endowed with a high degree of authority in decision making, thus positioning them as “the gatekeeper.” Why should they play the sheer role of the gatekeeper for those whose bodies are at stake? Where is the agency of trans people themselves in this heavy reliance on the medical field?26 Second, what does “disability” really mean? Some people fear that selfassociation with the word “disability” may “taint” or “lower” their social status and protest, “We are anything but disabled people.” Let us be honest. To identify with “disabled” persons can be stigmatizing, and we often stereotype one another in attempting to normalize our own social identities. Thus, we try to steer away from any negatively marked category, especially if we are already being discriminated against due to our own gender identity or any special trait. However, this “anything but” (nanka dewa nai) has a connotation of ableism (Sakura 2006). Before criticizing the use of the “disability” label, we need to self-examine our own internal prejudice that enables us to denigrate people with disabilities. The social model of disability emphasizes that we are not obstacles to society but are made “disabled” by environmental obstacles, such as a wheelchair user faced with a set of stairs. Let us recall that to make our society barrier-free is to remove such obstacles. Then, rather than claiming one’s difference from those “really disabled” or debating whether a certain condition is a disability or not, we need to focus on challenging the very discrimination and stigma attached to the label of disability itself.

Afterword

My physical therapist asked what I had been doing prior to the time I began to feel a nagging pain in my leg. I told her I had sat and typed at the computer for hours each day for months on end. “I tried to take short breaks in between, but sometimes I was so engrossed in my writing that I forgot to stop and walk around,” I added. During my fellowship in 2017, besides occasional outings for interviewing and library search, I had sequestered myself in a tiny apartment in Tokyo to write this manuscript. Working intensively for five months, perhaps leaning slightly to my left side unconsciously, I must have damaged the nerves in my lower body. Although the first draft of the manuscript was completed as a result of my frenzied commitment, my left leg began to ache by the time I went back home to Hawai‘i. I could neither run daily, as I used to do, nor shake off the pain by resting. And so I started a month of physical therapy. As I was climbing onto the treatment table, the therapist asked what my book was about. I blurted out, “Disability.” With a hint of irony, she asked, “So you injured yourself while writing a book about disability?” I answered yes while lying helplessly on the treatment table. But that answer haunted me for days with the question: Why did I not say manga? This book is not simply about disability; it is also about manga. Why, then, did I avoid saying the word “manga”? Upon reflection, I was slightly embarrassed, as an academic scholar, to admit that I had labored over pop culture material to the detriment of my own health. Subconsciously, I was treating manga as an illegitimate child of sorts, a somewhat unworthy subject in academia. That was a mind-boggling realization. In the introduction, I argued that manga can serve as an agent of social change and can challenge the reader’s preconception of normalcy and bias toward people with 150

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disabilities. I stated that if carefully selected, manga’s portrayal of disabled characters can educate us about disability from the position of a nonconformist, reframing disability in an unorthodox point of view. Why, then, did I feel embarrassed about manga? To answer the question, I need to return to the rather unsavory past of mass media’s treatment of people with disabilities. In chapter 1, I showed how the supercrip in US comics serves as a new form of enfreakment, obscuring the lived reality of the disabled. In chapter 2, expanding upon the issue of media representations of people with disabilities, I examined how media studies and disability studies scholars have critically reviewed the media portrayal of the disabled. I highlighted the representations of nontraditional biological distinctions in mass media that were common in past decades and how they reinforced ableism in society and negatively influenced our understanding of human diversity. By presenting previous studies’ findings, I argued that modern-day narratives rarely represent disabled people’s viewpoints. In other words, the media’s portrayal of disability has been embarrassingly problematic. As I point out in this book, particularly in chapter 2, there are still stereotypical portrayals of disability in popular culture, not only in the United States but also in Japan. McGrail and Rieger (2014) found it is still not uncommon to draw disabled characters as “pitiable” figures in US comics. Stuttering, for instance, is typically associated with nervous, unheroic, or villainous personalities in popular media. Several previous studies reviewed by McGrail and Rieger (2014) reported that negative stereotypes of impairments are used as objects of amusement at the expense of disabled characters. McGrail and Rieger surveyed fifty-two books and found that twenty-eight of those had humorous scenes involving characters with disabilities ranging from visual impairment to attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). Elliott and Byrd (1989) understand that media influence our attitudes toward a variety of social issues. Young consumers of mass media, in particular, absorb these negative attitudes from the environment, a process Elliott and Byrd call “observational learning,” which affects their belief system and emotional and behavioral reactions toward disabled people in real life. In telethons, disabled people continue to be portrayed as leading “hopeless” lives. In comics, characters with disabilities are either heroes or villains and are rarely neutral. Across mass media, disabled people are presented predominantly with the negative signifiers of anxiety, pity, segregation, and rejection, and this influences attitudes toward a variety of

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social issues. As Elliott and Byrd (1989) pointed out, the inaccurate depiction in television shows of how disabled people live hampers interaction between them and the able-bodied and becomes a deterrent to disabled individuals’ efforts to rehabilitate successfully; by contrast, if the media material is used in a proper, strategic manner, it is quite possible to alter viewers’ negative attitudes toward disability. Today, there is a much greater awareness of the media portrayal of disability than existed a decade ago. The established mainstream media are, to some extent, more cognizant that presenting people with disabilities in the frame of “inspirational” or “uplifting” stories is, in fact, quite patronizing (Ellis and Goggin 2015). Having analyzed fifteen manga titles published between the 1990s and the present in Japan and interviewed manga-ka and their editors’ sensitive treatment of the subject matter, I can attest to the current manga industry’s heightened awareness about their troublesome past. This parallels Ellis and Goggin’s observation of Western media. At this point in time, it is encouraging to see portrayals of disabled characters from all demographics, as seen in the fifteen manga titles. Equally invigorating is the fact that, owing to the popularity and outreach of those manga’s entertaining yet realistic representations of people traditionally considered the Other, disability issues have been gaining more media exposure in Japan.1 How disability should be represented in manga is still a point of contention, however. As I have argued throughout this book, the supercrip model represented by a sword-fighting blind masseur or a shoot-from-the-hip, deaf gangster is very entertaining but does little to advocate the critical needs of this particular minority group. To rehash, more portrayals of disabled characters in their ordinary encounters with neighbors, classmates, or coworkers are necessary in manga so that able-bodied readers will learn about the lives of those with disabilities and perhaps realize their latent prejudices. Such enlightening reading experiences help to build a more inclusive society for all of us.

So What, Then? I have reiterated that visual portrayals of the disabled can strongly influence cultural constructions of disability in public discourse and that manga can be agents of social change. Now, I will attempt to envision the future direction of manga in ensuring the portrayal of disability with accuracy and authenticity in the media. This book ends with some suggestions to readers

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about how it and the popular medium of manga can help to increase the awareness of disability and promote diversity and inclusiveness. Research has anecdotally reported that manga has been one of the most influential forms of media on many readers. Yet the connection between manga reading and a reader’s character development or life-altering decision making has not been empirically investigated (e.g., Ieshima 2007; Tamata 2010; Takahashi and Hashimoto 2011). In the future, we need to see high-quality investigations that explore manga’s connection with the reader’s perceptional or attitudinal changes toward certain subject matter. Readers choose what they want to read, often because they have some interest in the topic in the first place. To the best of my knowledge, no studies have examined to what extent reading influences our initial interest in a subject. One can casually claim that reading about, say, autism, in manga with surprising twists in an intriguing story of a good-looking heroine is more relaxing and enjoyable than reading a ten-thousand-word tome or a scientific paper on the same subject. But we will not know for sure until the particular effect this medium has on the reader’s mind is rigorously and substantially studied. Some readers may choose manga precisely because its narrative allows for an extraordinary story that is unthinkable in real life— a feat only possible in a fictional world—while others choose manga because its narrative makes the subject matter more relatable. Citing Zimbardo’s 1997 study, Michita (1998) argued that reading manga is beneficial because people recall a story better than abstract information, and they are better at applying knowledge gained from what they experience than from what they are told. We need more investigations into the psychological effects of manga’s narratives. Similarly, we have yet to see a study that examines whether manga narratives produce more effective social messaging than other types of media, such as film. Nor has any research examined why a reader chooses to learn about a subject using such a medium rather than a book or journal article. Therefore, first and foremost, we should increase the number of well-designed research projects on the effect of manga reading. It is difficult to document the social impact of manga or to discern a connection between the power of manga and social change. However, it can be done. Harabe, Harada, and Furukawa’s study (2009) on sports manga reported that Inoue Takehiko’s Slam Dunk had a noticeable influence because the number of students playing basketball in schools increased by nine hundred thousand after the series began. Barrett and Leddy (2008) suggest that we track that impact by documenting the medium’s distribution (the

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number of film screenings, for example) and utilizing outcome measures such as evidence of viewer action or policy changes. We can also evaluate what metrics are available to assess whether and how a particular set of manga titles has inspired new awareness of disability issues in a community, nation, or in the world. I also propose that we explore ways to sustain the positive effects of manga reading by turning it into meaningful social action. Barrett and Leddy (2008) recommend the use of social networking sites, such as Facebook and YouTube, as one approach. The sites can post factual information about certain disability issues raised in manga and encourage readers from all demographics to get involved by providing links to related organizations or describing practical ways to make real change for the disabled population. Follow-up activities are critically important at this stage. If an introductory community engagement or outreach campaign follows the reading experience, the reader will be more likely to become involved in a particular disability community. By contrast, in the absence of any followup activity the reader may forget about the issue once the manga is put down. Coordinated outreach efforts are equally important. Placing Barrett and Leddy’s (2008) recommendation in the context of manga, I foresee that one may use community engagement campaigns designed to enhance the social impact on individuals as well as institutions and businesses. Such campaigns may include sending letters to a company to create an accessible environment or collecting signatures from university students and professors proposing campus policies in support of disability accommodations. On college campuses, certain manga titles can help build awareness of the circumstances of minority students, including transgender individuals and students with disabilities.2 These titles, along with this book, can also aid in cultivating leadership within the minority student population or be utilized in workshops or seminars to improve student and faculty sensitivity to disability issues. Such reading experience will inspire campus officials, in particular, to become supportive of and cognizant of disability-related accommodation. It is also my hope that either this book or the manga titles will prove useful as part of sensitivity training classes or professional workshops for business groups and government institutions. As I have argued throughout the book, if selected properly, disability manga can alter or modify a reader’s preexisting views of people with disabilities. Again, it is critically important to carefully select the manga story, provide a background or a side note to facilitate the readers’ understanding of the manga, and set up a means of measuring what they learn from the manga.

Afterword     155

Those wishing for a guide on how to read disability manga will find this book useful. Japanese young adults learning the English language can be exposed to social welfare terminology and disability key words in the target language while learning about the reality of disability in their own country. Similarly, since about 70 to 80 percent of Japanese language learners overseas treat anime and manga as the gateway to studying Japanese (Kumano 2010), manga titles can be integrated into Japanese language education inside or outside of Japan. Whichever approach is chosen, it is my hope that this book will contribute to effecting social change for those with disabilities and building a community where we are all valued as differently abled.

Appendix Manga Mentioned in This Book

Aoi hana, Shimura Takako Aruite ikō, Orihara Mito Aruite ikō, Aoyama Kumiko Boku ga watashi ni narutameni, Hirasawa Yūna Donguri no ie, Yamamoto Osamu Double Happiness, Sugiyama Fumino (drawn by Yorita Miyuki) Emma, Mori Kaoru Flower, Wada Naoko Gaki no tameiki, Okita Bakka Gangsta, Kohske Hahaoya yamete mo ii desu ka? Yamaguchi Kako (drawn by   Nishikawa Taku) Hana ni toitamae, Sasō Akira Happy, Hama Nobuko Happy! Happy! Hama Nobuko Harukanaru kōshien, Yamamoto Osamu Hikari to tomoni, Tobe Keiko Hōrō musuko, Shimura Takako Itsukushimi no shiya, Sone Fumiko Kamui-den, Shirato Sanpei Kamui gaiden, Shirato Sanpei Kimi ga mienakutemo, Nagareda Masami Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru, Karube Junko Kodomotachi! Sone Fumiko Koe no katachi, Ōima Yoshitoki Kono hoshi no nukumori: Jiheishōji no mitsumeru sekai, Sone Fumiko Kurayami no shinfonī, Hoshino Memi Kuroshitsuji, Toboso Yana Kurumaisu no kaunserā, Orihara Mito Kyojin no hoshi, Kajiwara Ikki 157

158     Appendix

Maestro, Sasō Akira Mushi-shi, Urushibara Naruto, Kishimoto Masashi Nitorochan, Okita Bakka Oguri hangan, Kondo Yoko Ōoku, Yoshinaga Fumi Oyanarumono dangai, Sone Fumiko Pāfekuto wārudo, Aruga Rie Pro-chichi, Ousaka Mieko Real, Inoue Yasuhiko Ribon no kishi, Tezuka Osamu Ringo no himitsu, Hoshino Memi Rurōni kenshi, Watsuki Nobuhiro Sabishii nowa anta dake janai, Yoshimoto Koji Samurai Champloo, Manglobe (drawn by Gohho Masaru) Sendai shirō, Mizuki Shigeru Shibosei no niwa, Sone Fumiko Shi ga futari o wakatsumade, Takeshige Hiroshi Shindō, Sasō Akira Shingeki no kyojin, Isaya Hajime Shinochan wa jibun no namae ga ienai, Oshimi Shūzō Slam Dunk, Inoue Takehiko Stop!! Hibari-kun! Eguchi Hisashi Tacchi, Adachi Mitsuru Tatakae Sachiko, Yamamoto Osamu To Terra, Takemiya Keiko Wagayubi no Ōkesutora, Yamamoto Osamu Yūnagi no machi, Sakura no Kuni, Kōno Fumiyo Zatōichi, Hirata Hiroshi

Notes Introduction 1. According to the 2017 report by the United Nations, more women (19 percent) were reported to have disabilities than men (12 percent). See UN Women, 2017 Issue Brief, “Making the SDGS Count for Women and Girls with Disabilities,” http://www.unwomen.org/en/digital-library /publications/2017/6/issue-brief-making-the-sdgs-count-for-women-and -girls-with-disabilities. 2. Although manga is widespread domestically and internationally, not all manga stories live up to the publishing industry’s expectation of global popularity. 3. Key principles germane to reading manga are explained in more detail in the following books: Natsume and Takeuchi’s (2009) Manga-gaku nyūmon (Introduction to manga studies); Cohn’s (2013) The Visual Language of Comics. Chapter 1: Theorizing Disability 1. Manga-ka Mizuki Shigeru (2015) created a manga story based on two biographies of Sendai Shirō. 2. Some of the excellent resource books that describe Japan’s main disability laws and contemporary issues in greater detail are Goto Yasuhiko’s ([1995] 2004) Shōgaisha (People with disabilities); Nanette Gottlieb’s (2006) Linguistics Stereotyping and Minority Groups in Japan; Caroyn S. Stevens’ (2013) Disability in Japan; and Katharina Heyer’s (2015) Rights Enabled. These books discuss the notion of disability and disability issues in Japanese sociocultural contexts as well as Japan’s disability laws and the legal challenges surrounding individuals. These books provide insights into how academics see disability differently from medical professionals. 3. Evidenced-based medicine, or EBM, is a set of new approaches to the conscientious use of research evidence in making medical decisions about patient care. More information on EBM in Japan can be found in articles such as Yokota et al. (2005). 4. Read a critical review of the social model of disability in Tom Shakespeare’s ([1994] 2014) Disability Rights and Wrongs Revised or a history of critical 159

160     Notes to Pages 16–28

5.

6.

7.

8.

disability studies in Meekosha and Shuttleworth’s (2009) “What’s So ‘Critical’ about Critical Disability Studies?” The protagonist is an extremely small boy. A childless, elderly couple longs for a child and, fortunately, is blessed with a son. However, the boy is tiny at birth and grows only as tall as a fingernail. Despite his physical difference from his peers, he manages to become employed at the home of a wealthy daimyo. A thorough analysis of this tale can be read in Okuyama (2017). The original phrase in Japanese is “Kawaisōnano wa konoko de gozai. Oyano inga ga koni mukui, umareidetaru kono sugata” (How pitiful this child is. The parents’ inga, or bad deeds in their previous lives, resulted in the child’s deformity), followed by a specific description of the performer’s disability. The phrase used at the freak shows reveals the folk religion idea that the child was punished by the bad karma accrued by the family. Chapter 3 of Namase (1999) is an excellent read on this topic. On this issue Ellis and Goggin (2015) contend that the media’s inspirational tales about people with disabilities are certainly better than those with “trashy, sensational content” and ponder that perhaps we should “be sensitive enough to appreciate” the “courage” of living a “normal” life with a disability (62). Their point is that the depiction of disability as incidental could pose a problem; people with disabilities do need to have their impairments acknowledged and receive assistance from tools such as braille and elevators. Therefore, Ellis and Goggin (2015) warn us that “if people with disability are always represented as ‘just people’ then these entitlements could become harder to come by” (81). See also World Health Organization, 10 Facts on Disability at www.who.int /features/factfiles/disability/en/.

Chapter 2: Media and Disability 1. Naturally, there are multiple interpretations of the 2016 Sagamihara incident. One frequently voiced view in recent Japanese publications that analyzed the incident is yūsē shisō, or eugenics (e.g., Hirono 2016). Adopting Komatsu’s ijin-goroshi framework is my own interpretation due to my desire to explore the interconnection between mythology and disability. In the interview with Dr. Komatsu, I probed this possible link between his ijin theory and the incident, but he neither encouraged nor discouraged such an interpretation. 2. Stibbe (2004) explains that this boom of the 1990s appeared to be in response to “a number of political changes which occurred in Japan during the 1990s” (21). Heyer (2015) states that when the United Nations designated 1981 as the International Year of Disabled Persons and earmarked 1983–1992 to be the International Decade of Disabled Persons,

Notes to Pages 31–38     161

3.

4.

5.

6.

Japanese disability rights activists took the declaration seriously. Embracing the Decade of Disabled Persons, the Japanese government also began to promote the idea of a “normalization policy” to reform the country’s disability laws (144). That period marks the shift of focus from welfare to rights for the disabled in Japan. In 1993, Japan’s old existing law for people with disabilities was reformed and given a new name, the Disabled People’s Fundamental Law (Shōgaisha Kihonhō), modeled after the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990. As an example, Dr. Hirose, a blind historian in Japan, told me about his experience with the media on this point: a reporter for a women’s magazine interviewed him and published an article about his being the first blind student admitted to the elite Kyoto University. The article presented his successful admission to that school as a tear-jerking story about a disabled son who, out of love for his mother, made a Herculean effort to pass the exam. We are also biased toward what is regarded as nonhuman yet is much like us. Interestingly, androids that are very humanlike, along with wax-museum figures and life-size dolls, cause unsettled feelings in observers. That emotional response is the phenomenon called the “uncanny valley.” More specifically, the term refers to the typical emotional dip (valley) we humans tend to experience when seeing nonhuman objects that closely resemble us. Originally hypothesized by Japanese roboticist Mori Masahiro, the uncanny valley effect has been tested for its validity in the field of psychology. The gist of this hypothesis is that an entity with a close yet somewhat “imperfect” resemblance to humans provokes dislike in us whether it is a doll, android, or computer game avatar. Recent research on the uncanny valley indicates that the effect influences our decisions about trustworthiness (Mathur and Reichling 2016). I was also reminded of Michael J. Fox, a celebrity with Parkinson’s disease whose “superhuman” ability in maintaining his acting career despite the impairment was featured in the 2013 Rolling Stone article “The Toughest Man on TV” (https://www.rollingstone.com/tv/tv-news/michael-j-fox -the-toughest-man-on-tv-195820/). As I quoted at the end of chapter 1, disability is not someone else’s story but is our story (Nielsen 2012). “Temporarily able-bodied” (TAB) is a phrase that reminds us that “the abled/disabled distinction is neither permanent nor impermeable” (Kafer 2013, 25). The inevitability of able-bodied individuals’ crip time (“crip” is a term used in disability studies that implies “a disabled person”) due to aging, accidents, or illnesses is what disability studies scholars such as Rosemary Garland-Thomson call “the fundamental aspect of human embodiment” (Kafer 2013, 26). Even if we are nondisabled, we

162     Notes to Pages 39–45

7.

8.

9.

10.

are TAB only for the time being. Thus, studying disability should be relevant to us all. At the 1988 Academy Award ceremony, she first addressed her audience in sign language using an interpreter but then suddenly switched to speaking to introduce the Best Actor nominees. She was criticized by some of her deaf peers in her own community (Wilson 1988). Not wanting to be pigeonholed as the “deaf actress,” Matlin was undeterred by the criticism and appeared in the 1989 television series Bridge to Silence, in a role that involved speaking to hearing people. One of the readers of this manuscript confided in me that she strongly identified with Storm as she read this passage. She commented that one of the worst things she had struggled with during her life with major clinical depression was the feeling that the rest of the world thought of her and people like her as somehow defective or deficient. One of her most fervent desires was to live in a world where she did not have to be medicated to fit in or, at the least, to survive. Disability studies scholar Alison Kafer (2013) writes that people with disabilities were historically regarded as “defectives,” along with gender nonconforming individuals and people from certain races, ethnicities, or religious groups, and all of them were targeted by public policies as “threats” to the nation. The sentiment and resentment felt by the X-Men series’ mutant characters resonate with the history of disability in the United States. The inclusion of such identifiable characters is probably one of the reasons for the series’ popularity. Kafer (2013) writes in Feminist Queer Crip that “a desire for a cure is not necessarily an anti-crip or anti-disability rights and justice position” (27). However, she argues, embedded ableism in the cure-seeking narrative is a real problem. Using the term “compulsory able-bodiness/able-mindedness,” “a way of capturing the normalizing practices, assumptions, and exclusions that cannot easily be described as directed to physical functioning or appearance” (184), she points out that the dominant narratives of “being cured” or “moving toward cure” fundamentally ignore the present needs of the disabled. The meaning of disability also changes in context (Kafer 2013). One’s illness may come and go over time. For example, when under pressure to speak formally, a person with a certain psychological condition may suddenly become unable to perform in a normative discourse setting (Price 2011).

Chapter 3: Portrayals of Deaf Characters 1. There is a backstory to the casting of Babel. According to Oshidari Akiko, a Japanese deaf actress who served as one of the panel discussants at the 2017 Deaf Film Symposium, the film crew initially tried to hire a deaf actress for the heroine role. But nobody came forth because of a nude scene in the film.

Notes to Pages 46–50     163

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Shinobuashi stated that because the Japanese Deaf community is small and everyone knows each other, nobody felt comfortable about going naked publicly. The role was eventually taken up by Kikuchi Rinko, who learned to play the heroine using Japanese sign language. The expression “monstrous birth” was used by Schmiesing (2015) in reference to the birth of a child with a certain physical deformity, as with the Thumbling and Dummy characters. On the folklore of changelings, Nielsen (2012) offers an additional insight, stating that originally in Europe, it was believed that “pregnant women with inappropriate thoughts, women who engaged in deviant actions, could produce deviant offspring,” which signified “divine displeasure” (30). Women’s “sinfulness” included challenging male authority in the patriarchal society of preindustrial North America. Thus, even though disability was framed as “the inability to ‘maintain’ oneself economically,” children born with a physical deformity were marked for “maternal sin” and were despised and ostracized in the community (Nielsen 2012). Admittedly, that might be just a perception of able-bodied viewers in Japan, including myself. Valentine (2001) points out that deaf characters are typically portrayed to be isolated and lonely. Deafness is shown to be “a tragic loss of communication that brings abandonment and loneliness” (707) in Japanese media. Makino Eri, private communication via e-mail, 2017. I got to know her through the Deaf Film Symposium mentioned in the chapter. Makino agreed to be interviewed via e-mail correspondence primarily because of her busy work schedule. The year of IYDP was created by a 1976 United Nations resolution intended for actualization in 1981. With its emphasis on full participation and equality as the right of people with disabilities, one of the IYDP’s objectives was to increase public awareness of this minority group. In an interview, Yamamoto mentioned that his predecessors used characters with disabilities but humbly pointed out that his Harukanaru Kōshien was the first comic that dealt with the topic of deafness seriously and drew deaf characters with authenticity and accuracy. Yamamoto began to take a sign language course for the development of this manga. The first school for the deaf in Japan was founded in Kyoto by Furukawa Tashiro in 1870, and it used sign language as a mode of communication for education. However, oralism, unilaterally supported over the use of sign language at the Milan Conference in 1880, became the main form of communication in schools for the deaf internationally. For a more thorough description of that history, read Karen Nakamura’s (2006) Deaf in Japan: Signing and the Politics of Identity.

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8. As with any Deaf community in the world, the Japanese Deaf community is not uniform; there are branches of communities that have people with different types of hearing impairments and various associations that serve these different groups’ unique needs. For more detailed information about the Deaf community of Japan, see K. Nakamura (2006). 9. The Japanese term shuwa (sign language) circles refer to a sign language course run by a group of community people in which both deaf people and hearing sign language learners meet. The hearing participants learn not only sign language but also Deaf culture and the types of challenges deaf people meet in society. Both Yamamoto and Karube learned to sign in their local shuwa circles and met the people who would eventually become the subjects of their manga stories. 10. Interestingly, in the case of television drama, Saito and Ishiyama (2005) reviewed drama series broadcast by Japan’s major networks between 1993 and 2002 and found that those in which disabled characters appeared were more likely to earn higher ratings. Those dramas also tended to cast women more often than men as disabled protagonists, similar to this manga. 11. One family scene Karube witnessed was a dinnertime miscommunication in the kitchen. Their hearing child wanted to help her mom by placing chopsticks for everyone on the dinner table. The child pointed to the chopsticks on the shelf, saying ohashi (chopsticks). Thinking that the child asked for okashi (snacks), which happened to be next to the chopstick holder on the shelf, the mom told her sternly to wait until after dinner. Frustrated, the child burst into tears. This episode, indicating the difficulty of lipreading accurately, was included in volume 2. 12. Your Hands is not the first drama featuring a deaf heroine. Stibbe (2004) points out that the boom of deaf television drama began in 1995 with a twelve-episode love story about a deaf nurse and a hearing doctor, Hoshi no kinka (Star coins), followed by another high-rated twelve-episode drama Aishiteiru to itte kure (Say you love me), about a deaf painter and his girlfriend, in the same year. According to Saito and Ishiyama (2005), social critics recognized the strong impact of Aishiteiru to itte kure, in particular, on the image of the deaf. 13. The term 24 nen gumi (Showa year 24 group) refers to a group of female manga-ka who began to discuss gender and sexuality, as well as politics, in their stories, including Ikeda Riyoko, author of The Rose of Versailles, and Hagio Moto, author of The Clan of Poe. The term is “so called because many of the women in the group were born in or near Showa 24, or 1949” (Shamoon 2007, 4). 14. In agrarian times (prior to the Meiji Restoration of 1868), a Japanese family with many children was considered “blessed” because a healthy newborn

Notes to Pages 60–62     165

was equated with additional labor for farming in the community. Consequently, a child incapable of performing any type of labor was undervalued. The fukugo metonymy seems to suggest that society viewed individuals with severe disabilities in a positive light and exempted them from the traditional agrarian value system. Although physical or intellectual otherness was considered “abnormal” at the time, the fukugo legend indicates that deformed or developmentally disabled children were raised as the guardian angels of their family and community in the Tōhoku District (northeastern Japan) where the legend originated (Ono and Shiba 1983; Yamada 1993, 2011). 15. Nanchō (hard of hearing) refers to the condition of having enough residual hearing to communicate orally with hearing people (Nakamura 2006). 16. As mentioned in “Conventions,” the term “Deaf,” with a capital D, distinguishes itself as a biologically and culturally “deaf” group. In much the same way, D-Pro has been formed in the young generation as a group in the deaf-identity movement in Japan. In 1995 a public message called “Declaration of Independence of the Deaf” was issued by a Japanese Sign Language (JSL) instructor, Harumi Kimura, and her colleague Yasuhiro Ichida. In 2003, 107 parents of deaf children and the Federation of Lawyers (Nichibenren) submitted a proposal to the Japanese government that called for consideration of the human rights of the deaf. Both incidents mark the historical progress of the awareness of this minority group in this country. 17. However, I recently came across Hidamari ga kikoeru: Rimitto (I hear the sunspot: Limit), a BL (boys’ love) manga by Fumino Yuki, featuring a hardof-hearing gay man and his hearing boyfriend and dealing with serious issues, such as identity, inclusiveness, and hearing loss. The original series of Hidamari ga kikoeru was published by Plantan shuppan in 2017 (vol. 1) and 2018 (vol. 2), while its English version, translated by Stephen Kohler, is available from One Peace Books. 18. When I began to study American Sign Language, I thought it was odd to have separate signs for “deaf” and for “hard of hearing.” At that time I thought people were either hearing or deaf. In reflection, I understand why sign language users see themselves separately from hard-of-hearing people, especially in terms of their cultural identity. 19. Tsuna (2005), hard of hearing herself, writes about her own observation of public misconceptions that stem from the invisible nature of her hearing impairment in Nanchō: Shirarezaru ningenfūkei (Hard of hearing: The unknown human landscape). 20. Japanese music composer Samuragōchi Mamoru, once called “Japan’s Beethoven,” hid from the public until 2014 the fact that most of his works over the past eighteen years had been composed by a ghostwriter, Niigaki

166     Notes to Pages 62–70

Takashi, who was a music teacher. This was one of the hotly covered “deceptions” by a disabled person in the media that year. To read more about this story, see http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-02-06/japans -beethovennot-even-deaf-ghost-composer/5244282. 21. http://www.n-fukushi.ac.jp/pr/waza/yoshimoto/index.html. Chapter 4: Gender and the Wheelchair 1. More accessibility information about Japan can be found at https://www .accessible-japan.com/accessibility/, a website maintained by Josh Grisdale. A print version, Accessible Japan’s Tokyo: All You Need to Know about Traveling to Tokyo with a Disability, can also be purchased at bookstores. 2. Yokota Hiroshi, who had cerebral palsy and died in 2013, was a disability rights activist. His book, Shōgaisha goroshi no shisō (Ideology of killing people with disabilities), was published posthumously in 2015. Gotō Yasuyuki, who also had cerebral palsy, published several books on disability rights and was an advocate in Japan for the integration of children with disabilities into regular classrooms and independent living for people with disabilities. Hanada Shunchō, another disability activist with cerebral palsy, was the author of several books and vice president of the Japan Council on Disability. His Nihon no shōgaisha ([1997] 2010) and Nihonbungaku no nakano shōgaishazō (2002) are two good reads about the representation of disability in Japanese folklore and literature. He died in May 2017. 3. A common yet improper reference to people in wheelchairs is to say they are “confined” to wheelchairs. Ellis and Goggin (2015) emphasize that wheelchairs “do not confine people, inaccessible wheelchair locations do” (122). 4. Members of the Japanese Association of Rehabilitation Medicine, or JARM, are mostly medical professionals specializing in rehabilitation medicine. http://www.jarm.or.jp/english/. 5. The rude manner of staring by able-bodied individuals is frequently addressed in the publications of many disability studies scholars, of which the best read would be Garland-Thomson’s (2009) Staring: How We Look. 6. However, Kuppers (2007) also offers negative readings of Professor X’s chair, such as the wheelchair signifying “restraint and order, shiny containment” (86). 7. Snyder and Mitchell (2010) also point to a dangerous association between characters in wheelchairs and eugenics in films such as Gattaca (1997) and X-Men (2000). 8. Morrison (2013) states, however, that it is the consensus of Japanese folklorists and historians that it was more common for female entertainers to

Notes to Pages 72–85     167

chant the sekkyō on the street in the Muromachi period (1336–1573), and the tradition continued until the Edo period (1603–1867). 9. As I cited in chapter 2, Kafer states that a desire for a cure is not antidisability in and of itself; what is wrong is embedded ableism in compulsory able-bodiedness. Thus, cure-focused views in which “an uncured disability is a threat to a community, damaging a family’s life, or draining the nation’s public services” are problematic. 10. Modern-day manual wheelchairs did not exist in Japan until after World War II, and izari-guruma, an old wooden form of wheelchair, was more likely to be used in medieval times, according to emaki, or picture scrolls (Kohsaka 2004). 11. One of the readers of this manuscript commented that we now live in the age of information and technology; people with disabilities have new opportunities to contribute without limits. However, disability studies scholars continue to stress the somber reality of employment for this population. In Japan, for example, only 24 percent of people with intellectual disabilities and 41 percent of those with physical disabilities have full-time jobs, excluding self-employment (Matsui 2011). Japan’s labor law for the disabled, Shōgaisha no Koyō no Sokushin nado ni Kansuru Hōritsu (Law for the Promotion of Employing People with a Disability), set separate quotas for employees with physical and intellectual disabilities (Stevens 2013). 12. To read more about the 2016 law Shōgaisha Sabetsu Kaishōhō, I recommend Nihonyanagi’s (2016) guidebook, Korenarawakaru “sukkiri zukai” shōgaisha sabetsu kaishōhō (Japanese only). 13. The series’ official website can be found at http://annex.s-manga.net/real/. 14. It is rare for a native-born Japanese to possess a high-bridged nose like Togawa’s. His perfectly “cool-dude” features that represent many heroes in manga are unlikely to be found in most full-blooded Japanese males. As with Oscar Wilde’s famous remark about Japonism, the manga hero’s face is just another example of an “invented image” about Japan. 15. The license Class-1 architect, or ikkyū kenchikushi, requires not only passing a national examination but also, at minimum, a four-year college education majoring in architecture and two additional years of on-site experience (or an equivalent of six years with a combination of vocational schooling and working in the field). The exam itself is competitive. Thus, Itsuki’s case is not impossible but makes the protagonist an elite architect, having obtained the title by age twenty-six. In addition, in volume 1 Itsuki is introduced as an ikemen, a term referring to a good-looking man. 16. See Matsuzawa Kaori (2016), http://news.livedoor.com/article/detail /11286289.

168     Notes to Pages 88–90

Chapter 5: Narratives of Blindness 1. The title Zatōichi consists of both his name and occupation. The protagonist’s given name is Ichi, and zatō is the Edo-period title awarded only to the members of a guild for blind male professionals such as masseurs and musicians. Thus, the literal translation of the title Zatōichi would be “blind worker Ichi.” The female equivalent of zatō was a goze, a member of a preindustrial, blind female singer guild (see more about goze in Awazu [2008] and Groemer [2016]). Tan (forthcoming)’s The Most Remarkable Disability will also feature the history of blind workers in Japan. 2. Kitano Takeshi made a film, The Blind Swordsman: Zatōichi, in 2003. The film was well received, grossing $23.8 million in Japan (Schilling 2015). Kitano said that Zatōichi is to the Japanese what the pulp fiction character Zorro is to Westerners (Mottesheard 2004). The manga adaptation was made by Hirata Hiroshi, a gekiga (realistic manga, described in the introduction) comic artist. I decided not to analyze Hirata’s Zatōichi series partly because of too many graphic scenes, which I found difficult to read, not to mention the impossibility of a human being—blind or otherwise— killing opponents with a cane-disguised sword at lightning speed and with laser-like precision while being a master gambler and a chick magnet as he travels from town to town. That is utterly as unrealistic as the blind lawyer Matt Murdock’s superhero persona in Daredevil. An equally unrealistic supercrip representation is seen in the Japanese movie ICHI, which features a sword-fighting goze. 3. To further his view, he cites the case of Itako as an example. For a good description of Itako, or blind female shamans in northeastern Japan, read his Shōgaisha no shūkyō minzokugaku (1997). Tsuna (2005) also points out that visually impaired artists such as biwa-hōshi (blind traveling minstrels in medieval Japan) were thought to possess superhuman powers. A mysterious nature attributed to disability is not specific to Japanese culture, however. For instance, writer and disability rights activist David Perry, in a National Public Radio (2017) interview, pointed out the cliché of mystical powers possessed by people with disabilities. 4. Hirose Kojiro was the first blind student admitted to Kyoto University, an elite national university of Japan (Nose 2013). He majored in Japanese history there partly because of his love of the chanbara film. 5. Because of the negative images associated with the supercrip stereotype, I was surprised at Hirose’s positive reception of Zatōichi. Similarly, the deaf filmmaker I interviewed (see chapter 3) made an unexpected comment on authentic depictions of deaf people’s signing in manga: because signs are normally used in three-dimensional space, seeing them drawn on

Notes to Pages 92–94     169

6.

7. 8.

9.

10.

11.

two-dimensional manga panels is unimpressive, if not distracting. These interviews provided eye-opening insights into disability issues. To understand how people with visual impairments figure out their environment, including how they make a mental map of where they are, Ito Asa’s (2016) Me no mienai hito wa sekai o dō mite irunoka (How the blind view the world) is an excellent read. For more on this topic, see Hirose Kojiro (2013, 2015a, 2015b). When riding escalators in Japan, no one stands idly in the middle. There is an implicit rule that one side of the escalator is for commuters running the stairs to the platform, and the other side is for those who are not in a hurry. The Japanese language has gender-specific discourse styles with various linguistic characteristics (e.g., certain word choice, sentence-final particles such as yo and ne). In Japanese linguistics, the speech style typically employed by men is termed “male language,” while the one used by women is “female language.” The ingrained knowledge of gender-specific speech in Japanese is the tool to decoding the social conventions embedded in manga’s dialogues. The speech style the character uses, in and of itself, makes a big difference in manga reading. To learn more about the interplay between the visual and linguistic elements in manga, I recommend Kinsui Satoshi’s (2014)“Yakuwarigo” shōjiten. The term yakuwari-go means role-assigning language. In Japan, not only are the train’s direction and destination written in braille on the handrails, but station maps are also written in braille. I found it amusing to see the braille script for “alcohol” on beer cans but not the hiragana script (the script easy for young children to read). The Japanese braille system, or tenji (dot letters), developed by Ishikawa Kuraji, was officially adapted for use in 1890 and reads from left to right. Each cell can have up to six dots, arranged in two columns and three rows, representing a syllable (e.g., a, ka). Each of the five vowels is arranged within both columns of the top row and the right column of the second row, while the remaining positions are saved for the consonants. For example, the top-left dot corresponds with a, while that dot and the bottom-right dot form ka (for more detailed information on braille script in Japan, see http://www.naiiv .net/braille/?tenji-sikumi.) I certainly do not mean to claim that train platform hazards are unique to Japan, as similar incidents have been reported in the United States, Australia, and England. See, e.g., Burns 2017; 9News 2016, https:// www.9news.com.au/national/blind-man-falls-onto-tracks-and-is-left -helpless-after-trying-to-board-train-in-melbournes-north/eed7be1c-11e4 -4772-8f54-037c1516dc43; CBC News 2012. However, it is also a fact that statistically, 40 percent of visually impaired commuters have fallen from

170     Notes to Pages 95–105

platforms, according to the 2011 questionnaire conducted by the Japan Federation of the Blind (Asahi Digital 2016). 12. The original tactile paving was invented in Japan. The first tactile blocks were put into use in Okayama in 1967. 13. However, television broadcasts do not necessarily abide by the ADA in the United States. For example, the television adaptation of Daredevil, which stars a blind hero, is ironically not accessible to the blind on Netflix. 14. Ito Asa (2016) provides a thorough discussion on this topic from her interviews with four blind people, including Hirose Kojiro. 15. Originally titled Shi ga futario wakatsumade in Japanese, Until Death Do Us Part was serialized in 2005–2015. It is about a blind protector of a telepathically gifted young girl. 16. Even if I Cannot See is a love story about a sighted heroine and her blind boyfriend. Similarly, The Secret of an Apple features a heroine assisting her rich, handsome, and blind husband. Other manga titles that include blind characters, mostly in minor roles, are Kurayami no shinfonī, Mushi-shi, Samurai champloo, and Rurōni kenshi. 17. The recently released film Hikari (Radiance), directed by the two-time Cannes Film Festival awardee Kawase Naomi, features a middle-aged photographer who struggles to come to terms with his condition as his sight begins to deteriorate. I wish there were more stories like this in manga, as well. 18. When Wataru visited Yachiyo’s parents to seek approval for their marriage, he bowed to her father and said, “I need Yachiyo-san!” Her father did not say “approved” or “disapproved” since he was unable to make sense of his word “need” in reference to Yachiyo (Takeshita 1998, 106). The implication behind this episode is that a blind person is typically seen as someone in need of assistance from able-bodied family members. 19. A more detailed account of this struggle is provided in K. Hirose (2010, 29–32). 20. DAISY, or the Digital Accessible Information System, is a technology system designed to convert print material into audio equivalents such as audiobooks. Unlike traditional audiobooks, DAISY allows the visually impaired reader to easily locate information in complex material such as an encyclopedia. DAISY Talking Book was invented for blind readers in 1998 by George Kerscher, who is also blind. For more information on DAISY Talking Book, see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9HvSpzPvI&feature=youtu.be. 21. In some tales, the figure is depicted as a one-eyed, one-legged giant wearing a straw raincoat. Later, this one-eyed signifier emerged as yōkai, or a

Notes to Pages 108–113     171

supernatural creature of liminality, under the new label hitotsume kozō (oneeyed junior). It is a rascal yōkai that appears in much of Edo-period folklore. The creature is neither evil nor saintly. Rather, he signifies “a troublesome mischief-maker” with the appearance of a young merchant apprentice who delights in scaring passersby by suddenly appearing and revealing his face with his single large eye (Foster 2015).   This one-eyed god trope has also morphed into the one-eyed fish (katameno-uo or sugame-no-uo), which is said typically to reside in a holy pond at a Shinto shrine or a Buddhist temple. Some of Japan’s widespread folktales about a pond containing a one-eyed fish claim that the fish’s abnormality signals that it is an offering to the festival god, while other stories mark the pond as a place into which someone with an injured eye threw himself or herself (Yanagita [1989] 2013). The myth of the one-eyed fish is also interpreted as a reminder of the ancient custom of human sacrifice. This one-eyed fish trope has also been used in manga stories such as Urushibara’s Mushi-shi series. Chapter 6: Heterogeneity of Autism 1. The site of Autism Speaks states that April 2 is World Autism Awareness Day, a celebration that began in 2008. Various autism organizations around the globe celebrate this day by conducting fundraising and other events to raise autism awareness. 2. There is also a long historical connection between disability and gender studies (Bagatell 2007; Meyerding 1998; Samuels 2003; Swain and Cameron 1999). Therefore, as a metaphor borrowed from the domain of sexuality that appears with regard to many other “disabilities,” the expression of “coming out” is also used by autistic persons (Thomas and Boellstorff 2017). 3. Residential institutions began to be established for disabled people, segregating them from able-bodied children during the 1960s in Japan. 4. Pro-chichi has a scene in which the protagonist, who has Asperger’s syndrome, takes his baby son to the park for the first time. It is not a typical kōen-debyū setting, but it is in the park that he meets various strangers, including an elderly lady who assures him he is not “jobless” but rather a “full-time” dad. Her comment boosts his confidence because he has been feeling yakutatazu (useless, deficient) for not being employed like other “normal” fathers. The title, Pro-chichi, which is short for pro no (professional) chichi-oya (father), derives from this scene. 5. Ku and Bryce (2011) state that in Australia, about one-third of parents rearing children with autism receive family counseling.

172     Notes to Pages 116–127

6. His neurotypical younger brother is named Shūichirō, with the kanji characters shū (excellent) and ichirō (first son). In volume 4, Nao tells Kaho that his parents deemed the autistic child a result of their failed parenting and named their second son as the “first” son of the family. 7. In his memoir, The Reason I Jump, Higashida Naoki (2013) offers valuable insights into autism from the viewpoint of an Aspie himself. In the book’s afterword, Higashida states, “I hope that by reading my explanations about autism and its mysteries, you can come to understand that all the obstacles that present themselves don’t come from our selfishness or from ego. If all of you can grasp this truth about us, we are handed a ray of hope” (139). He also published Fall Down 7 Times Get Up 8: A Young Man’s Voice from the Silence of Autism in 2017. 8. Rozema (2015, 65) cites the manga’s serialization as 2002–2009, while Bryce et al. (2014) refers to 2001–2009, and Wikipedia uses 2000 as the first year of its publication. I decided to use the middle number, 2001, for this book. 9. The same kanji character is pronounced hikari, meaning “light,” or Hikaru as a name for a boy or girl. Thus, the manga’s original title Hikari to tomoni has a double meaning, “with the light” and “with Hikaru,” implying that Hikaru is the light to Sachiko and her family. 10. Oyako-shinjū is a parent-child murder-suicide typically committed by mothers. A thorough discussion of maternal filicide in Japanese society can be found in Castellini’s (2017) book, Translating Maternal Violence. Although oyako-shinjū is considered a cultural phenomenon in Japan, a case of a parent killing a disabled child occurred not long ago in the United States: Dr. Karen Frank-McCarron, a pathology specialist, suffocated her autistic daughter with a plastic bag on Mother’s Day in 2006. Initially, she was hopeful and determined to figure out how to “correct” her daughter’s disability. That passion apparently turned into a pathological obsession that caused her emotional distress. 11. Kako’s wrenching experience as a confused, frustrated, and despondent mother in her autobiography is echoed in Lois-Ann Yamanaka’s novel Father of the Four Passages (2001), in which the heroine Sonia Kurisu also harbors the thought of harming her autistic child, Sonny Boy, who lines up toys, cries endlessly, and bangs his head. 12. There are other manga titles with main characters having “implied” AS (e.g., Komano Tsutomu, one of the main characters of Suetsugu Yuki’s Chihayahuru), but most of the time, the author does not make a specific reference to the diagnosis, and the story does not contain much text that informs us of this disability.

Notes to Pages 128–132     173

Chapter 7: Gender Identity Disorder/Gender Dysphoria 1. To determine one’s biological sex at birth, factors such as the types of reproductive organs and the presence (male) or absence (female) of a Y chromosome are traditionally considered. 2. More recently, the acronym “LGBTQ” is commonly used, in which Q refers to either “queer,” which represents people who do not identify as any of the LGBT groups, or “questioning,” which means they are not sure or are undecided about adhering to any label for sexual minority groups. For more about sexual minority terminology, go to https://thewelcomingproject.org /terminology/. 3. The term “GID” first appeared as a “disorder” in DSM-III in 1980 but was replaced with “gender dysphoria” in DSM-5 in 2013. 4. For more on the topic of public toilets that concerns both trans and disabled people, consult the relevant section of “Coalescing around Bodies in Space” in Kafer (2013). 5. The term “transgenderism” is defined as a condition in which one’s identity does not conform to the old-fashioned binary concept of male versus female gender. More commonly, being “transgender,” or “trans,” is an expression used to refer to people whose gender identity is the opposite of the biological sex with which they were born. In this chapter both “transgenderism” and “being gender nonconforming” are used synonymously to mean the state of being trans. 6. Colorful Station, or Irodori, is a consulting service center for sexual minorities and is where I interviewed him. Sugiyama founded this center because Japan had no such place for trans people like him. A two-story building tucked away in a strip mall apart from the busy main streets of Tokyo, Colorful Station is located on Jingū-mae Ni-chōme. Its first floor functions as a pub restaurant (for “fundraising purposes,” according to Sugiyama), and the second floor is an LGBT-friendly office. Two-thirds of the center’s staff are LGBT people. We met on the second floor for this interview. 7. His memoir is titled Double Happiness (2006), which was adapted into a comic book I analyzed in this chapter. 8. Shinjuku Ni-chōme is the second street of the Shinjuku district in Tokyo and is known as a hub of gay subculture. According to McLelland, Suganuma, and Welker (2007), the area has the world’s greatest number of gay bars. The term is also a euphemism for gay or cross-dressing male workers in bars and nightclubs in that district. 9. Literally meaning “pot,” onabe is a euphemism for a woman acting male, in contrast to okama, meaning “cauldron,” for a man acting female. Both are

174     Notes to Pages 134–136

slang for lesbians and gays but are mistakenly used to refer to trans people by extension. Interestingly, Nomachi Mineko, an MtF trans person, chose to identify herself with the derogatory term okama out of her dislike for the label seidōitsusei shōgai (Mackie 2008). A graduate of Tokyo University, Japan’s most prestigious university, Nomachi (2006) published her first essay, titled Okama dakedo OL shitemasu, about her work life as a woman with a biologically male body before her sex reassignment surgery. She did use the term okama in reference to herself then. However, after the surgery in 2007 she announced on her blog that she was no longer okama. In 2015, she complained to a television broadcasting company that named her one-e, another derogatory term referring to effeminate men. The incident shows that no standard label has been established for trans individuals outside the trans community. How to refer to them can be a sensitive issue, with the possible connotation of discrimination against trans people. 10. Wilkerson (2012) offers a Western perspective on this issue. The pathologization of transgenderism stems from the view that being trans is a “sexual disability,” in opposition to gender norms based on heteronormative values. However, the very surgical procedures rejected by intersex people are the “interventions that many transgendered individuals pursue and to which the movement seeks greater access” (193). For many trans people, “sex change surgery is not only welcome but so deep a necessity as to be fundamental to selfhood” (194). 11. The term “transgender” is the coinage of Virginia Prince, a biological male who lived as a woman. For more about Prince’s life and work, see King and Ekins’ (2005) book, Virginia Prince: Pioneer of Transgendering. 12. Komiya (2015) conducted a comparative survey on the history of homophobia and shifts in attitudes toward gender-crossing individuals and offers some GID-related perspectives in Japan. For more information about Japan’s transgender and sexual minorities, see also Torai (2003), Kamikawa (2007), Mainichi Shinbun Report Team (2013), and Tanamura and Nakagawa (2016). 13. McLelland (2011) explains that Japanese MtF cross-dressers developed a subculture as early as 1955, with small organizations pursuing that endeavor. In 1979, the first commercially established MtF cross-dressing club Elizabeth was founded by a women’s underwear company, which also published Queen, a magazine for MtF cross-dressers in 1980 (not currently in publication). 14. Because the term “gender dysphoria” is not as widely known as “gender identity disorder” (GID) in Japan, Hirasawa placed the former in parentheses in the comic book. Although the Japanese Society of Psychiatry and Neurology (Nihon Seishin Shinkei Gakkai) officially removed GID

Notes to Pages 138–141     175

from the mental illness category in the third edition of the guidelines, it still uses gender identity disorder (seidōitsusei shōgai) as the name of the diagnosis. To Go from “He” to “She” was published in 2016, by which time Hirasawa must have been aware of the changes made in the DMS-5. 15. Gender identity disorder, as pointed out earlier, is now listed as “gender dysphoria” in DSM-5, the latest edition in the United States. Even though it is categorized as a psychological disorder, the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) does not acknowledge gender dysphoria by itself as a condition causing a physical or mental disability severe enough to stop working. Therefore, gender dysphoria is not covered under the ADA nor does it qualify for SSI (supplemental security income) benefits. In Japan, only people diagnosed with physical, psychiatric, or developmental disabilities receive a shōgaisha techō (disability ID card). The card is not issued to individuals diagnosed with GID unless the person develops qualified psychological disabilities, such as major depression. 16. Wilkerson (2012) argues that although many (American) transgender activists “vehemently refuse any association with” the term “disability” due to the word’s cultural perceptions of being “lack, loss, or pathology,” disability studies offers insights into the normalization of the “marked” body, especially in her “radical disability perspective” (185). 17. Trans people like Hirasawa also call themselves tōjisha, literally meaning “persons themselves.” Originally, the term tōjisha referred to the party or insider involved in litigation in legal language. It began to be used to refer to disabled persons in disability studies and in the media. Trans people often use this stigma-free, all-inclusive term to refer to themselves in Japan instead of using a self-distinguishing nomenclature, such as Aspie. 18. The first recorded case of sex reassignment surgery in Japan occurred between 1950 and 1951 at the Nippon Medical School Hospital. When Dr. Aoki Masao performed surgery on three men, he was arrested in 1964 and sentenced in 1969 for “violations” of Japan’s eugenics laws. This incident is called the Blue-Boy Incident, or Burū-bōi jiken, in Japan, in which “blue boy” was a euphemism for MtF professional dancers. The police were struggling to keep the increasing number of male street prostitutes under control. Because the three individuals were still biologically male before the surgery, the prostitution prohibition law could not be applied to arrest them (only female prostitutes were targeted by this law). The frustrated police arrested Dr. Aoki instead. Although SRS was not illegal then, he was found guilty under the eugenics law based on his slippery medical recordkeeping as evidence for improper surgical conduct. Right after that, Japan’s medical society halted all SRS for nearly thirty years, until 1998, when Saitama Medical University performed SRS again.

176     Notes to Pages 141–147

19. For more on this topic, see Taniguichi (2013), which offers a critical reexamination of the GID Act. 20. In Japan, “LGBT” is a more commonly used acronym than “LGBTQ.” Recently, “SOGI,” a new acronym for sexual orientation and gender identity, has been proposed by the LGBT Renpō Rengōkai, or the Japanese Alliance for Legislation to Remove Social Barriers Based on Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity (Japan Alliance for LGBT Legislation, or J-ALL, for short). Its purpose is to shift attention from trans people to their special trait of being trans. For more information on the LGBT alliance’s philosophy, see LGBT Renpō Rengōkai (2016). 21. These findings about the psychological issues of trans adolescents are somewhat similar to those reported by US psychologists Grossman and D’Augelli (2007). They found that trans adolescents are at a higher risk for attempting suicide, the third leading cause of death for fifteen- to twenty-four-year-old American youths, and that two contributing factors are their experience with parental abuse and their low self-esteem regarding their bodies. In particular, about half of the young trans Americans they interviewed reported having seriously thought of killing themselves because of weight dissatisfaction and other people’s perceptions of their body and appearance. 22. For this reason, Sugiyama established Hāto o Tsunagō Gakkō (Let-UsConnect-Our-Hearts School), a nonprofit support group of LGBT children in Japan. This organization (http://heartschool.jp) invites LGBT people, including trans celebrities, to mentor those children. 23. In transgender studies terminology, “cis male” refers to a male who was assigned male at birth; someone who identifies with the male gender and was born with a biologically male body. Similarly, “cis female” is the term used in reference to a female assigned female at birth. As the prefixes “cis” (on this side of, in Latin) and “trans” (on the other side of) indicate, the “cisgender” reference is typically used in contrast with transgender individuals. 24. LGBTQ is not a collection of five different, clearly divided gender identity groups. There are crossovers among them. Gender identity and sexuality exist along a spectrum. For example, a trans MtF person may be a lesbian, forming a relationship with a cisgender woman. 25. Regarding genderqueer manga characters, the Japanese magazine Yuirika (Eureka) produced a special issue on otoko-no-ko (male girls or male daughters, with the last ko written with the kanji character for “girl/ daughter”) in 2015. The term refers to attractive feminine boys who dress as girls in Japan. This issue details how cross-dressing otoko-no-ko characters came to be popular cultural icons in the shōjo manga genre and includes interviews with other manga-ka, akin to Shimura Takako, who specialize in stories with otoko-no-ko protagonists like Shūichi.

Notes to Pages 149–154     177

26. As Wilkerson (2012) states succinctly, powerlessness is a lack of opportunity “to make meaningful decisions over the conditions of one’s life” (198). Afterword 1. Voices of the tōjisha have also been attracting media attention. In Japanese legal parlance, tōjisha means the party or insider involved in litigation and is used to refer to a person who has or did experience a disability. Manga artists such as Tanaka Keiichi and Okitabakka published their graphic-novel memoirs, a topic to be explored in my next book, Tōjisha Manga. 2. Not all of the titles introduced in this book have been officially released for English-language readers yet (although black-market versions may already be available online). In addition, even the translated versions often lack cultural footnotes to explain jokes, puns, and proverbs that are difficult for nonJapanese readers to understand. This book can be put to good use to fill that gap.

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Index Page numbers in boldface type refer to illustrations. Akasaka, Norio, 5, 6, 25 Alaniz, Jose, 16, 17, 35, 67–68, 116 Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), xxi, 9, 32, 35, 47, 79, 170, 175 ancient wheelchair (izari-guruma), 72 apparitions. See yōkai Armstrong, Thomas, 13, 14 Aruga, Rie: interviews by, 85; Perfect World by, xiii, 59, 65, 83, 83–86, 87 Aruite ikō (Let Us Go on Foot): by Arikawa, 60; by Orihara, 86 AS. See Asperger’s syndrome ASD. See autism spectrum disorder Ask, Lo, the Flowers! (Hana ni toitamae) (Sasō), xiii–xiv, 90–91, 92, 104; critique of, 95–96; public transportation hazards in, 94–95; sunglasses and, 96; touch in, 92; train stations in, 93–94 Asperger, Hans, 109–110, 125 Asperger’s syndrome (AS): history of, 109–111; neurocognitive function and, 14; neurodiversity and, xvi, 107; Pro-chichi and, 108, 111, 114, 114–116; undiagnosed, 115 Atashi kenkyū (Komichi), 127 attention deficit disorder. See ADD attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. See ADHD autism spectrum disorder (hattatsu shōgai) (ASD), xi; Atashi kenkyū and,

Abe, Kazuo, 85 abjection, 13, 19, 22; contemporary disability and, 13, 15; enfreakment and, 15–16; ijin and, 15; Kristeva and, 13; normalcy and, 33 ableism, 13, 16–18, 40, 149, 162, 167; as ableist, xiv, xxi, 17, 34, 78; in film, 34; Haller on, 16–17; Marvel Comics and, 17; media and, 151; supercrip and, 18; wheelchair users and, 80 Abnormal (Foucault), 45 abnormality, xix, 36; Foucault theory of, 21, 45; fukugo and, 165; genderqueer and, 147; GID and, 147, 148; monster and, 45–46; normal-abnormal discourse, 19, 21. See also monster and monstrosity accessibility, 12, 32; blindness and, 88, 90, 91, 95, 103, 104, 105; print disability and, 91, 104–105; transgender, 129; wheelchair, 64, 66, 84. See also barrier-free The Accountant (film), 17–18 ADA. See Americans with Disabilities Act ADD (attention deficit disorder), 14 ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), 13–14, 111, 151 adulthood sight loss (chūto-shitsumei), 100, 102 aging, xi, 17, 18, 22–23, 161 201

202     Index

127; Can I Quit Being a Mom? and, 108, 113, 122, 122–124; community and, 107; discrimination and, 112, 113, 117; family and, 111–113; gender and, 108–109; high and low functioning binary, 108, 109; history of, 109–111; invisibility of, 116–117; jiheishō and, 107, 119, 127; kosei-ron and, 108; kūki ga yomenai and, 112, 116; in literature, 126; neurodiversity and, 13–14, 107; Okita and, 126–127; Pro-chichi and, 108, 111, 114–116, 114; The Reason I, an Aspie, Jump and, 107; refrigerator mother myth and, 124–126; savant and, 108; shame and, 112; statistics on, 108–109; stigma and, 111, 118; With the Light and, 108, 113, 117–122, 118. See also Asperger’s syndrome awareness, 95, 102, 104, 120, 146; autism, 113, 171; biological sex, 131; disability, xiii, xiv, xvi–xvii, 22, 135, 152, 154; minority, 154, 163, 165; public, 103, 135, 143, 163; social, 34, 56, 108, 116, 119, 121, 133 Babel (film) (Iñárritu): isolation in, 46; monstrosity in, 45–46 Barbara Gordon trope, 87 baria-furī. See barrier free Barnum, P. T., 15 barrier free (baria-furī), 13, 18, 103; kokoro no baria-furī (soft accessibility), 102, 103–104 Basic Law for Persons with Disabilities, 47 Bettelheim, Bruno, 125–126 blindness, xi, 151; accessibility and, 88, 90, 91, 95, 103, 104, 105; Ask, Lo, the Flowers! and, xiii–xiv, 90–91,

92–96, 92, 104; braille and, 96, 104; chūto-shitsumei and, 100, 102; cultural membership and, xvi; discrimination and, 103, 106; employment and, 95; Happy! and, 91, 100, 101–102; Hirose and, 89–90, 92–93, 95, 97–98, 104; musicians and, 10, 168; mobility and, 90, 101, 102; one-eyed hero trope, 105; print disability and, 91, 104–105; public transportation hazards and, 94–95, 104; sightedblind couples, 96–98; statistics on, 105–106; sunglasses and, 96; Takeshita and, 99, 102; touch and, 92; The Vision Field of Affection and, 91, 96–100, 97, 104; Zatōichi and, 88–90 braille, 96, 104. See also blindness Bryce, Mio, 108, 112, 113, 127 business model (of disability), 32 calling out. See okoegake Can I Quit Being a Mom? (Yamaguchi), 108, 113, 122, 122–124 changelings, 46, 163. See also monster and monstrosity childhood disintegrative disorder, 110 Children of a Lesser God (film), 39 chūto-shitsumei (adulthood sight loss), 100, 102 civil rights, 10, 11, 32 CODA, 55, 56 coexistence (kyōsei), 19, 22 collected editions of manga. See tankō-bon comic artists. See manga-ka comic portrayal of disability, 35–41; able-bodied readers, 37–38; atmosphere type and, 37; female characters and, 36, 37; supercrip and, 35,

Index     203

48, 151, 152; villain and, 34, 35–36, 37, 76, 80, 151; X-Men and, 38–39, 67, 80, 162, 166 contemporary disability issues: abjection as, 13, 15; ableism as, 13, 16–18, 40, 80, 151, 162, 167; barrier-free, 18, 103; enfreakment as, 3, 15–16, 35, 151; Foucault theory of abnormality as, 21; inspiration porn and, 13, 18–19; kyōsei as, 19, 22; markedness and, 19–21, 134–135, 149, 163, 175; narrative prosthesis and, 13, 16, 33, 70, 86, 90, 147; neurodiversity as, xvi , 13–14, 22, 107, 111; normalabnormal discourse and, 19 cross-dressing, 134–135, 144–147, 173, 174, 176 CRPD. See United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities cultural pluralism model (of disability), 32 Dale, S. P. F., 133–134 Daredevil: (comics), 90, 168; (film), 90, 96, 104; (television), 170 Deaf culture, 14, 40, 56, 60, 164; hard-of-hearing people and, 60–62, 165; Karube and, 48, 53–58 deafness, xi; Babel and, 45–56; cultural membership and, xvi; deaf community, 51–52, 61, 163, 164; disability and, 55–56; Far-Off Kōshien Stadium as, 49–50, 51–52; Gangsta, 46, 47–48; hard of hearing and, 60–62, 165; history of deaf manga, 47–51; Home of Acorns and, xiii, 8, 46, 48, 49, 50–51, 52, 62; Ilea on, 39–40; My Finger Orchestra as, 40, 50; rōchōfuku and, 51–52, 61;

Sabishii nowa anta dake janai, 46, 59, 60–63; supercrip and, 48; Your Hands Are Whispering, 46, 48, 53–58, 53, 59, 62–63, 98 deafness with multiple disabilities (rōchōfuku), 51 developmental disabilities: pervasive developmental disorder, 108, 110; in With the Light, 119. See hattatsu shōgai The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), 110–111, 173, 175 different person. See ijin; Other disability (shōgai): aging and, xi, 18, 22–23, 161; awareness, xiii, xiv, xvi–xvii, 22, 135, 154; books on, xi; category selection, xi–xii; defining, xix, xxi, 3; GID and, 128, 129, 133, 134, 136, 138–139, 140, 143, 148–149; impairment compared to, xviii, 8; LGBT and, 140, 148–149; negative images of, xiv; poverty and, xi, 8, 22; statistics on, xi, 22, 37, 73, 79, 105–106, 108–109; as stigma, 149; theoretical foundation of, 10–13; villains and, 34, 35–37, 67, 151. See also specific topics disability activism, xviii, 6, 50, 63, 135–136, 148; framing and, 14; on inga, 7; Young and, 18 Disability History of the United States (Nielsen), 23 disability rights movement, 10; civil rights movement and, 11 The Disabled, the Media, and the Information Age (Nelson), 31 disabled person (shōgaisha), xvii; disability ID card (shōgaisha techō), 175; laws for, 24, 73–74, 103, 161, 167 discrimination, 5, 12, 30, 32, 99; anomaly and, 7–8; ASD and, 112,

204     Index

113, 117; autism and, 113–114, 117; blindness and, 99, 101, 103, 106; disability in Japan and, 5–8, 24; hearing loss and, 60–61, 86; hierarchy of, 8; inga and, 6; kegare and, 7; language and, xiv, xviii, 8; transgender, 147–148; workplace, 55 discriminatory language. See language; sabetsu yōgo diversity, xvii, 12, 33, 152–153; human, xi, xvi, xviii, xix, 9–10, 14, 129, 151. See also neurodiversity Donguri no ie. See Home of Acorns (Yamamoto) Double Happiness (Sugiyama), 129, 130, 133, 138; menstruation in, 131–132, 145 drama picture (gekiga), xii, 168 DSM. See The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders dwarfism, 4, 15, 64, 88 education, 12, 14, 18, 50, 95, 142–143, 163; discrimination and, 8; manga and, xiii–xiv, 127, 155; special, 9, 13, 14, 29, 64, 93, 119, 121; of Yoshimoto, 62 Education for All Handicapped Children Act, 14 ehu-tī-emu. See FtM The Elephant Man (film) (Lynch), 32–33 Ellis, Katie, xviii–xix, 5, 9, 28; on media, 29–30, 152; resurrection and, 73; on superhero trope, 17; on wheelchair commercial, 80 employment, 3, 11, 18, 73, 79, 167; blindness and, 95; GID and culture of, 140, 141; women with disabilities and, 73 emu-tī-ehu. See MtF

enfreakment, 3, 16; abjection and, 15–16; supercrip and, 35, 151 Epstein, Griffin, 125-126. See also refrigerator mother myth Extraordinary Measures (Straus), 10 family, and ASD, 111; emotional distress and, 112–113; shame and, 112 Far-Off Kōshien Stadium (Harukanaru Kōshien) (Yamamoto), 49–50, 51; sign language in, 52 Fasulo, Alessandra, 109-110, 115 female-to-male. See FtM femininity, 125; wheelchair and, 82, 87 filmic portrayal, 32; ableism and, 34; authentication and, 34; mental illnesses and, 33; moral metaphor and, 33–34; Sound and Fury and, 40; Sprout and, 34; types of disability in, 33; X-Men: The Last Stand and, 38, 39–40 Finkelstein, Vic, xviii–xix folklore and superstitions, in Japan: in Edo period, 3–4; Fukusuke legend, 3–4, 16; Hiruko in, 16; Hiruko legend, 65; ijin in, 5, 25–27; Issunbōshi in, 15–16; katako in, 46; killing of Other in, xviii; legend of Hiruko, xvii–xviii; in Meiji period, 4–5; monsters, 25, 30; narrative prosthesis and, 16; one-eyed hero trope in, 105; oni and, 26; pollution and, 7; Sendai Shirō legend, 4–5; Shinto characters in, 7, 16, 64–65, 105 folklore and superstitions, Western: monsters in, 46; “The Thumbling Tales,” 15 Foster, Michael Dylan, 26, 171 Foucault, Michel, 33; Abnormal by, 45; theory of abnormality, 21, 45

Index     205

framing theory: disability activism and, 14; media and, 31–32; medical model and, 32 freak shows, 15–16, 68, 160; GarlandThomson and, 15 FtM (female-to-male) (ehu-tī-emu), 131, 138, 141, 142, 143, 145; Torai and, 132–133, 135 fukugo (good-luck child), 58 fukugo metonymy (good fortune signifier): in Can I Quit Being a Mom?, 123; Fukusuke legend and, 4; Ono, Shiba and, 4–5, 46, 58, 123, 165; in Sendai Shirō legend, 4; Your Hands Are Whispering and, 58 Fukushima, Satoshi, 51 Fukusuke, legend of, 3, 16; fukugo metonymy and, 4 gakuen mono manga, 132 gakushū manga, xii Gangsta, 46, 47–48 Garland-Thomson, Rosemary, 7–8, 78, 81; freak shows and, 15 Gekiga (drama picture), xii, 168 gender, xvi; ASD and, 108–109; defining, 128; fluidity, 134–135; kabuki theater and, 135; in media, 28. See also women gender dysphoria (seibetsu iwa), 128–129 gender fluidity. See genderqueer gender identity disorder (seidōitsusei shōgai) (GID), xi; abnormality and, 147, 148; as archaic, 128; derogatory terms and, 132; disability and, 128, 129, 133, 134, 136, 138–139, 140, 143, 148–149; Double Happiness and, 129, 130–133, 130, 138, 145; employment culture and, 140; Hirasawa and, 138; pathologizing process and, 133–134; social

rank and, 133; SRS and, 136, 139, 141, 148; statistics on, 142–143; To Go from “He” to “She” and, 129, 136–138, 137; transgender and, 14, 128, 134, 135–136 genderqueer: abnormality and, 147; defining, 145–146; gender fluidity, 135, 145; passing and, 146; Wandering Son and, 129, 143–145, 144, 146–147 General Tom Thumb, 15 GID. See gender identity disorder GID Act, 141 Goffman, Erving, 8, 33 Goggin, Gerard, xviii–xix, 5, 9, 28; ableism and, 17; on circumstance and disability, 10; on media, 29–30, 152; print disability and, 104; on resurrection, 73; on wheelchair commercial, 80 good fortune. See fukugo metonymy good-luck child. See fukugo Gotai fumanzoku. See No One’s Perfect (Ototake) graphic novel, xi, xiv, xv, 28, 35 Great Graphic Novels for Teens, 36 Grimms’ Fairy Tales, 46 half child (katako), 46 Haller, Beth A.: on ableism, 16–17; framing theory and, 31–32; Representing Disability in an Ableist World by, 31 halo effect, 31–32 Hama, Nobuko, 91, 100, 101–102 Hana ni toitamae. See Ask, Lo, the Flowers! (Sasō) The Hands and Feet of the Heart (Nakamura), 16 Happy! (Hama), 91, 100; independence in, 101–102

206     Index

hard of hearing, 46, 58, 60–62, 165 Harukanaru Kōshien (Far-Off Kōshien Stadium) (Yamamoto), 49–50, 51–52 Hasegawa, Taizo, 85. See also The Wheelchair Counselor hattatsu shōgai (developmental disabilities), 111, 115. See also autism spectrum disorder Hattatsu-shōgai to media (Nozawa and Hajime), 28 Heyer, Katharina, xi, xviii, 7, 64, 160 Higashida, Naoki, 107, 172 Hikari to tomoni. See With the Light (Tobe) Hirasawa, Yūna, 134; GID and, 138; To Go from “He” to “She” by, 129, 136–138, 137, 139; MtF, 136, 137–138; SRS and, 139; as transgender, 140 Hirose, Kojiro, 89–90, 92–93, 95, 104; dining, 97; objects in house and, 97–98 Home of Acorns (Donguri no ie) (Yamamoto), xiii, 8, 46, 48, 49, 51, 62; conservative material in, 50; starting, 52 Hōrō musuko. See Wandering Son (Shimura) hypodermic model (of media reception), 31 ijin (different person), 64; abjection and, 15; in folklore, 5, 25–27; Komatsu and, 5, 15, 25, 26–27, 160; marebito and, 26–27; oni and, 26–27; Other and, 5, 15, 25–27; theory of ijin, 15, 26 ijin-goroshi (killing of the Other), 25, 27, 160 Ilea, Ramona, 11; on deafness, 39–40

impairment, xxi, 9, 11, 39, 47, 61, 66, 74, 77, 108, 110, 139, 161, 165; disability compared to, xviii, 8; visual, xvi, 19, 89, 95–96, 99, 101, 105 impurity or defilement. See kegare inability to read the atmosphere. See kūki ga yomenai inga (karma): discrimination and, 6; freak shows and, 160; kegare and, 7; stigma and, 8 Inoue, Takehiko: early life of, 74; Real by, xiii, 65, 74–79, 75, 86–87; Slam Dunk by, 74, 153; Vagabond by, 74 inspiration porn (kandō poruno): willpower and, 19; Young and, 18–19 International Year of Disabled People (IYDP) (Kokusai Shōgaisha Nen), 47 intersectionality, 13; disability-racegender, 13; between transgender and disability, 129 interviews, purpose of, xvii–xviii invisible disability, 11; ASD as, 116–117; hard of hearing as, 61; in Real, 79 Irwin, Marilyn, 36–37, 40 Issunbōshi (One-Inch Boy), 15–16 Itsukushimi no shiya. See The Vision Field of Affection (Sone) Iwanami, Akira, 111, 116, 117 IYDP. See International Year of Disabled People izari-guruma (ancient wheelchair), 72 Jakobson, Roman, 20 Japan: Basic Law for Persons with Disabilities and, 47; disability in, 88; discrimination and, 5–8; popular culture and, 8–10; social model of disability and, 9, 11–12 jiheishō (self-shutting), 107, 119, 127

Index     207

Jiheishō no boku ga tobihaneru riyū. See The Reason I, an Aspie, Jump (Higashida) Joker (fictional character), 36 josei manga, xii; pure love tested by challenges theme in, 53–54, 55–56; Your Hands Are Whispering in, 48, 53–55 Kafer, Allison, 128, 129 kandō poruno. See inspiration porn Kanner, Leo, 109, 110, 125 karma. See inga Karube, Junko: Deaf culture and, 56; Your Hands Are Whispering by, 46, 48, 53–58, 53, 59, 62–63, 98; Your Hands are Whispering, Finale by, 58 katako (half child), 46 Katsu, Shintarō, 88–89, 90 kegare (impurity or defilement): inga and, 7; stigma and, 7, 8 Keller, Helen, 51 ki (life force), 89–90 killing: child care and, 12; in folklore, xviii; ijin-goroshi as, 25, 27; infanticide, xviii; oyako-shinjū, 123–124; Uematsu and, 24–25 killing of the Other. See ijin-goroshi Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru. See Your Hands Are Whispering (Karube) Kodansha, 53, 54, 56, 84, 139 Kojiki, 7, 64, 65, 105 Kokusai Shōgaisha Nen. See International Year of Disabled People Komatsu, Kazuhiko: ijin and, 15, 25, 26–27; ijin-goroshi and, 25, 27 Komichi, Moko, 127 Kondo, Yoko, 65, 69–73, 69 Kono hoshi no nukumori (Sone), 127 kosei-ron (theory of personality), 108 Kristeva, Julia, 13. See also abjection

Ku, Poon Lung, 108, 112, 113, 127 kūki ga yomenai (inability to read the atmosphere), 112, 116 Kuppers, Petra, 66–67; on Murderball, 81, 82 Kuramoto Tomoaki, 22; on discrimination, 99; Someone Please Tell Me What Is Normal! by, 19; Temaneku furīku by, 28 Kurumaisu no kaunselā (The Wheelchair Counselor) (Orihara), 65–66 kyōsei (coexistence), 19, 22 ladies’ comics. See rediisu komikku language: culturally appropriate, xvii; discriminatory, xiv, xviii, 8; humor, xiv; shōgai, 9; sign language, 52, 56 learning disorders (LD), 111; social model of disability and, 13–14 left-handedness and, 20–21 legal model (of disability), 32 legend of Hiruko, xvii–xviii lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender. See LGBT Let Us Go on Foot. See Aruite ikō (Orihara) LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender), 128; cross-dressing and, 135; disability labeling and, 140, 148–149; same-sex marriage and, 141; statistics on, 142; Wandering Son and, 143. See also genderqueer Longmore, Paul, 30–31, 66–67 Lubbers, Edwin, 146, 147, 148 Mackie, Vera C., 141, 174 Makino, Eri, 47, 163 male-to-female. See MtF Manaberu manga 100-satsu (100 Manga Titles That Teach Us) (Sadoshima and Satonaka), 29

208     Index

manga: academia and, 150; aestheticsethics equation in, 76–77; benefits of reading, 153–155; communication rules, xii; disability patterns in, 28–29; education tool and, xiii–xiv; future of, 153; halo effect and, 32; history of deaf, 47–51; Japanese language education and, 155; manga basics, xv; physical characteristics of hero in, 76; selection process of, xv–xvii; sidekick characters in, xv; social change and, xiii–xv, 41, 150–151, 152–155; stereotypes in, 77. See also specific topics manga genres: gakuen mono manga, 132; gakushū manga, xii; gekiga, xii, 168; josei manga, xii, 48, 53–56; rabu-kome, 102; rediisu komikku, xii; rupo manga, xiii; seinen manga, 48, 75, 143, 146; sēnen manga, xii; shōjo manga, xii, 48; shōnen manga, xii; supokon manga, xii–xiii, 76, 78; yaoi manga, xiii. See also josei manga manga-ka (comic artists), 63; female, xiii, 50, 72. See also specific topics Manga no naka no shōgaishatachi (Nagai), 28, 29 marebito (rare person), 26–27 markedness, 19–21; context and, 20; Hiruko and, 65; left-handedness and, 20–21; Other and, xvii, 6, 16, 26; stigma and, 6, 163; transgender and, 134–135, 149, 175 Marvel Comics, 35; ableism and, 17; Matt Murdock (Daredevil) in, 90 masculinity and hypermasculinity, 74; manga and, 78, 84; in Murderball, 81–82; in Real, 78, 79; wheelchair users and, 68, 79–82 Matlin, Marlee, 39, 162 McLelland, Mark, 134–135

McRuer, Robert, 128, 129 media, xiii, xvi–xvii, 9–10, 21, 24–41, 47, 60, 65, 67, 68, 90, 106, 119, 126, 151–153, 160, 161, 163, 166, 175, 177; ableism and, 80, 151; accessibility and, 95; comic portrayal, 35–40, 41; Ellis, Katie, and Goggin on, 29–30, 152; filmic portrayal, 32–34, 38, 39–40; framing theory and, 31–32; gender differences and disability in, 28, 132, 134, 135, 139, 141, 146; gothic-fiction film, 30; halo effect and, 31–32; inspiration porn and, 18–19; medical model of disability and, 28; in mid-1960s through mid-1980s, 30; observational learning (by Elliott and Byrd) and, 151-152; overcoming disability in, 29; pity and, 151–152; rehabilitation and, 152; stereotypes, xv, 30–31, 34; stigma and, 31; supercrip and, 17, 32; why disability in media matters, 29–30; Zola on, 30 medical model of disability, xvi, xviii, 9, 21, 39, 73; aging and, 22–23; curing in, 71–72; framing theory and, 32; gender and, 28; media and, 28; theoretical foundation of disability and, 11 minority/civil rights model (of disability), 32 Mitchell, David T., 13, 16, 18, 107, 166; on wheelchair symbolism, 68 mobility, xi, 39; blindness and, 90, 101, 102; wheelchair and, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 74, 76, 80, 88, 90 Moeller, Robin, 36–37, 40 monster and monstrosity, 21; abnormality and, 45–46; changelings, 46, 163; in Japanese folklore, 25, 30; Other and, 45; in Western folklore, 46

Index     209

Moriguchi, Naomi, 127 MtF (male-to-female) (emu-tī-ehu), 132, 135, 143, 145, 174, 175, 176; Hirasawa and, 136, 137–138 Murderball (film), 67, 80–82; masculinity in, 81–82; sexuality in, 81–82 musicians, 10, 168 My Finger Orchestra (Wagayubi no ōkesutora) (Yamamoto), 40, 48–49, 50 Nagai, Akira, 8, 47, 48, 51, 63, 69–70, 112; Manga no naka no shōgaishatachi by, 28, 29 Nakamura, Hisako, 16 Nakamura, Karen, xi, 135–136, 163, 164 narrative prosthesis, 13, 16, 22, 33, 70, 86, 90, 147 neurodiversity, 22; AS and, xvi, 107, 111; Armstrong on, 13, 14; ASD and, 13–14, 107. New York Times Graphic Books Best Seller List, 37 NHK (Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai), 50, 56 Nielsen, Kim, x, 17, 23, 161, 163 Nihonshoki, 7, 64, 65, 105 Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai. See NHK nōmaraizeishon (normalization), 18, 48 No One’s Perfect (Gotai fumanzoku) (Ototake), 66 normal-abnormal discourse, 19, 21 normalization (nōmaraizeishon), 18, 48, 81, 161, 175 observational learning, 151 ogre. See oni Oguri hangan (Lord Oguri) (Kondo), 65, 69, 70; curing in, 71–72, 73; original tale of, 72; as sekkyō, 70, 71, 72, 167 Ōima, Yoshitoki, 59, 60 Okita, Bakka, 126–127

okoegake (calling out), 104 Oliver, Michael, 12 one-eyed hero trope, 16, 105, 106, 170, 171 One-Inch Boy (Issunbōshi), 15–16 oni (ogre): ijin and, 26–27; in Spirited Away, 26 Ono, Tomoya, 7; fukugo metonymy and, 4–5, 46, 58, 123, 165 Orihara Mito: Aruite ikō by, 86; Kurumaisu no kaunselā by, 65–66; The Wheelchair Counselor by, 86 Other, xvii; discriminatory language and, xiv; enfreakment and, 15; fear of, 24–25; folklore on killing of, xviii; gothic-fiction film and, 30; ijin and, 5, 15, 25–27, 160; monstrosity and, 45; sociohistorical attitudes toward, xvii; stigma and, 6; transgender and, 148 otherness, 15; defining, 5–6; oni and, 26. See also folklore and superstitions, in Japan Ototake, Hideto, 66 Ousaka, Mieko: AS and, 114, 116; Pro-chichi by, 108, 111, 114–116, 114 oyako-shinjū (parent-child murdersuicide), 123–124, 172 Pāfekuto wārudo. See Perfect World (Aruga) Paralympic athletes, 17, 21, 35, 82 paraplegia, 8, 74, 86; in popular culture, 8 parent-child murder-suicide. See oyako-shinjū passing: genderqueer and, 146; transgender and, 19; in X-Men, 38–39 Perfect World (Pāfekuto wārudo) (Aruga), xiii, 59, 65–66, 83, 85, 86,

210     Index

87, 138; pure love tested by challenges theme and, 86; romance in, 84 popular culture, xiii, 26, 27, 73, 88, 151; disability in Japan and, 9–10; paraplegics in, 8. See also comic portrayal; filmic portrayal; manga poverty, xi, 8, 22, 39, 96, 98, 139 Price, Margaret, 128, 129 print disability, 91, 102, 103–105 Pro-chichi (Ousaka), 108, 111, 114, 117, 171; invisible disorder in, 116; stay-at-home father in, 114–115 public transportation hazards, 94–95, 104; accessibility and, 39, 64, 91, 96, 103 pure love tested by challenges theme: Aruite ikō and, 86; in josei manga, 53–54, 55–56; Perfect World and, 86 quadriplegia, 74; sexuality and, 81–82 rabu-kome (rom-com) genre, 102 Rain Man (film), 108, 117 rare person. See marebito Real (Inoue), xiii, 65, 74–75, 75, 86–87; aesthetics-ethics equation in, 76–78; characters in, 76, 79; invisibility in, 79; masculinity in, 78, 79; supokon manga and, 78; Wood on, 78–79 The Reason I, an Aspie, Jump (Jiheishō no boku ga tobihaneru riyū) (Higashida), 107 rediisu komikku (ladies’ comics), xii Reeve, Christopher, 34, 74 refrigerator mother myth, 124–126 Refrigerator Mothers (film), 124 regeneration (saisei), 57 rehabilitation, 25, 77–78, 82, 129, 166; Bettelheim and, 125–126;

media and, 152; Nihon Shōgaisha Rihabiriteishon and, 65 Reider, Noriko, 26. See also oni Reintsurii no kuni (World of Delight) (Arikawa), 60-61 reportage manga. See rupo manga restoration, 21, 72 Rett syndrome, 110 Richard III (Shakespeare, W.), 36 rōchōfuku (deafness with multiple disabilities): Fukushima as, 51; Yamamoto and, 51, 52 rom-com. See rabu-kome Rozema, Robert, 121, 126, 127 rupo manga (reportage manga), xiii sabetsu yōgo (discriminatory language), xiv, xviii, 8 Sabishii nowa anta dake janai (Someone Else Also Feels Lonely) (Yoshimoto), 46, 59; Big Comics publishing, 63; as documentary manga, 62; exclusion and, 61; hard-of-hearing people in, 60; interviews for, 60, 61–62 saisei (regeneration), 57–58 Sasō, Akira, xiii–xiv, 90–91, 92–96, 92, 104 savant, 108; autistic, 117, 121 Schmiesing, Ann, 15, 28, 46, 163 seibetsu iwa. See gender dysphoria seidōitsusei shōgai. See gender identity disorder seinen manga, 48, 75, 143, 146 sekkyō (sermon ballad), 70, 71, 72, 167 selection process, of manga titles, xi, xv–xvii self-shutting. See jiheishō Sendai Shirō legend, 5; fukugo metonymy in, 4 sermon ballad. See sekkyō

Index     211

service dogs, 102, 103 sex reassignment surgery (SRS), 136, 137, 175; diagnosis for, 148–149; Hirasawa and, 139; laws in Japan on, 141 sexuality: LGBTQ and, 140, 147, 176; masculinity and, 67, 74, 82; quadriplegia and, 81–82; women and, 16, 65, 164 Shakespeare, Tom, 5, 12, 88, 90, 159 Shiba, Masao, 7; fukugo metonymy and, 4–5, 46, 58, 123, 165 Shimura, Takako, 129, 143–145, 144, 146–147, 176 Shingeki no kyojin (Attack of the Titans), xii Shino Can’t Say Her Own Name (Shino-chan wa jibunno namae ga ienai), xv Shinto characters, 7, 16, 64–65, 105, 171 Shirato, Sanpei: Kamui-den by, xi; Kamui gaiden by, xii shōgai (disability). See disability shōgai rikai kyōiku (special-needs understanding education), 29 shōgaisha (disabled person), xvii; ID card, 175; laws for, 24, 73–74, 103, 161, 167 Shōgaisha Sabetsu Kaishōhō (antidiscrimination act), 24, 73–74; service dogs and, 102, 103 shōjo manga, xii, 48, 84, 86, 176 shōnen manga, xii sign language (shuwa), 48, 50, 52, 54, 55, 56, 58, 60, 61, 63, 162, 163, 164, 165 A Silent Voice (Ōima), 59, 60 Singer, Judy, 13 Slam Dunk (Inoue), 74, 153 Snyder, Sharon L., 13, 16, 18, 68 social action, xiii, 154

social change and manga, xiii–xv, 8, 41, 63, 150–151, 152–155 social model of disability, xvi, xix, 9, 11, 14, 39, 149; critiques of, 12–13, 159; Finkelstein and, xiv–xix; in Japan, 11; LD and, 13–14; transgender and, 138–139 social pathology model (of disability), 32 soft accessibility (kokoro no baria-furī). See barrier-free Someone Else Also Feels Lonely. See Sabishii nowa anta dake janai (Yoshimoto) Someone Please Tell Me What Is Normal! (Kuramoto), 19 Sone, Fumiko: Kono hoshi no nukumori by, 127; The Vision Field of Affection by, 91, 96–100, 97, 104 Sound and Fury (film), 40 special-needs understanding education (shōgai rikai kyōiku), 29 Spirited Away (film), 26 Sprout, 34 SRS. See sex reassignment surgery Stibbe, Arran, 9, 28, 160, 164 stigma: ASD and, 111, 118; culturally shared ideas and presumptions and, xvi; disability as, 149; inga and, 6; kegare and, 7, 8; media and, 31; Other and, 6; transgender, 129 Stratton, Charles Sherwood, 15 stutter, xv, 151 Sugiyama, Fumino, 134, 141, 143; Double Happiness by, 129, 130–133, 130, 138, 145; early life of, 131–132; on nightclub workers, 139; as transgender, 131, 140 supercrip, xv, xxviii, 152; ableism and, 18; as comic portrayal, 35; deaf manga and, 48; enfreakment and, 35, 151; media and, 32; sports heroes

212     Index

as, 17; in X-Men, 38; Zatōichi as, 88–89 superhero trope, 17 supokon manga, xii–xiii, 76; physical characteristics in, 78 Takara (gift), 5 Takeshita, Yachiyo, 99, 102; service dogs and, 103 tankōbon manga (collected editions of manga), 75, 91, 95 Temaneku furīku (Kuramoto), 28 theoretical foundation of disability: civil rights and, 10; CRPD and, 13; medical model of disability and, 11; social model of disability and, 11–12 theory of personality. See kosei-ron Thomas and Boellstorff, 109, 110, 111, 171 “The Thumbling Tales,” 15 Tobe, Keiko: death of, 121–122; With the Light by, 108, 113, 117–122, 118 To Go from “He” to “She” (Hirasawa), 129, 136–138, 137, 139 tōjisha, xvii, 175, 177 Torai, Masae, 132–133, 135 toransugendā. See transgender Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms (Yūnagi no machi, sakura no kuni) (Kōno), 36 transgender (toransugendā), xiv, xvi, xxi, 14, 130, 145, 146, 147, 154, 173, 174, 175, 176; accessibility and, 129; celebrity activists and, 132–133; community in Japan, 129, 133; cross-dressing and, 134–135; disability compared to, 129, 149; discrimination, 147–148; FtM, 131–133, 135, 141, 142, 143; gender identity disorder and, 14, 128; GID and, 14, 128, 134, 135–136;

Hirasawa as, 140; hormone therapy and, 149; intersectionality, 129; legal challenges and, 140; markedness and, 134–135; Other and, 148; passing and, 19; social model of disability and, 138–139; stigma, 129; Sugiyama as, 131, 140; in theater, 135; violence and, 141–142, 143 Tsuchiya, Yo, 28, 51, 54, 57, 86 Tsukui Yamayuri En, 24-25 Uematsu, Satoshi, 24–25 Ueno, Chizuko, 18 United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD), 13 United Nations Decade of Disabled Persons (1983–1992), 47 United States (US), xviii, 10, 13, 64; ADA in, xxi, 9, 32, 35, 47, 170, 175; integration in, 79 villain, 80, 89; comic portrayal, 34, 35–36, 37, 76, 80, 151; disabled, 34, 35–37, 67, 151; physical characteristics of, 76; stuttering and, 151 violence: transgender, 141–142, 143. See also killing The Vision Field of Affection (Itsukushimi no shiya) (Sone), 91, 96–97, 97, 100, 104; equality in, 99; female happiness in, 98–99 visual impairment, xvi. See also blindness Wagayubi no ōkesutora. See My Finger Orchestra (Yamamoto) Wandering Son (Hōrō musuko) (Shimura), 129, 144, 147; beauty standards in, 146; gender fluidity in, 144–145; LGBT community and, 143

Index     213

X-Men: passing in, 38–39; supercrips in, 38; wheelchair in, 67–68; as films, 38, 39–40, 67, 80, 162, 166;

welfare history, in Japan, 73–74 The Wheelchair Counselor (Orihara), 86 wheelchair-user menace metaphor, 67 wheelchair users: ableism and, 80; accessibility, 64, 66, 84; Barbara Gordon trope and, 87; femininity and, 82, 87; Forrest Gump and, 68; hypermasculinity and, 79–82; izari-guruma and, 72; Kuppers and, 66–67, 81, 82; mobility and, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 74, 76, 80, 88; Murderball and, 67, 80, 81–82; Oguri hangan and, 65, 69–73, 69; Ototake as, 66; Perfect World and, xiii, 59, 65–66, 83–86, 83, 87; Real and, xiii, 65, 74–79, 75, 86–87; sexuality and, 81–82; symbolism of, 65, 66–69; welfare history in Japan for, 73–74; women as, 87; in X-Men, 67–68, 80 With the Light (Hikari to tomoni) (Tobe K.), 108, 113, 117–122, 118; developmental disabilities in, 119; low-functioning autism in, 119–121; real-life basis for, 121 women, 8; employment and, 73; female characters in comics, 36, 37; female happiness, 98; lovemaking initiated by (folklore), 16, 65; as wheelchair users, 87 World of Delight (Reintsurii no kuni) (Arikawa), 60-61

Yamaguchi, Kako, 108, 113, 122–124, 122 Yamamoto, Osamu, 63; awards of, 51; Far-Off Kōshien Stadium by, 49–50, 51–52; Home of Acorns by, xiii, 8, 46, 48, 49, 50–51, 52, 62; as manga-ka, 50; My Finger Orchestra by, 40, 50; rōchōfuku and, 51, 52 yaoi manga, xiii yōkai (apparitions), 27, 170, 171 Yokota, Hiroshi, 65, 166 Yorita, Miyuki, 130, 139 Yoshimoto, Koji: education of, 62; Sabishii nowa anta dake janai by, 46, 59, 60–63 Young, Stella, 9, 18 Your Hands Are Whispering (Kimi no te ga sasayaiteiru) (Karube), 46, 53, 59, 62–63, 98; fukugo and, 58; heroine of, 54–55; in josei manga, 48, 53–54; saisei in, 57–58; social issues in, 54–55 Your Hands are Whispering, Finale (Karube), 58 Yūnagi no machi, sakura no kuni (Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms) (Kōno), 36

Xavier, Charles (fictional character), 38–39, 67–68, 80

Zatōichi (fictional character), 48, 88–91, 105, 168

About the Author Yoshiko Okuyama is professor of Japanese studies and second language acquisition in the Department of Languages at the University of Hawai‘i at Hilo. Her areas of specialization include Japanese mythology and media studies, second language acquisition, technology-mediated communication, and disability studies, particularly on sign language communication. Her recent publications include Japanese Mythology in Film: A Semiotic Approach to Reading Japanese Film and Anime (2015).