Reworking Japan: Changing Men at Work and Play under Neoliberalism 9781501753053

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REWORKING JAPAN

REWORKING JAPAN Changing Men at Work and Play ­under Neoliberalism Nana Okura Gagné

ILR PRESS AN IMPRINT OF CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS  ITHACA AND LONDON

 Copyright © 2020 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. Visit our website at cornellpress​.­cornell​.­edu. First published 2020 by Cornell University Press Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Gagné, Nana Okura, author. Title: Reworking Japan : changing men at work and play under neoliberalism / Nana Okura Gagné. Description: Ithaca [New York] : ILR Press, an imprint of Cornell University Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020012046 (print) | LCCN 2020012047 (ebook) | ISBN 9781501753039 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781501753053 (pdf) | ISBN 9781501753046 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Men—Japan—Social conditions. | Masculinity—Japan. | Men—Japan—Identity. | Corporate culture—Japan. | Leisure—Social aspects—Japan. | Japan—Economic conditions—1989Classification: LCC HQ1090.7.J3 G34 2020 (print) | LCC HQ1090.7.J3 (ebook) | DDC 305.310952—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020012046 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020012047

 To Japa­nese workers, for their passion, challenges, and humor To Sumie Okura and Kinya Okura

Contents

Acknowl­edgments Note on Translations, Transliterations, and Names Prelude Introduction

ix xiii xv 1

Par t 1 LOCATING SALARYMEN, CAPITALISM, AND NEOLIBERALISM IN JAPAN 1. ​Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

25

2.

65

Working in and Working on Neoliberalism

Par t 2 AFTER WORK, BEYOND LEISURE, AND INDIVIDUAL DESIRES 3.

The Business of Leisure, the Leisure of Business

93

4.

Working Hard at Having Fun through Hobbies and Community

123

Par t 3 MULTIPLICITIES OF MEN 5.

Escaping the Corporate Shackles

155

6.

Navigating the Waves of Work and Life

175

7.

Weathering the Storms of Corporate Restructuring

205

Conclusion

242

Notes References Index

259 267 283

Acknowl­e dgments

This book is about Japa­nese men who are working men, ­family men, aging men, and complex individual men in twenty-­first ­century Japan. While salarymen and hostesses have taught me the importance of their dynamic “give-­and-­take” relationship (mochitsu motaretsu no kankei) for enabling and sustaining each other in con­temporary Japa­nese society, not only my fieldwork but also my writing pro­ cess itself has been supported—­often unilaterally—by many ­people, sometimes making me feel that I have been on the receiving end of an entirely taking relationship (motaretsu no kankei). This book would never have been pos­si­ble without the help of many ­people who ­were involved in my research, whose support I can never fully reciprocate. First and foremost, I owe my deepest intellectual debt and sincerest gratitude to William Kelly, for his continuous support with critical and thoughtful feedback and invaluable insights at Yale and beyond, and who challenged me to think and analyze holistically, historically, and theoretically. The seeds of his wisdom continue to bear fruit in my work and have continuously helped me to grow my passion for anthropology. My path to anthropology is something I can never take for granted. I am tremendously grateful for the positive influences through anthropology and history and the intellectual encouragement that made it pos­si­ble for me to find my home in anthropology. I wish to thank Linda Angst, Tianshu Pan, Peter Perdue, Jordan Sand, David Sutton, and Yuka Suzuki. Without their positive encouragement, my journey to anthropology would never have begun. At Yale, I have been intellectually guided by Kamari Clark, William Kelly, Karen Nakamura, Linda-­Anne Rebhun, Katherine Rupp, Harold Scheffler, and Helen Siu. During my years at Yale, I have benefited not only from faculty members but also from my colleagues who shared their thoughts, ideas, and support with me. ­These include Allison Alexy, Anne Aronsson, Dominik Bartmanski, Yao Cheng, Seth Curley, Isaac Gagné, Joseph Hill, Hansun Hsiung, Brenda Kombo, Minhua Ling, Molly Margaretten, Richard Payne, Christian Ratcliff, Ryan Sayre, Colin Smith, Nathaniel Smith, Angélica Torres, Gavin Whitelaw, Jun Zhang, and Tiantian Zheng. Second, this book would not have been pos­si­ble without the many Japa­nese workers who spent time with me and shared their lives, emotions, and thoughts. Their experiences and reflections reveal how our understanding of events and ix

x

Acknowl­e dgments

narrations of ourselves is always dynamic and changing, being susceptible to such macro events as the Lehman shock and the March 11, 2011, disaster as well as such micro events as ­family issues, illness, layoffs, and retirement, which disrupted and redirected the lives of my in­for­mants. I am truly grateful that so many of them allowed me to continually follow—­and be a part of—­how they rewrote their own biographies. My greatest debt is owed to Chaoka Kaoru, Fujii Yukiko, Fukuda Ken, Gunji Takeshi, Kaneko Tōru, Katō Tomomi, Kawaguchi Kenjirō, Komori Akiko and Komori Yōichi, Mabe Toshio, Matsushita Akiko, Matsushita Sueo, Murakami Tomoyuki, Nishio Motohide, Ōmori Mikiichiro, Ōnuma Mitsuko, Sasaki Akihito, Sasaki Shinobu, Sasajima Iwao, Shida Kazutaka, Tanahashi Seiichi, and Tanaka Kenji. I am also greatly indebted to Asahina Yoshifumi and to the many members of the marathon club, volunteer cleaning group, and hostess clubs. My fieldwork has been supported through generous grants from the Japan Foundation, Yale University, the Yale MacMillan Center, and the Yale Council on East Asian Studies (CEAS), as well as Waseda University. In Japan, my fieldwork was aided by David Slater, who always pushed me to think critically through the materials and gave me invaluable advice while I was in the field. A Waseda University Asakawa Fellowship made it pos­si­ble for me to have access to many Japa­ nese archives, and Glenda Roberts provided me with intellectual guidance and unflagging encouragement during my writing. I am also very grateful to Emma Cook and Kate Goldfarb, who read my manuscript and shared their responses. At the Institute of Social Science (ISS) at The University of Tokyo, I received much intellectual stimulation and guidance from Hiroshi Ishida and Kaoru Satō, who professionalized me in the Japa­nese acad­emy. I very much enjoyed the ISS young researchers seminar, exchanging ideas and discussing with colleagues, ­especially Itō Asei, Sugawara Ikuko, and Taki Hirobumi. My research and writing ­were further supported by grants from The Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK) Faculty of Arts and the Hong Kong University Grants Committee. At CUHK, Ben Ng and Lynne Nakano have supported me and my research greatly. I am also grateful to Jeremy Yellen for providing historical materials. I have been fortunate to be connected with fellow anthropologists at CUHK, Ju-­ chen Chen, Sealing Cheng, Teresa Kuan, Gordon Mathews, and Huang Yu, who invited me for talks and shared their anthropological insights as well as humor. Moreover, Ann Lui, Negishi Hanako, and Nagaoka Misaki provided essential technical help and meticulous research assistance, which made it pos­si­ble to put the finishing touches on the book. I am also indebted to Angélica Torres for continuous support as well as practical advice for my writing. Fi­nally, I have greatly benefited from Frances Benson, Jennifer Eastman, and Ellen Murphy from Cornell University Press for their advice and support, Mike Roy for his



Acknowl­e dgments

xi

indexing, and from the excellent copyediting by Matthew Perez and Mary Gendron. I also offer thanks to the anonymous reviewers for their careful reading, critical and constructive comments, and suggestions, which helped make my manuscript considerably stronger. Lastly, I wish to dedicate this book to all the Japa­nese workers involved in this book as well as to my f­ amily, Sumie and Kinya Okura, who have always had faith in me and encouraged me to pursue my passion. I could not have completed this book without the support, love, and cheer at home from Mona Okura Gagné and Paola Samaniego, as well as Elaine and Thomas Gagné, who always encouraged me from overseas. Last but not least, I am profoundly grateful to Isaac Gagné, my academic and life partner, who helped me on a daily basis and kept me encouraged and enthusiastic to study anthropology, Japan, and everyday life by his constant challenging of any sort of ste­reo­types and assumptions.

Parts of the introduction, chapter 2, and the conclusion of this book ­were published in ­earlier versions and dif­fer­ent forms in “Neoliberalism at Work: Corporate Reforms, Subjectivity, and Post-­Toyotist Affect in Japan,” Anthropological Theory, February 6, 2019, http://­dx​.­doi​.­org​/­10​.­1177​/­1463499618807294; and “ ‘Correcting Capitalism’: Changing Metrics and Meanings of Work among Japa­ nese Employees,” Journal of Con­temporary Asia 38, no. 1 (2018): 67–87, https://­ doi​.­org​/­10​.­1080​/­00472336​.­2017​.­1381984. Parts of chapter 3 w ­ ere published in an ­earlier version in a dif­fer­ent form in “Feeling like a ‘Man’: Managing Gender, Sexuality, and Corporate Life in After-­Hours Tokyo,” in Cultural Politics of Gender and Sexuality in Con­temporary Asia, ed. Tiantian Zheng, 74–91 (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2016); and “The Business of Leisure, the Leisure of Business: Rethinking Hegemonic Masculinity through Gendered Ser­v ice in Tokyo Hostess Clubs,” Asian Anthropology 9, no. 1 (2010): 29–55. Parts of chapter 7 ­were published in an ­earlier version in a dif­fer­ent form in “Neoliberal Ideology and Shifting Salarymen Identities ­under Corporate Restructuring in Japan,” in Edges of Identity: The Production of Neoliberal Subjectivities, ed. Jonathon Louth, 181–206 (Chester, UK: University of Chester Press, 2017).

Note on Translations, Transliterations, and Names

This book uses the modified Hepburn system to translate Japanese-­language words, with the exception of commonly recognized place-­names. All translations are mine except where other­wise noted. When writing Japa­nese names, I follow the Japa­nese order of surname followed by personal name.

xiii

Prelude

In Ginza, Tokyo, around ten thirty on an ordinary Tuesday night in July, ten members of MTC,1 a major Japa­nese telecommunications com­pany, just arrived for after-­work drinking at the hostess club Class A.2 They ­were a mixture of young and se­nior male employees—­often referred to as “salarymen”—­and to­night the head of the department, Takizawa-­buchō (division man­ag­er), arranged the trip to a restaurant and a club to bring his subordinates together to commemorate their midterm business per­for­mance. Inside Class A, where I was conducting fieldwork as a hostess, I was waiting with six other hostesses, ready to entertain them and facilitate this night out in the after-­hours space of Japan’s “night business” (mizu shōbai). Mizu shōbai, literally meaning “­water business” for its unpredictable flow of income, facilitates the “leisure of business,” where Japa­nese businessmen go ­after work to create and deepen connections for corporate, semicorporate, or personal entertainment while being served by hostesses. Takizawa-­buchō and his coworkers ­were just such regular customers, and to­night like many nights they had come to celebrate and relax together with drinks and conversation. ­After the formal greeting to thank them for coming, all the hostesses flew into action, busily preparing whisky for the MTC members and fixing snacks to go with the drinks. While some men looked quite tipsy already, they quickly sobered when it came to the delicate activity of negotiating seating. No one seemed willing to sit by their boss, Takizawa-­buchō, who was absent at the moment for an impor­tant phone call. In the end, as one of the main functions of a hostess is being a social lubricant, Mama-­san, the head of the club, assigned five hostesses to take their seats among the men and chose another hostess and me to sit directly next to Takizawa-­ buchō. ­After ten minutes or so, Takizawa-­buchō hastily rushed in. Unlike what I had expected, he was a very young-­looking man in his midforties who did not look like he could be the boss for many of the older employees. ­Earlier, one senior-­ looking man told me how MTC is a progressive com­pany based on the new personnel evaluation system—­“the performance-­based merit system,” or seika-­shugi. It was implemented as a grade, pay, and promotion system based solely on short-­ term per­for­mance, and the com­pany no longer maintained long-­term employment and se­niority systems. Holding a master’s degree from an elite university, Takizawa-­buchō seemed to be one of t­ hose employees who had risen through the xv

xvi Prelude

ranks based on his per­for­mance, an example of the changing face of Japa­nese corporate culture u ­ nder Japan’s economic restructuring. Immediately ­after the official toast, the group began a typical drinking chant as Takizawa-­buchō sat down over a glass of whisky. While singing and listening to karaoke songs, some members chatted and joked with other colleagues, some played at seducing the hostesses or impressing Mama-­san, and ­others looked seriously for the next song to sing or simply moved to the m ­ usic. As I served drinks to the men around me, one of the young members in his late twenties, Katō-­san, caught my attention as he was the target of many conversations. L ­ ater, while Katō-­ san and another young man ­were dancing, they jokingly started taking off their business suits to the beat of the m ­ usic, beginning with shoes, blazers, and ties. At first they ­were simply pretending to strip in order to provoke the audience. Yet soon they had caught every­body’s attention—to the extent that they could not stop what they had jokingly started. As Katō-­san and the other man stripped down to their underwear, I knew that this was not a normal scene but one that was unfolding nonetheless. The rest of the members increased their chanting with one goal in mind: they expected Katō-­san to strip completely naked for his fellow MTC members. One member asked the hostesses to play an “appropriate” song, and Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away” was chosen to create the mood for Katō-­san’s following actions. Once Katō-­san was u ­ nder the spotlight, he struck a pose like a body builder in order to warm up the audience. The rest of the male customers and hostesses chanted louder and louder, shouting “Show time!” to encourage him to strip off his underwear. Not knowing what to do, I sensed the abnormality of this scene from the subtle tense looks on the f­aces of the other hostesses, and I viscerally reacted to what Katō-­san would do in the next moment. When he placed his hands on his underwear, without thinking I quickly jumped out of my seat and ran into the back room, feigning that I had something to do in the kitchen. I heard the increasing laughter and chanting continue, so I quietly waited in the kitchen ­until the commotion calmed down. When I returned to my seat, Katō-­san was in the bathroom putting his suit back on. Katō-­san had in fact taken his underwear off completely in front of the hostesses, Mama-­san, and his fellow members of MTC. However, he had managed to do so without exposing his private parts. One hostess, Rica-­chan, had offered a whisky glass so that Katō-­san could use it as cover, despite its transparency. Similarly, one man had taken out a flat dish for snacks from the ­table and had it ready for Katō-­san’s “show.” Thus, Katō-­san had stripped successfully without completely exposing his body. Soon ­after the heated excitement, although the atmosphere was still light and fun, I noticed a slight change in the mood. It turned out that a few members had

Prelude

xvii

taken pictures of Katō-­san’s nude body with their cell phones from an a­ ngle with an unimpeded view and had proposed to send the picture through the com­pany e-­mail to every­one in the com­pany for fun. Soon, however, I heard many men saying, “That is not good” or “We should consider Katō’s position.” Many objected to the e-­mail proposal, though many had been complicit with his stripping. In the end, one se­nior salaryman said, “Katō did it in order to liven up the atmosphere for us, so it is unfair for us to circulate his picture. . . . ​­Those who took pictures of Katō with their cell phones should immediately delete them!” As the comment implied, Katō-­san had not given the strip show for himself or his own aggrandizement. Katō-­san returned from the bathroom fully dressed, and I returned to my seat. Takizawa-­buchō suddenly noticed that I had been away. He had not lost his calm and quiet demeanor and seemed deep in thought, watching Katō-­san from a distance. Nodding approvingly, he commented, seemingly to himself, “Katō . . . ​ pretty impressive. I did not know he was a person who would actually do it, you know.” Noticing my bewildered face—­I was trying hard to interpret what had just occurred—he continued: It may be hard to understand. But this kind of be­hav­ior can be characterized as “self-­sacrifice” [ jiko gisei]. This may seem unbelievable to you, but unfortunately we still do this kind of t­ hing . . . ​[,] building a sense of togetherness through one’s self-­sacrificing actions [jiko gisei ni yori ittaikan wo fukameru]. But honestly . . . ​I did not expect to see Katō act like that ­today. He is a young man, still . . . ​he is truly full-­fledged [hito toshite dekiteru]. According to Takizawa-­buchō, if such self-­sacrificing be­hav­ior, no m ­ atter how embarrassing, degrading, or even offensive, helps to arouse the audience and raise the atmosphere, it is commendable. While Takizawa-­buchō used the word self-­ sacrifice (jiko gisei), he did not simply refer to d ­ oing something that was self-­ demeaning; he meant that it was Katō-­san’s willingness and intention of daring to go this far for the ­others that was to be acknowledged. As a female observer who was inexperienced in both the worlds of business and leisure, I was doubly shocked, not only by what happened with Katō-­san (his actions) but also what happened with the o ­ thers (their reception). Sensing my continued puzzlement, Takizawa-­buchō explained, “It is difficult for one individual to raise the atmosphere, you know. ­Here [at the hostess club] we are all equal [kokodewa minna issho]. But in the com­pany, I am a boss, and they are my subordinates. We hardly associate with each other this way.” ­Later that eve­ning I had a chance to serve Katō-­san. I noticed that he was occasionally but surreptitiously checking the time for his last train. As much as he

xviii Prelude

was clearly having fun, he also secretly told me that he would rather go home as he needed to get ready for work early the next morning. As part of the business of hosting, hostesses cover for t­ hose guests who need to leave early without disrupting the atmosphere. In response to my comment that we could cover for him so that he could leave, Katō-­san appreciated our offer but told me to wait. A bit ­later a se­nior man in his late fifties, Ōta-­san, who had seen us talking across the large t­ able, openly said, “Katō, you must live a bit far right? Why d ­ on’t you leave now?” Katō-­san was officially released, and within an hour or so, all of the MTC members, including Takizawa-­buchō, left Class A. The night out with the MTC coworkers at Class A reflects what happens in any major business district in Tokyo, where coworkers gather to drink and carouse in the after-­work hours. During the heyday of the Japa­nese economy, when corporate consumption was con­spic­u­ous and companies w ­ ere characterized by long-­term employment, se­niority, and corporate welfare, after-­hour corporate entertainment was prevalent and even essential to facilitate the sense of sociality among the office groups. This leisure of business has long built a sense of trust and corroborated business and ­human relationships in Japan (Allison 1994; Gagné 2010b). ­After over two and a half de­cades of economic recession that began in 1990, however, companies have started cutting down on long-­term employment and se­niority, as well as on corporate welfare and corporate entertainment, ­under corporate restructurings. As in many socie­ties, work, ­family, and leisure are taking on new meanings as employment systems are restructured, f­ amily conditions change, and individual desires for c­ areers and self-­fulfillment diversify. This raises an impor­tant set of questions: First, for companies like MTC that have under­ gone restructuring and changed to competitive merit systems based on individual per­for­mance, what meaning does after-­work sociality now have? More broadly, how have the ongoing pressures from globalization and neoliberalism affected corporations like MTC and their employees? In many ways, MTC’s night out might seem incongruous with the current trend of neoliberalizing agendas that promote per­for­mance and results over ­human relations and humanistic qualities. Likewise, both Katō-­san’s self-­effacing per­for­mance and Takizawa-­buchō’s humanistic reflections might strike some readers as incompatible with the usual ste­reo­type of the Japa­nese Salaryman as a homogenous and emotionless dominant group. Indeed, the image of Japa­nese salarymen has long been viewed through the notions of power and corporate ideology (Allison 1994) or vari­ous perspectives of “salaryman masculinity” and “hegemonic masculinity” (Cook 2016; Dasgupta 2013; Hidaka 2010; Roberson and Suzuki 2003). Salarymen are often seen as metonymic for a corporate institution or for the entire Japa­nese economy, and they have been regarded as the

Prelude

xix

dominant proponents of dominant ideology—­a suited force that has been pulling the strings of the Japa­nese economy and society. This dominant image of the Japa­nese worker and their role in Japa­nese society notwithstanding, both the repre­sen­ta­tions and the realities of worker’s lives have been undergoing significant changes. Recurring economic crises since the bursting of the b ­ ubble economy in 1990, ongoing corporate restructuring, changing demographics, increasing numbers of working w ­ omen, and social, po­liti­cal, and economic transformations ­under the global regime of neoliberalism are challenging the existing corporate system, corporate culture, and the livelihoods of many employees who labored ­under Japan’s postwar modernization and middle-­ class aspirations. Recalling how members of MTC proclaimed to me, “We at MTC are very much per­for­mance based [seika-­shugi], and we are so dry [businesslike],” it was clear that the kind of interactions I saw at Class A w ­ ere rare and thus meaningful for the members of MTC in the late 2000s. That night at Class A, the se­nior employee Ōta-­san lamented that u ­ nder the pressures for raising individual productivity and cutting back on unprofitable interactions, it became increasingly difficult to get to know his colleagues in their ever-­competitive and busy work settings. Before Takizawa-­buchō came in to the club that eve­ning, Ōta-­san had confessed to me, “It is actually quite strange to have a boss who is much younger than I am. At work I call him Takizawa-­buchō [boss], but ­here I call him Takizawa-­san [Mr. Takizawa]. And ­here he treats me with some re­spect, as if I am se­nior [sempai toshite].” For Ōta-­san, who had experienced the shift to the new performance-­ based merit system, relating with ­others through age and se­niority is no longer defensible at a progressive com­pany like MTC. At the same time, he also felt that it is equally impor­tant to re-­create a context that operates differently from the new ideological system of per­for­mance that MTC introduced as part of the com­ pany’s neoliberal economic reforms. It is true that some of the members would rather have gone home or left early, and it is also true that the frequency of such events has declined for many companies since the 1990s. At the same time, it is also hasty to conclude that such events are futile for the successful functioning of both the workplace and individuals’ morale in the con­temporary economy. As I got to know many Japa­nese employees and participated with them in the many spheres of their lives, I learned that especially in this moment of workplace restructuring, the very fact that one’s com­pany would still put effort into such gatherings was impor­tant for making the employees feel that they w ­ ere treated with dignity. Within t­hese leisure spaces, where dominant ideological categories could be suspended or at least recontextualized, it was pos­si­ble to connect with one’s colleagues through more humanistic ways that reflected one’s efforts and spirit. Indeed, Katō-­san’s actions and

xx Prelude

­ thers’ reactions typify how even in the midst of neoliberal reforms that emphao size productivity and efficiency, ­these seemingly superfluous nights out can become impor­tant and meaningful sites for recuperating a sense of humanistic relations. On a broader level, examining Japa­nese employees’ life stories as they are interwoven with work, f­ amily, and leisure spaces sheds light on the complexity of employees’ lives and on the shifting meanings of ­these vari­ous interconnected contexts that are obscured by the economic logic of twenty-­first-­century Japan. As I ­will show throughout this book, it is in contexts like ­these that seemingly oppositional ideological systems and dif­fer­ent individuals clash and operate and where ­these individuals create new meanings; it is also contexts like t­ hese that reveal both the restructuring and resilience that marks the ways Japa­nese employees wrestle with, navigate through, and further manipulate dominant ideologies operating in the local and global economies.

INTRODUCTION

The Double Bind of the Dominant Group—­S alar ymen and Neoliberalism I suppose ­there are many arguments you could get into po­liti­cally and socio-­economically about [who is more power­ful: ­women or men?]. ­There are still a lot of disagreements on that level. But in terms of, I suppose, liberation—­emotional and cultural liberation—my feeling is that the notion of what we considered w ­ oman has expanded dramatically in the last twenty-­five years. And I think in many ways I experienced it as a much larger concept. In other words, I can incorporate ­things I learned from Ned [male Vincent] into Norah [female Vincent]. They easily flow that way. But they did not flow well in other directions. The notion of manhood, what’s acceptable in it, especially heterosexual manhood is much more narrow. (excerpt from the NPR interview, “The W ­ oman ­behind ‘Self-­Made Man’ ” [Vincent 2006b; emphasis added]) Based on eigh­teen months in her professional disguise as a man (Ned), in her book Self-­Made Man Nora Vincent unravels the complexities of American heterosexual manhood. Vincent speaks for the notion of “unspokenness” as she realized “so much of what happens emotionally between men ­isn’t spoken aloud, and so the outsider, especially the female outsider who is used to emotional life being overt and spoken (often overspoken), tends to assume that what ­isn’t said ­isn’t t­ here” (Vincent 2006a, 46). What Vincent alludes to in her reflections is

1

2 Introduction

something out of the grasp of everyday consciousness but which is constantly droning in the background—­the silencing effects of dominant ideology. Vincent’s insights resonate with what I found with many of my informants—­ Japanese salarymen—­the supposed dominant group in Japan. For many observers of Japan, the image of Japa­nese men is often a group of anonymous business-­ suited figures riding a crowded train, flowing in streams into the massive concrete corporate buildings that symbolize Japan’s economic power. This is the figure of the Salaryman, the iconic crystallization of Japa­nese men, and of Japa­nese corporate life or “Japan, Inc.” more broadly. While the salaryman as an icon is often spoken about in the media and academic works, salarymen themselves are seldom heard from directly. The absence of their voices from discussions about work, masculinity, and Japa­nese society more broadly reflects the silencing effects of dominant ideology, which tend to structure debates about power and dominant groups in con­temporary society. My analytical interest in present-­day Japa­nese working men derives from this “double silence”: the absence of individual men’s voices and the unspoken ideological effects on the assumed dominant group of the Salaryman. Just as anthropological works on gender can “undo” gender (see Abu-­Lughod 1993; Gutmann 1996), studying such slippages between the dominant ideology and supposed dominant group provides nuances in our understanding of how the dominant ideology actually operates and penetrates into a par­tic­u­lar social group more than ­others in a given society. While anthropologists have long investigated the pervasiveness and invasiveness of ideology in socie­ties, influenced by Marx and Engel’s (1998) concept of “dominant ideology,” anthropological approaches often focus on the effects of power on nondominant groups. As a result, the dominant group is often left unexamined, taken for granted, and sometimes reified as the dominant ideology, as has been the case with Japa­nese salarymen. If Japan, Inc. was the global image of the economic power­house of Japan from the 1960s through the 1980s, the salarymen ­were the anonymous army of suited office workers who fired the engine. In this way, in con­temporary analyses modern salarymen have been treated as the iconic Salaryman, a historically frozen embodiment of hegemonic masculinity and as the default hegemonic repre­sen­ta­tion of Japa­nese society (see Cook 2016; Dasgupta 2013; Hidaka 2010; Roberson and Suzuki 2003). In fact, it was only from the late 1950s that the economic and cultural prosperity of Japan was manifested in workers’ lives in concrete forms and Japa­nese salarymen and their families came to represent the symbol of Japan’s rising “new ­middle class” (E. Vogel 1963). Specifically, the large generational cohort of baby boomers (dankai no sedai) born in the late 1940s and early 1950s became emblematic of postwar democ­ratization and modernization—­the cap­i­tal­ist ideology

Introduction

3

of Japanese-­style economic nationalism. By the late 1960s, the men of this cohort ­were growing into “passionate workers” (mōretsu shain) who ­were thought to devote themselves entirely to their companies. Together with remarkable economic growth into the 1980s, t­ hese salarymen w ­ ere characterized as “corporate warriors” (kigyō senshi), the postwar reincarnation of the samurai ethos. More critically, the significance of this new m ­ iddle class orientation is that it became conceived of as “a symbol of the desirable life” and created “the ‘mechanical’ tempo of modern routine” for salarymen, farmers, and merchants (Plath 1964, 192) even to the extent that it affected ­people who ­were not part of a large corporate organ­ization (Kelly 1986; E. Vogel 1963). Consequently, modern Japa­nese salarymen have been analyzed alternately as symbols of Japa­nese modernity (Plath 1964; E. Vogel 1963), as the primary proponents of corporate ideology (Allison 1994; Hidaka 2010), or as a locus of “hegemonic masculinity” (Cook 2016; Dasgupta 2013; Hidaka 2010; Roberson and Suzuki 2003). At the same time, the image of salarymen as the dominant group who occupy a hegemonic position of “gender, sexuality, class and nation” in society (Roberson and Suzuki 2003, 1) remained unquestioned and instead became pervasive for a number of reasons, it was both easy to believe and easy to explain in terms that accounted for Japan’s economic successes, supposed cultural uniqueness, as well as gendered relations. As such, the salarymen image as the dominant group, ideology, and hegemonic masculinity became hegemonic itself in the lit­er­a­ ture and has left the experiences of salarymen themselves largely unexamined.

The Salar yman in Crisis? The Vicissitudes of Salar ymen’s Lives The image of salarymen in con­temporary Japan and throughout the world rests on the backs of real salaried men who have lived in postwar and now postbubble Japan, and who carry with them complex and varied histories, motivations, and desires. While t­here is a lingering characterization of salarymen as dominant and hegemonic in academic discourse, popu­lar discourse increasingly portrays salarymen as an anachronistic figure of the past. The postbubble economic recession that began in 1991 tarnished the once positive image of salarymen. Corporate retrenchment and intensified global competition ­under neoliberal economic reforms have shaken conventional corporate practices—­long-­term employment, the se­niority system, and collective responsibility (Abbeglen 1958; Clark 1979; Rohlen 1974)—­that previously protected and rewarded the livelihood of Japa­nese salarymen. Demography also lies b ­ ehind the new conundrum of the salarymen. With an aging population and a falling birth rate, in 2017 over 40 ­percent of the workforce

4 Introduction

was aged forty-­five or older, with ­those over the age of fifty-­five making up 29.7 ­percent (MIAC 2018). The situation is even more pronounced for white-­ collar workers: 39 ­percent of all white-­collar workers ­were over the age of fifty-­ five in 2017 (MIAC 2018). Moreover, ­because ­these demographic and generational shifts coincided with economic crises and neoliberal reforms since the 1990s (Conrad and Heindorf 2006), now both se­nior and young full-­time workers have become vulnerable to economic restructuring. ­There has also been a growing ­human toll as a result of ­these socioeconomic crises and related changes in corporate management and employment. ­Under the neoliberal economic reforms following the bursting of Japan’s ­bubble economy in the early 1990s, t­ here was a significant increase in business failures, hiring freezes, mergers and acquisitions (M&A), and workers pressured into early retirement. Converging with the aging workforce, the number of involuntarily jobless p ­ eople quintupled from 1992 to 2002 (from 320,000 to 1,510,000) (MIAC 2019). Additionally, following the long-­term aftershocks of business and bank failures in the 1990s together with the additional impact of the global financial crisis in the late 2000s (see chapter 2), layoffs also increased, with the number of companies reporting that they had laid off employees during the past five years doubling between 2007 and 2012 (JILPT 2016). And while the number of involuntarily jobless ­people showed signs of improvement in the early 2000s, falling to late-1990s levels (800,000) by 2007, it spiked again in 2009 at 1,460,000 a­ fter the global financial crisis and has recovered only slowly to mid-1990s levels since (MIAC 2019). Meanwhile, companies reporting layoffs have remained at more than double the pre-­global-­financial-­crisis levels into the late 2010s (MHLW 2019). Starting with the deregulation of irregular employment, more and more Japa­ nese companies have suspended long-­term employment and se­niority systems to reduce the number of regular employees and implemented new merit systems to make them globally competitive, putting further pressures on workers. Pension eligibility has also been pushed back from age 55 in the 1980s to age 65 in the late 2000s, meaning that workers who leave their jobs or lose their employment before this age may face many years before they become eligible to receive social security (Martine and Jaussaud 2018). T ­ hese changes in the l­ abor market and employment practices since the 1990s have hit the generation of regular workers in their forties to sixties particularly hard due to their early socialization within a seemingly stable employment environment, leading to rising suicide rates (MHLW 2018), increasing unemployment, and “precarious employment mechanisms” (Gagné 2020; Itō 2017) as well as homelessness among middle-­aged men (Gill 2001) and growing evidence of el­derly “working poor” (Yamada 2009). Beyond the media discourses and popu­lar commentaries on the newly impotent image of Japa­nese salarymen, Japan’s long-­term postbubble recession and the

Introduction

5

impacts of neoliberal reforms have also shaken the spheres of families and individuals through everyday practices. In the midst of this turmoil ­under economic restructurings, the crisis of salarymen has been increasingly represented by vari­ ous midlife predicaments, ranging from increasing ­mental illness (e.g., Kitanaka 2011), homelessness (e.g., Gill 2001; Margolis 2002), joblessness and layoffs (e.g., Gagné 2017; Itō 2017), alcohol abuse or alcohol dependence (e.g., Borovoy 2005), the infamous “death from overwork” (karōshi) and overwork suicide (karō jisatsu) (e.g., North and Morioka 2016; Sawada, Ueda, and Matsubayashi 2017). Moreover, as the older, established images of salarymen lose their meaning, salarymen’s sense of their identity and their masculinity in par­tic­u­lar have been increasingly contested. This leaves men caught in the ever-­growing ambivalences between the shifting delineations of their personal identities—­their personhood—­and their long-­term institutionalized role as corporate employees, what I term their salarymanhood.

Neoliberalism at Work: Riding the Waves of Postbubble Japan ­ fter the bursting of Japan’s so-­called ­bubble economy in the early 1990s, the Japa­ A nese economy has mostly been in the news as an economy that fell out of step with global capitalism and as an ominous warning of what other advanced cap­i­ tal­ist countries might face. However, since 2013, many observers felt Japan was fi­nally waking up, ­under the moniker of Abenomics, to the new global cap­it­ al­ist order. The combination of fiscal and l­abor reforms led by the Liberal Demo­ cratic Party’s prime minister Abe Shinzō has been characterized as both an intensification of neoliberalism (Suzuki 2015) and a postneoliberal turn in Japa­ nese capitalism (Tiberghien 2014). Corporate executives have been given new license to save their bottom line by deregulating ­labor and capital, while at the same time producing an increasingly harsh work environment marked by instability, insecurity, and growing competition among workers. The current swing t­ oward neoliberal economic reforms since the 2000s is in many ways a new spin on older culturalist (especially neonationalist) arguments. As Yoda (2006) shows, since the 1990s Japan was si­mul­ta­neously criticized for not being nationalistic enough for neonationalists and being too narrowly nationalistic (i.e., insular and parochial) for neoliberals. Both of ­these views have supporters in the ruling Liberal Demo­cratic Party, and clashes between ­these groups have been partly responsible for inchoate policy moves during the 1990s (e.g., Lechevalier 2014; Tiberghien 2014). Differences aside, both ­these culturalist and neoliberal advocates see the post-1990s as “Japan in crisis,” where the prob­lems

6 Introduction

that have emerged since the bursting of the economic ­bubble have come to represent “the site of an imploding national economic system, a disintegrating social order, and the virtual absence of ethical and competent leadership” (Yoda 2006, 22). For both neoliberal and culturalist advocates, the socioeconomic prob­ lems of the 1990s meant it was time for Japan to fi­nally change (Gagné 2018; Tanaka 2002; St. Vogel 2006; Yoda 2006; see also MHLW 2011). As in many other socie­ties that faced economic crises in the 1990s and 2000s, neoliberal policies in Japan since the 1990s w ­ ere meant to correct economic inefficiencies—­specifically to rectify what was seen as Japan’s anachronistic form of capitalism in order to escape its postbubble malaise and in the pro­cess to reform society (Gagné 2018). In practice, however, economic structures and social practices are not so easily manipulated. As a number of cultural geographers have argued (e.g., Brenner, Peck, and Theodore 2010a, 2010b; Collier 2005; Peck and Theodore 2012) neoliberalism as a critical reflexive pro­cess of reordering Fordist accumulation and regulatory regimes is best captured in the piecemeal and variegated ways that it is deployed by governments around the world. Likewise, despite the global similarities in the aims of reforms, the deployment of neoliberalism in Japan must be understood against its historical trajectory through which the modern configuration of welfare, work, and ­family emerged and the effects that the clash of postwar economic nationalist ideologies and postbubble neoliberal ideologies have had on workers’ subjectivities—­and specifically, the subjectivities of the suited masses of Japan’s iconic salarymen. At its core, this is the overarching goal of this book.

Goals of the Book Given that this book focuses on Japa­nese men, working men, and salarymen in par­tic­u­lar, it differs from many recent anthropological works that focus on the so-­ called margins. I do not focus on conventional minorities or marginal groups. Rather, I examine the group of men called salarymen who have been unquestionably regarded as the dominant group and representatives of hegemonic masculinity in Japan. If t­ here is a center against which most minorities or marginal groups are assumed to be struggling against in Japan, ­these salarymen have often been taken for that center. But what is actually at the center of what is considered dominant? And what is happening now that this assumed center has been destabilized? Such is the first overarching theoretical question that this book examines. The second question that specifically motivates my focus on salarymen’s shifting identities since the 1990s is the relationship between gender roles, employment structures, and the neoliberal restructuring of the Japa­nese economy.

Introduction

7

Despite nearly forty years of iconic dominance, in the dawn of the 1990s the image of the unwaveringly secure life of the salaryman collapsed as the Japa­nese economy and workers’ roles therein underwent radical reform and restructuring. Like many socie­ties around the world that ­were forced to rethink their economic policies and strategies of corporate governance in the face of intensifying global capitalism in the 1980s and 1990s, Japa­nese bureaucrats, politicians, and corporations ­were confronted with difficult choices for overhauling their corporate culture and economic logic, and salarymen ­were on the front lines of this transformation. In response to t­hese pressures, has Japan become neoliberal? Or more precisely, how ­will Japan’s cap­i­tal­ist system navigate the global pervasiveness of neoliberal ideologies? And how do such changes affect the men and ­women operationalizing such changes on the ground—in the workplaces and office floors where economic policies take concrete shape? T ­ hese questions lie at the heart of the new debates about work and identity in Japan since the 1990s and require close examination of both the a­ ctual policies that have been implemented and workers’ responses within the context of broader social and economic changes in Japan. In the remaining sections of this introduction, I outline the guiding theoretical paradigms that this book seeks to engage with, specifically regarding rethinking the concepts of dominant group / dominant ideology and anthropological analyses of neoliberalism and subjectivity, while grounding each theoretical debate in the Japa­nese context.

Dominant Ideology Thesis: Rethinking Dominant Group and Dominant Ideology In the midst of the stratifying ­middle classes and growing transformations in both workforce structure and gender norms around the world, this book examines the ­actual mechanisms of the dominant ideologies that penetrate the dominant group of corporate employees in Japan. First, I aim to unpack the relationships between the concepts of dominant group and dominant ideology that have become orthodoxy in anthropology and in Japa­nese studies. Specifically, I ­will explain what this orthodoxy in anthropology implies and its origins, as well as examine the implications of the assumptions regarding the dominant group on the social science of Japan. The theory of dominant ideology argues that in cap­it­ al­ist socie­ties t­ here is “a pervasive set of beliefs that broadly serves the interests of the dominant class,” which continuously ensures and facilitates the superiority of the dominant class and the subordination of the working class (Abercrombie and Turner 1978, 149; Marx and Engels 1998). As a result, ­there has been an implicit assumption that

8 Introduction

the dominant group controls the production of pervasive ideological constructs, or at least is fully complicit with the ideology. This is made dialectically pos­si­ble by securing their own position as the dominant class and by maintaining the subordination of the dominated classes. Accordingly, anthropologists have long examined the effects of dominant ideology by studying nondominant groups. This trend in anthropology further materialized in the development of Japa­ nese studies. Social scientists’ research into the effects of power and forms of dominant ideology in Japa­nese society tends to examine ­these issues through subordinate categories, including the working class, ethnic minorities, ­women, or youth, and salarymen w ­ ere left unexamined as the perpetrators of dominant ideology and treated as metonymic for the repre­sen­ta­tional hegemony of a certain kind of Japa­neseness.1 Specifically, such anthropologists as Befu (2001), Robertson (1998), and Ryang (2004) examined a range of nonmainstream groups to challenge the notion of Japa­neseness and the “theories of the Japa­nese” (nihonjinron) that treat Japan as a unique culture and ­people distinct from all other nations. While this was an impor­tant movement to attack Japan’s cultural exceptionalism and reveal the multiplicity of identities and lifeways within Japan, it has blossomed into an agenda to locate an Other Japan, or the Real Japan. The relationship between the dominant ideology and assumed dominant and subordinate classes is not as clear-­cut as it may appear, however. Addressing some of the assumptions of academic analy­sis in modern social science, Abercrombie and Turner (1978, 160) have drawn attention to the changing apparatus and effects of the dominant ideology ­under late capitalism. In critiquing commonly held assumptions in the social sciences, they proposed a compelling alternative formation based on the premise that u ­ nder late capitalism “the dominant ideology does not function to secure compliance from the dominated classes.” Instead, they argue, “the real significance of the dominant ideology lies in the organ­ization of the dominant class rather than in the subordination of dominated classes.” In other words, the apparatus of dissemination of dominant beliefs has lost much of its former hegemony in late capitalism, and the dominant ideology can more directly penetrate the dominant group. Nonetheless, empirical studies of the effects of ideology have usually paid more attention to the marginalized classes and have neglected to look specifically at the relationship between the ideology and ­those at the supposed center. Applying t­ hese insights to Japa­nese salarymen, I argue that the importance of the ideological compliance of the dominant group has been oversimplified. Rather than being portrayed as individuals, the category of the Salaryman has increasingly been used as an abstract repre­sen­ta­tion of a dominant ideology of economic nationalism or a dominant model of hegemonic masculinity (Cook 2016; Dasgupta 2013; Hidaka 2010; Roberson and Suzuki 2003). Yet the seeming ideologi-

Introduction

9

cal compliance of the assumed dominant group does not imply or guarantee their total compliance. Thus, the perceived silence of salarymen regarding the dominant ideology ­under which they work is not a reflection of their emotional silence—­that is, their complacency with or satisfaction and liberation through an ­actual sense of power in practice. The ways in which individuals are affected by dominant ideology—in this case, the ways that Japa­nese men may be e­ ither enabled or constrained—­take many forms. However, as Vincent also reveals in the opening quotation, the distinct and constrained ways that men experience and express emotions is one manifestation of the effects of dominant ideology, and this is especially true for Japa­nese salarymen. In Hochschild’s (2003) study of flight attendant training programs, she reminds us that emotional ­labor generally has a stronger effect on ­middle or upper classes as they are more likely to deal with ­people directly. To push her argument, we are indeed often trained to see and speak of exploitation (like emotional ­labor) or to be morally concerned with the effects and mechanisms of exploitation if it is visibly imposed on the “bottom” by the “top,” while inadvertently dismissing something “invisible” that is not being materialized as discourse (like emotion work) or something assumed to be hegemonic in a society. Hochschild (2003, 7) develops the concepts of “emotional ­labor” as “the management of feeling” that “is sold for a wage” with exchange value in the ser­v ice industry and “emotion work” as the management of emotion outside of commodifiable exchange and which has use value. While her goal is to shed light on the gendered labor/work of female ser­v ice workers, we can benefit from examining the a­ ctual distribution of dif­fer­ent social profits/costs, including the emotional l­abor and emotion work among Japa­nese working men (and w ­ omen). As I explore in the following chapters, it is often Japa­nese men who use considerable emotion work as well as deliberate exchanges of emotional ­labor with their corporate se­niors and ju­niors (Raz 2002; Rohlen 1974), female coworkers (Ogasawara 1998), and clients and customers (Allison 1994; Ben-­Ari 1998), as well as with their wives and ­daughters at home (Iwao 1993; Jolivet 2002).2 Thus I explore what is encompassed within the assumed silence or unspokenness of Japa­nese salarymen to reveal the intense, though often quiet, emotional worlds of t­ hese men. To understand the historical formation of Japa­nese salarymen, it is impor­tant to first acknowledge how their experiences and reflections reveal the constant changes and instabilities of employees’ ­careers and working conditions even before the economic ­bubble burst in the early 1990s. Moreover, with the postbubble recession and intensification of global capitalism, each Japa­nese worker I met was affected by some form of corporate restructuring, including new discretionary work systems, new performance-­based merit systems, increasing M&A, and joblessness and layoffs. For male workers, many have been caught between the

10 Introduction

gender ideology of being “central pillars” (daikokubashira) to support their ­family, on the one hand, and the new economic ideology of neoliberalism that undermines employment security and mobilizes employees to work more efficiently and competitively, on the other hand. To shed light on this ideological vice, ethnographic research on working men’s lives enables us to see the effects of the dominant ideologies of postwar companyism and postbubble neoliberalism on the so-­called dominant group. By unpacking the dominant group and its relationship with the dominant ideology, this book seeks to show that just as any other group, or as with any complex society, salarymen also represent diversities, complications, and often contradictions within par­tic­u­lar identities, thereby complicating and nuancing our conception of dominance in Japan.

The Salar yman as Dominant Group? Con­t emporar y Works on Salarymen In the 1980s and 1990s, numerous conceptual reworkings of gender and power ­were pursued by a new generation of scholars. For instance, Allison (1994) directed attention to salarymen with her central focus on corporate entertainment—­ the functions of entertaining (settai) in corporate Japan. From the opposite perspective, Ogasawara (1998) aimed to understand the concrete realities of female office workers’ (“office ladies”) lives viewed against ­those of salarymen. Allison’s study shows that the par­tic­ul­ ar construction of male corporate ideology is uniquely reinforced through institutions of work and play, formal and informal spaces, and by ­women and men. Her insights further nuance the seeming dominance of heterosexual dynamics by showing how the overly gendered ser­v ice that hostesses provide is not so much heterosexual between hostesses and salarymen but rather homosocial among salarymen (Allison 1994, 21). Similarly, in her microlevel analy­sis of informal power dynamics among office ladies vis-­à-­v is salarymen in the office context, Ogasawara (1998) argues that the “power­ful” men do not always exercise and feel power, while the “powerless” office ladies manage to destabilize or even reverse the power relations by taking advantage of their “less professional” responsibilities and by employing accommodation strategies.3 Despite t­hese insights, most recent works use the figure of the Salaryman as an abstract repre­sen­ta­tion of dominant ideology and hegemonic masculinity—­ “the hegemonic position and prestige of the middle-­class, white-­collar, heterosexual male” (Roberson and Suzuki 2003, 10). In this way, common treatments of the Salaryman draw from Connell and Messerschmidt’s (2005, 832) concept of hegemonic masculinity as “the discourse of masculinity that has the greatest

Introduction

11

ideological power and hold” and which often aggressively exercises its power over other groups. Building from this, through a study of Japa­nese working-­class men at a medium-­small enterprise, Roberson (1998) argues that the dominant discourse on Japa­nese men and w ­ omen is class biased and that this tendency extends to academic writing. He calls this a “repre­sen­ta­tional hegemony” that overemphasizes not only the statistics of larger companies but also reinforces a “functionalist corporate focus” (Roberson 1998, 154). ­These hegemonic images of the Japa­nese salaryman have been used as antithetical models for studies of vari­ous Other groups, such as working-­class males, irregular male employees, homosexual males, transgender males, homeless men, men of ethnic minorities, and male youths who challenge the discourse of salaryman masculinity or who are essentially distinct from salarymen (e.g., Cook 2016; Gill 2003; Iida 2005; McLelland 2000; Roberson 2003). T ­ hese impor­tant studies show the multiplicity of masculinities represented in vari­ous social fields, as well as the fluidity across life courses as individual men explore dif­fer­ent sexualities or transitions as they get jobs and lose jobs, start families, grow old, or become homeless. In Japan the term hegemonic masculinity is used differently to refer to “salaryman masculinity,” or “corporate masculinity,” and sometimes such other concepts as “regular employees” (seishain), breadwinner (daikokubashira), fatherhood, and “social adults” (shakaijin). ­These overlapping yet dif­fer­ent ideological and gendered roles, norms, and desires and constraints are variously used as if they mean every­thing, although they have distinct loci and directionalities of power (e.g., power privileging one gender group, one employment status group, one com­pany group, one social role, one h ­ ouse­hold unit, or society more broadly). For example, such roles, norms, and desires vary in importance to individuals at dif­fer­ent stages of the life course. Corporate ideology can privilege the com­pany as well as subordinate certain employment categories (e.g., irregular employment). Fatherhood and its related concept of daikokubashira, which transcends occupational and employment categories, is a gender role and ideology of manhood defined by being a ­father and subordinating individual desires to prioritize the ­house­hold while largely constraining all men with families. Shakaijin is a cultural idiom or “rhe­toric of maturity” (Plath 1980, 226) that privileges the smooth functioning of society and which satisfies and constrains both men and ­women through the adult’s social responsibility within this system. As t­ hese overlap within individuals’ lives, analytically treating them u ­ nder the rubric of hegemonic masculinity can elide not only the differences of power but also the overlapping yet distinct nature of ­these concepts, as well as the inconsistencies and diversities within the dominant group. Salarymen, like Other men, are not reducible to the category of the Salaryman.

12 Introduction

In fact, Connell’s concept of hegemonic masculinity was developed regarding a par­tic­u­lar social in­equality and hierarchy based on masculinities in Australian high schools, along with related discussions of “the experiences of men’s bodies” (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005, 830). The concept was strongly rooted in the combination of sexual norms, class hierarchies, and gender roles in the Australian (and l­ater Euro-­American) contexts. Indeed, Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) critique the recent development of the concept by noting that the nuances of its Gramscian origin in dynamic historical-­cultural contexts have been lost. ­There has been a tendency to map the concept of hegemony ahistorically onto gender relations, without considering the cultural and institutional structures within which ­these relations are bound. As they note, hegemony is the dynamic pro­cess of the mobilization and demobilization of social groups to create and perpetuate a social order (Connell and Messerschmidt 2005, 831). In postwar Japan, the construction of a corporate-­centered society does reflect a hegemony in the sense that it mobilized men to support the economic order and demobilized ­women by excluding many of them from corporate c­ areers. But the directionalities of control do not necessarily extend from men to w ­ omen, from regular employees to irregular employees, or from heterosexual men to homosexual men. Most crucially, the fact that men ­were the group mobilized to work ­under the corporate-­centered socioeconomic system does not mean that the corporate hegemony created in the postwar is a hegemonic masculinity. Rather, we could say that men’s social roles became subordinated to the hegemony of companyism. In contrast to the continuing silence of Japa­nese salarymen, Hidaka (2010) and Dasgupta (2013) have paid attention directly to salarymen and revealed the subtleties and complexities surrounding individual salarymen. Specifically, Hidaka and Dasgupta draw from Connell’s concept of hegemonic masculinity to characterize the concepts of “corporate warriors” and “salaryman masculinity” respectively. While Hidaka aims to trace the construction of salarymen’s hegemonic masculinity through individual life histories, Dasgupta examines corporate training at large-­and medium-­sized companies to analyze the complex socialization pro­cess whereby young salarymen transit from pre-social adult to a full-­fledged shakaijin as they fully embody salaryman hegemonic masculinity. ­These two studies ­were impor­tant steps to go beyond the abstract category of salarymen and reveal the complexities of salarymanhood; however, the category of hegemonic masculinity in Japan itself has been left unquestioned, rendering salarymen reified as the embodiment of hegemonic masculinity. In fact, as much as Dasgupta relies on the concept of hegemonic salaryman masculinity, he reveals “the lack of ‘manliness’ associated with the discourse built up around the salaryman” (2013, 90), sometimes admitting that “the culturally pervasive/powerful hegemonic masculinity may not always be the culturally ‘ide-

Introduction

13

alized’ one” (2003, 100). Thus, Dasgupta exposes how this model of hegemonic masculinity in fact obfuscates the ­actual gender dynamics at work among men in con­temporary Japan, as in many cases what his in­for­mants are navigating and negotiating draws less from a hegemonic notion of masculinity than from the gender ideology of daikokubashira, as well as the broader notions of social adulthood as shakaijin—­notions that are shared by many men and ­women regardless of e­ ither their par­tic­ul­ar occupation or even their par­tic­u­lar sexual orientation. Indeed, research on certain groups that are assumed to fall ­under the directional pressure of hegemonic masculine structures, such as sexual minorities or ­women in Japan, have shown that salarymen as a socioeconomic group should not be conflated with a heterosexual masculinist hegemony and that the per­for­mance of salarymanhood is not rooted in subordinating nonheterosexual men or even ­women. As works on nonheterosexual men by Lunsing (2001) and McLelland (2000) show, being a sexual minority did not produce a conflict with their salarymanhood—­their difficulties ­were not about being oppressed by a hegemonic masculinity. Rather, ­because in the past most ­people got married, marriage became “common sense” (Lunsing 2001), and some worried about possibly undermining their promotion as they w ­ ere not married (McLelland 2000).4 This is ­because one’s promotion used to be partly aligned with se­niority and ­family circumstances. Yet even this is changing as the number of single men and w ­ omen continues to increase, and due to corporate restructuring, considerations for promotions are less and less tied to ­family circumstances, not to mention heteronormative marriage. Thus, in addressing the real­ity of the dominant group and dominant ideology, this book examines the ways individual corporate workers experience, respond to, and reflect on the long-­term economic recession and subsequent economic reforms. It problematizes the analytical conceptualization of dominant ideology in Japan as a tool of the power­ful that grants power and liberation to the supposed dominant group u ­ nder late capitalism by giving them material and ideological control over other social groups. Further, this book traces the ideological changes within the transition from companyism to neoliberalism, while focusing on both the microlevel effects of restructuring and the resilience of men’s subjectivities as individuals, employees, and f­ amily breadwinners. Through my ethnographic fieldwork and interviews, I offer a firsthand analy­ sis of how the supposedly hegemonic regime of neoliberalism does not completely transform existing cultural frames and social relations. Instead, the clash between the implementation of new techniques promoted by neoliberal ideology and the older management systems tore open a space for reflection through which many individuals came to critically assess the logic b ­ ehind neoliberal reforms and thus revalue their early experiences with older corporate governance (chapter 2).

14 Introduction

Moreover, by juxtaposing salarymen’s work lives with how they resituate themselves within shifting social spaces available beyond work (chapters 3 and 4) and how dif­fer­ent men—­salarymen and non-­salarymen—­narrate their life course and subjectivities through such shifts (chapters 5, 6, and 7), this book offers their complex engagement with or against the dominant ideologies u ­ nder late capitalism as an ethnographic case study to nuance the anthropology of neoliberalism more generally, a topic I turn to in the next section.

T­ oward an Anthropology of Economic Restructuring Cap­i­tal­ist systems are not just economic systems but also social and cultural articulations of individuals within economic structures of production, distribution, and consumption. Corporate restructuring and government reforms, neoliberal or other­wise, are thus not simply economic phenomena but have pervasive effects on the structuring of everyday life, ­future life plans, and the overall life course of citizens. At the same time, when examining the pro­cesses of economic restructuring, we must also guard against assuming that neoliberalism functions as some kind of “pervasive abstract causal force that comes along and assimilates local ways of life” (Eriksen et al. 2015, 912). Neoliberalism has been discussed as policy agenda, ideology, and governmentality. Broadly, it is characterized by liberalist policies promoting the efficiency of private enterprise via political-­economic governance. By extension, it means a “theory of po­liti­cal economic practices which proposes that h ­ uman well-­being can be best advanced by the maximization of entrepreneurial freedoms within an institutional framework characterized by private property rights, individual liberty, ­free markets and ­free trade” (Harvey 2006, 145). In this book, I use the term neoliberalism to refer to “transnationally interconnected, rolling programmes of market-­driven reform that draw on shared ideological vocabularies, policy repertoires and institutional mechanisms” (Brenner, Peck, and Theodore 2010a, 209). As an ideology, neoliberalism makes universal claims; yet as a practice, it takes a variety of local forms, assemblages, and temporal “mutations” (Peck and Tickell 2002; Reitan 2012). In other words, while neoliberal ideology is fundamentally global in its purview, neoliberal restructuring is always imbricated with complex historical trajectories and local contexts and subjectivities. In this vein, my twin focus on ideology and subjectivity nuances the analytical application of neoliberalization and neoliberal subjectivity to non-­Western socie­ties while also offering a case study of how to examine the everyday implications of economic restructuring in an advanced cap­i­tal­ist society.

Introduction

15

Over the past three de­cades, many studies have addressed vari­ous aspects of neoliberalism around the world. Socie­ties undergoing radical political-­economic transitions have provided power­ful examples of neoliberal repercussions. In par­tic­u­lar, anthropological studies on developing economies reveal the radical ideological and social effects of neoliberalization pro­cesses in ­these contexts. For instance, in postcolonial, postapartheid, and postsocialist contexts, neoliberalism as a new system of ordering and evaluating economic and social life often challenges local systems and nonneoliberal ideologies through top-­down, state-­driven strategies for reconfiguring socioeconomic structures and reordering local value systems (e.g., Comaroff and Comaroff 1999; Cross 2010; Dunn 2008; Freeman 2007; Hale 2005; Kanna 2010; Keough 2006; Kipnis 2007; Nonini 2008; Ong 2006; Sharma 2006; Yan 2003). In socie­ties ranging across South Africa, Barbados, China, India, and Eastern Eu­ rope, anthropologists have shown how neoliberal ideologies merge with local discourses to gain power­ful social traction and, in the pro­cess, create new potentials of selfhood, subjectivity, and opportunities for success. Recently a number of studies have examined the effects of neoliberal economic reforms in developed, cap­i­tal­ist economies (e.g., Davies 2015; Gershon 2016; Lane 2011; Molé 2012; Muehlebach 2012). Lane’s (2011) study of male tech workers in the United States shows how unemployed men and their families deployed a neoliberal philosophy of c­ areer management to embrace local cultural idioms of autonomy without being tied to a single corporation and to normalize experiences of job loss or change. In this way, neoliberal flexibility becomes transvalued via local masculine idioms of in­de­pen­dence, mobility, and self-­actualization, and workers rationalize job instability as part of their long-­term ­career development as in­de­pen­dent enterprising selves. Davies (2015) argues that ­under neoliberalism in the United Kingdom a new “politics of wellbeing” has emerged that exploits psychological theories of self-­help for cultivating neoliberal subjectivities. This wellness industry distracts citizens from the structural political-­economic prob­lems in society by promoting talk therapies, mindfulness, and other forms of self-­directed therapies and lifestyles. In short, the anthropology of neoliberalism has shown the far-­reaching, pervasive, and deeply transformative effects of neoliberal ideologies and practices across the developing and developed world.

Neoliberalism and Subjectivity In examining the subjectivizing effects of neoliberal reforms, many studies draw from Foucauldian analyses of governmentality, suggesting that the spread of the discourse of individual autonomy has been accompanied by a new kind of neoliberal governmentality as a way of exploiting the self-­regulated autonomy of individuals (Read 2009; Rose 2007). Foucauldian analysts see individual subjectivity as

16 Introduction

being molded and imprinted by neoliberal technologies of self-­care and self-­ responsibility, which are managed by the state to maximize political-­economic goals. In this approach, neoliberal governance is based on constructing a par­tic­ul­ ar kind of neoliberal subject through a pro­cess of subjectivation—­the internalization of self-­governance aligned with neoliberal goals. Neoliberal governance impels citizens to cultivate “a self that is a flexible bundle of skills that reflexively manages oneself as though the self was a business” (Gershon 2011, 537; 2016; Rose 2007). In anthropological analyses of neoliberalism around the world, the penetrating subjectivation of global capitalism has come to be treated as a self-­evident fact of life. For example, tracing the rise of neoliberal subjectivity in India, Gooptu (2009, 45) argues that “the generalised ac­cep­tance or universalisation of this norm of the individualised ‘enterprising self’ . . . ​conforms to the logic of neoliberal policy and governmentality.” In the case of Indonesia, Rudnyckyj (2011, 81) traces the importance of local ideologies of Islam in mediating neoliberalist and Islamic values, ultimately creating a “new form of personhood” among workers aiming to become successful within the global cap­i­tal­ist system. ­These studies suggest that the norms of an enterprising self as the de facto model of global cap­i­tal­ist citizenship have become broadly accepted in diverse social contexts. In ­these ways, neoliberal governmentality preempts rival discourses by subsuming all potential challenges within its hegemonizing world view of global capitalism, empowering—­and impelling—­ individuals to choose among a marketplace of ideologies while also creating individuals who are “entrepreneurs of [themselves]” (Foucault 2008, 226). Ideological co-­optation u ­ nder neoliberalization takes diverse forms across the globe, stretching from Asia to Eu­rope to Latin Amer­i­ca. Echoing Rudnyckyj’s (2009, 131; 2011, 81) study of neoliberal management strategies in Indonesia, Muehlebach (2012, 42–43) identifies a new moral order u ­ nder neoliberal welfare reforms in Italy that accompanies a new subjectivity of “ethical citizenship” (as opposed to “social citizenship”). Therein, society as a moral community is eclipsed by a “localized politics of immediacy and intimacy” against the background of shrinking social welfare. Likewise, Hale’s (2005) study of “neoliberal multiculturalism” in Latin Amer­i­ca and Sharma’s (2006) study of nongovernmental organ­ izations and government-­organized nongovernmental organ­izations in India also locates ways that state actors employ local ideologies to co-­opt new forms of citizenship and subjectivity. Thus, in socie­ties where such ideology is assumed to permeate spheres of private and public life (e.g., Giddens 1992), neoliberalism precludes re­sis­tance by co-­opting the terms of debate within an all-­encompassing discourse of markets, freedom, and attendant forms of neoliberal subjectivity. However, it is necessary to ask if, and to what extent, neoliberalism actually produces new cultural formations and subjectivities, as neoliberalization in par­ tic­ul­ar socie­ties is never in­de­pen­dent of local history and socialization pro­cesses

Introduction

17

nor of their culturally legitimized discourses. As Kingfisher and Maskovsky (2008, 115) note, neoliberal ideologies are always marked by “instabilities, partialities, and articulations with other cultural and political-­economic formations.” The Japa­nese case nuances our understanding of subjectivity u ­ nder neoliberal reforms by revealing how certain older logics, practices, and desires can regain support as ways to actively navigate around neoliberal practices and new expectations.

Manufacturing the Salaryman: Tracing Subjectivities from Toyotism to Neoliberalism The postbubble Japa­nese economy has frequently been characterized as following the pattern of neoliberal reforms in other socie­ties in terms of revised employment practices, l­abor deregulation, and the privatization of welfare ser­v ices. In fact, as I describe in chapter 2, Abe’s policies are the latest in the lineage of policies aimed at promoting flexibility and competition most famously practiced by Koizumi but stretching back to the 1980s. Throughout t­ hese policy regimes, if ­there has been an ideological strug­gle over the f­uture of Japan’s corporate culture, individual Japa­nese employees have been the pawns mobilized to enact this strug­gle in the workplace, and any analy­sis of neoliberal reforms must take into account the effects on their subjectivities as employees and as individual men. Similar to Fordist modes of industrial production, the Japa­nese postwar cap­ i­tal­ist system was marked by what came to be known as Toyotism, a model of management and production typified by T ­ oyota (Dohse, Jürgens, and Malsch 1985). Toyotism resonates with the modernity of Fordism as a regime of l­abor regulation and cap­i­tal­ist accumulation and in workers’ loyalty to their firm, and it echoes the Fordist notion of the reciprocity of corporations for their workers. However, Toyotism also differs from Fordism. As I discuss in chapters 1 and 2, the companyist model of management and ­labor organ­ization embodied in Toyotism is characterized by distinctive Japa­nese management styles—­that is, long-­ term employment, se­niority, and enterprise u ­ nions. Rather than relying on the union-­based worker model with a distinctive divide between man­ag­ers and employees, Toyotism was characterized by the close relations between man­ag­ers and employees, which involved giving a large degree of autonomy and decision-­ making authority to workers (Lash and Urry 1994, 72–76). However, economic restructuring ­under intensifying global capitalism has affected Toyotism as well as Fordism. This transformation of political-­economic systems is often analyzed together as vari­ous pro­cesses of neoliberalization and the creation of new subjectivities, implying that neoliberal policies transform economic systems in similar ways and foster new forms of self-­governance and individual subjectivity (e.g., Foucault 2008; Gooptu 2009; Kanna 2010; Yan 2003).

18 Introduction

In theorizing the diverse pro­cesses of neoliberalization around the world, scholars have emphasized the effects of subjectivation in varying forms of neoliberal subjectivities that emerge ­under economic reforms, which often justify the new economic logic and values, sometimes creating a new discourse (e.g., Kanna 2010; Muehlebach 2012; Rose 2007; Yan 2003) or co-­opting existing discourses in society (e.g., Hale 2005; Lane 2011; Rudnyckyj 2011; Sharma 2006). Yet neoliberalism is never a hegemonic fait accompli. As elsewhere, Japan’s corporate reforms aimed to rationalize and legitimize risk (Beck 1992) and promote self-­ regulating enterprising selves. As I describe in chapter 2 and in the individual profiles in part III, in the midst of vari­ous corporate attempts to promote “self-­management” (Imai 2011), many employees became increasingly risk averse and turned inward. Facing the new risks emerging from the decoupling of employment and socioeconomic security, employees adapted to reforms while maintaining a critical distance from the ideological assumptions and subjectivizing effects of neoliberal logics. Against this background of the globally diverse effects of neoliberalism, another main goal of this book is to unpack the effects of Japan’s economic restructuring—­ including both the internal pro­cesses of and subsequent responses to neoliberal proj­ects—to highlight the cultural complex of local ideologies, values, and practices that have been deployed by workers on the ground to creatively rework the new conditions and ideologies of postbubble Japan. While state and corporate leaders aimed to reorder Japan’s Toyotist regimes and rationalize management practices, employees and management on the ground did not completely give up on the Toyotist model of socioeconomic relations. Amid the corporate promotion of self-­management, what could be called a post-­Toyotist affect has emerged: an emergent reflexivity that reveals a pro­cessual layering effect of reaction and reflection. Thus, the case of Japan challenges the idea that the normalization of neoliberal subjectivity in the form of self-­regulating, enterprising selves is the only telos of global capitalism by revealing how new ideological proj­ects can feed into (and feed on) existing local ideologies and subjectivities. With ­these theoretical questions regarding dominant ideology and neoliberal subjectivity in mind, this book draws on historical, comparative, and ethnographic analyses to reveal the complex interplay between global cap­it­ al­ist pro­cesses and local responses in the multiscalar constitution of workplace regimes. While Japa­ nese society has become an object of study by scholars of neoliberalism in and out of Japan, ethnographic studies are largely ­limited to individuals outside internal ­labor markets (e.g., on irregular workers [haken] in Fu [2013] or “freeters” in Cook [2016] and Kosugi [2000]).5 As a result, questions remain about how neoliberalism has been deployed inside—­how neoliberal policies have affected the majority of employees and former employees in Japan for whom l­abor mobility is seen as exceptional. By analyzing how salarymen—­who are both the agents and

Introduction

19

objects of neoliberal reforms—­wrestle with and respond to economic restructuring in the workplace, I reexamine theories of neoliberalism in terms of the subjectivizing effects of neoliberal ideologies and practices on individuals and also how the pro­cesses and effects of economic reforms are articulated with local logics and values of work, ­family, and gendered relations. In the following chapters, I show how neoliberalism has provided a technical frame for maneuvering between postwar economic nationalist policies and employment structures, on the one hand, and postbubble, international regulatory policies of efficiency and global competitiveness, on the other. This active, reflexive pro­cess has produced a shift in employees’ subjectivities from seeing themselves as a part of the com­pany to being seen as an interchangeable input ­toward com­pany profit goals. As a result, employees’ sense of commitment and expectations have been derailed from the postwar tracks of Japan’s social contract. Yet as reforms pro­gress, rather than justifying global competitiveness or embracing the idea of an enterprising self, both employers and employees have maneuvered and adapted reforms through critical reflection. Crucially, the diverse responses, ­silent re­sis­tance, and critical reflections reveal how employees in Japan are active agents trying to gain control over their ­careers to support their families, even as this very system is being corroded by the global waves of economic reforms.

Learning from L ­ abor: A Note on Methodology This book draws on fieldwork conducted during 2006–2007, follow-up field research in 2009–2010, and additional summer field research between 2014 and 2019. I conducted my research at workplaces (a major IT conglomerate, STEP Corporation, along with a large-­sized manufacturing com­pany, TEC Corporation, and a medium-­sized printing and advertising com­pany, M. Corporation) and leisure spaces (three hostess clubs, a marathon club, a salsa dance club, and a community volunteer group). Over the course of this fieldwork, my research involved interactions with a total of over 157 men (working men and retired men from twenty-­two years old to seventy-­two years old) and 67 w ­ omen (including full-­time female workers, marathon club members, salsa dance members, hostesses, and volunteer members). I also conducted multiple sessions of intensive interviews with 53 individual men and w ­ omen, including CEOs and upper-­level man­ag­ers of companies, male and female employees, and former employees, including retired, laid-­off, and self-­motivated job leavers hailing from advertising, construction, electronics, finance, food, IT, manufacturing, printing, publishing, retail, trading, and utilities companies.

20 Introduction

Structure of the Book By combining historical study, so­cio­log­ic­ al interviews, analysis of life histories, and ethnographic fieldwork on work and leisure spaces (i.e., work, after-­work, and weekend activities) in Tokyo and other metropolitan areas, this book intends to demystify real social actors—­living salarymen—­from the broad cultural icon of Japan’s corporate men who are collectively glossed as the Salaryman and examine the par­tic­u­lar mechanisms and articulations of the emergent ideology of neoliberalism in Japan. Specifically, it focuses on how new corporate governance and structural changes ­under neoliberal economic reforms affect the ways men actively negotiate for themselves within the workplace, leisure spaces, and community activities ­under postbubble economic and demographic change. To this end, in the following chapters I analyze three specific issues: First, how have the past two de­ cades of large-­scale economic recession, increasing globalization, and economic reforms affected Japa­nese corporate institutions and employees? Second, how have individual men, as well as the institutions of com­pany and f­amily, responded to ­these structural changes? And third, how have economic reforms ­under neoliberalism challenged the social framework of the modern m ­ iddle class that has standardized Japa­nese life patterns of work and leisure since World War II? Part 1 (chapters 1 and 2) traces the ideological and material history of the con­ temporary image of the Salaryman and New M ­ iddle Class life across the nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-­first centuries, culminating in ethnographic analy­ sis of the recent transformations ­under economic reforms. (See below for how I differentiate and intend to use the terms New ­Middle Class and new m ­ iddle class in this book.) Chapter 1 begins with a brief historicization of salarymen from the late 1800s to the early 1990s, paying par­tic­u­lar attention to the formation of the socioeconomic category of the New ­Middle Class and the cultural production of the new ­middle class orientation within Japan’s economic and industrial structure. I trace the historical trajectory through which the modern configuration of welfare, work, and ­family emerged in prewar Japan and then took new shape in postwar Japan through the fractious strug­gle of workers and management, eventually giving rise to what became known as Japanese-­style employment. In par­ tic­ul­ar, I examine how the par­tic­u­lar construction of the new ­middle class as a lived experience has been articulated vis-­à-­v is the socioeconomic category of the New ­Middle Class. Chapter 2 explores how globalization and neoliberal economic reforms operate and are operationalized on the ground at companies and how Japa­nese workers themselves have responded to the large-­scale economic restructurings since the 1990s. Despite the global scale of neoliberal policies and goals, my research reveals that the ideology of neoliberalism has been co-­opted by Japa­ nese corporations and management to reengineer older corporate practices in

Introduction

21

ways that ­were not pos­si­ble before. However, one of the key technologies of neoliberal restructuring in the form of the performance-­based merit system (seika-­ shugi) and massive corporate restructuring has destabilized the older corporate governance, increasing workplace tensions and competition and giving shape to the par­tic­ul­ar characteristics of what might be termed Japa­nese neoliberalism. At the same time, it has produced diverse and often ambivalent responses among employees. To this end, chapter 2 examines economic reforms on the ground level through the experiences and voices of employees and man­ag­ers who have been on the front line of restructuring in postbubble Japan. Part 2 (chapters 3 and 4) explores the impacts of economic restructuring on practices and subjectivities beyond the workplace, in after-­work and weekend leisure spaces. As the importance of corporate-­centered life is diminishing for Japa­nese men, fieldwork focused exclusively on the corporate setting does not offer a full picture of men and their subjectivities. Chapters 3 and 4 explore individual pro­cesses of meaning making and self-­fashioning beyond work by following Japa­nese men through the after-­work drinking space of hostess clubs and the weekend leisure activities of a marathon club, or what can be seen as “third places”—­the interstitial space that is neither work nor home (Oldenburg 1998). I examine how the changing economy and demography have reshaped the social spaces beyond f­ amily and work and what implications t­ hese institutional restructurings have for individual subjectivities and the cultural discourses and ideologies that or­ga­nize gender, power, and identities in con­temporary Japan. In Part 3 (chapters 5, 6, and 7), I shift to the life stories of individual men. By tracing their complex biographies alongside the vicissitudes of postwar Japan, I explore what their intersections with con­temporary changes can tell us about the elasticity and constraints of culturally specific and globally hegemonic ideologies. I examine how Japa­nese men have responded to vari­ous crises ­under conditions of economic instability and intensifying globalization and analyze men’s constructions of life views vis-­à-­v is the dominant ideology available in their society. Despite their vague motivation and commitment at the beginning, ­these in­for­ mants came to hold a clear sense of who they are and their dreams and hobbies. Their par­tic­u­lar experiences also highlight the diversities and creative self-­ fashioning among corporate workers, demystifying the monolithic ste­reo­types of the ­Salaryman. The distinction between ideologies, ste­reo­types, and lived experiences is a crucial ele­ment of this book. Throughout the book, I use the differently inflected terms New ­Middle Class and new ­middle class to make an impor­tant yet elusive analytical distinction more explicit. By the New M ­ iddle Class, I mean the par­tic­ u­lar postwar cap­i­tal­ist ideology of companyism that has s­ haped Japa­nese citizens’ subjectivities into productive middle-­class citizens. In contradistinction to the

22 Introduction

ideological import of this capitalized term, I use the term new ­middle class to indicate the discursive cultural orientation whereby a­ ctual ­people see themselves as being in the “­middle” (or mainstream) in Japa­nese society. In chapter 1 and the conclusion, in par­tic­u­lar, I unpack the dif­fer­ent meanings of the New ­Middle Class and the new ­middle class, as ­these distinctive categories more closely describe the historical and cultural configurations of postwar Japan than do universal(ized) notions of socioeconomic class as generally used in social science. In the conclusion I reflect on the configurations, relations, and operationalizations of the slippage between discursive and ideological characteristics (and effects) of “middleness,” which have been elided u ­ nder the term the New ­Middle Class in postwar Japan. Fi­nally, I weave ­these complex webs together to offer new insights into our understanding of dominant ideology and dominant group as well as anthropological theorizations of power, ideology, and subjectivity in late capitalism.

Part 1

LOCATING SALARYMEN, CAPITALISM, AND NEOLIBERALISM IN JAPAN

1 HISTORICIZING JAPA­N ESE WORKERS AND JAPA­N ESE CAPITALISM

Since the rapid economic growth in the 1950s and 1960s, national surveys have consistently revealed that many Japa­nese citizens rate their standard of life as “­middle” (chū) (Cabinet Office 2019) (see figure 1.1). At the same time, a range of economists and sociologists have highlighted an overall impoverishment of Japa­nese society (Oshio 2012) as well as growing income differences (Lechevalier 2014; Ōtake 2005; Tachibanaki 1998, 2006), social stratification (Hashimoto 2018; T. Satō 2000), and an increasing “perception of inequalities” in Japan (Shirahase 2014, 189). Given ­these data and attendant observations, is this image of the mass middle-­class society a kind of dissonance that does not represent the real embodied livelihood of ­people yet nonetheless resonates with the subjectivity of many Japa­nese citizens? Indeed, since the emergence of the topic of the new ­middle class, the idea of a majority of p ­ eople seeing themselves as ­middle class has generated considerable discussion in Japan. When the results first gained attention in the 1960s and 1970s, it was seen as e­ ither a mark of a real mass middle-­class nation or as a sheer illusion of a ­middle class in Japan (Aoki 1981; Ishikawa 1982a; Murakami 1978; Naoi 1979).1 ­These views have become even more critically scrutinized ­today ­under the growing discourse of in­equality and social stratification in Japan and around the world, and yet as the figure above shows, the cultural image still resonates with many citizens. To unpack both the realities and the cultural images of Japan’s new ­middle class, it is impor­tant to consider its historical trajectory and to locate the cultural actors who have become representative of—­and indeed virtually synonymous with—­the new ­middle class in Japan: the Japa­nese salarymen. 25

26 CHAPTER 1 ％

100

90

80

70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0

1964 1965 1966 1967 1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 Year

High

Middle

Low

Not Sure

FIGURE 1.1.  Comparative Self-­Assessment of Standard of Living. Q: “Which rank do you think is appropriate to classify the living condition of your ­house­hold?” The four pos­si­ble responses w ­ ere High, ­Middle, Low, and Not Sure. Data compiled by author from Cabinet Office (2019).

Unlike the common ste­reo­types of a homogenous male group that represents the new ­middle class, both the historical and con­temporary conditions of Japa­ nese corporate workers show that ­there is no defining characteristic or unified essence within the label of salarymen (see also M. Takahashi 2001). Instead, salarymen have always been shifting targets of Japan’s modernization, and the real picture of salarymen lies in the very heterogeneity of this group of men in terms of ­family backgrounds, education, and occupations, not to mention ranks and job tasks within companies and socioeconomic class positions. Together, the diversity of salarymen marks the internal heterogeneity of Japan’s new m ­ iddle class, which has been constructed around the real lives of dif­fer­ent workers. Therefore, this new ­middle class with its heterogeneity and divergent pro­cesses of formation should be distinguished from conventional so­cio­log­i­cal analyses of social classes of bourgeoisie and proletariat, which have their own marked identities and lifestyles (e.g., Aono 1930). Furthermore, it is crucial to analyze the par­tic­u­lar historical pro­cess that marks the development of the con­temporary new m ­ iddle class and its assimilation of blue-­collar workers with white-­collar workers as well as with the creation of new gendered relations. In this chapter, I historicize the shifting social conditions, issues, and challenges surrounding Japa­nese workers with focus on the formation of the new m ­ iddle class. This helps us to situate the con­temporary discourse of neoliberal economic reforms within the historical development of Japa­nese corporate governance and Japa­nese



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

27

capitalism. Moreover, historicizing Japa­nese workers and their subjectivities and desires through specific socioeconomic and po­liti­cal contexts offers insights into the cultural politics of the new ­middle class, which opens up new perspectives regarding con­temporary debates around the relationship between neoliberal reforms and neoliberal subjectivity, which ­will be pursued in ­later chapters.

The Bir th of the Salar yman in the Meiji Period Despite the dominant image of the salaryman as a postwar figure, the social category of salarymen was first born in the beginning of the Meiji period (1868–1912). The initial class of salarymen was the historical product of the Edo-­period feudal system, namely, the samurai class that was resettled ­under the pro­cess of modernization (Matsunari et al. 1957; Rohlen 1974). ­These early salarymen ­were called “samurai-­class salarymen” (shizoku sarariiman), who ­were made up of the minority population of samurai (small lords) who had previously served regional lords (daimyō) and received salary and benefits, usually in the form of stipends of rice, from the government ­under the Edo-­period feudal system. The Meiji state officially abolished the feudal caste system in 1870. This transformation of the social order ­under the Meiji Restoration brought the new idea of ­family as the “private sphere” along with new gender and ­family relations (Koyama 1999; Niwa 1993). In the pro­cess, many samurai-­class salarymen lost any means of earning a stipend and strug­gled to eke out a living ­after the abolishment of the feudal system. ­Under the Meiji modernization, Japa­nese citizens w ­ ere granted freedom in choosing their occupations in 1871.2 While this offered the potential for occupational freedom for many citizens, for the former elite samurai it also meant the end of their privilege as leisured stipend recipients, and thus it signaled the necessity of finding gainful employment—­despite the fact that many had no occupational skills. To facilitate a smooth transition to the postfeudal system, in 1876 the Meiji government made the former samurai trade in their stipend privileges for interest-­bearing government bonds that guaranteed five to fourteen years of income. This resulted in a 10 to 75 ­percent loss in annual income for most former samurai and necessitated many to seek some sort of immediate employment (Gordon 2008, 65; Kinmonth 1981, 35, 67). Although ­there ­were not enough jobs for all of the former samurai, they cut off their characteristic samurai hair and attempted to trade in their swords for a living based on civil affairs and letters. Some began working as police officers, teachers, and government officials (kanri), a trend that became the orthodox employment track for many samurai-­class salarymen (Kinmonth 1981, 34; see also Aono 1930; Dore 1973; Ōuchi 1947).

28 CHAPTER 1

In many ways, regardless of the major changes occurring in Japan, samurai class consciousness from the Edo period did not simply dis­appear but was maintained in early Meiji u ­ nder the changing forms of social roles and governance. Some of ­these former samurai-­class officials w ­ ere criticized as arrogant despite their new status as ordinary citizens with relatively low salaries. Other ordinary (nonsamurai-­class) citizens depicted ­these samurai-­class salarymen as caught between t­hese tensions—­the loss of their privileged caste-­based status and salary together with a resilient privileged consciousness that was maintained through their relatively high-­status (if low pay) occupations in the newly modernizing society (Matsunari et al. 1957, 17). Despite the fact that ­there was ­little distinction between what both physical laborers and salarymen received in terms of salary in exchange for their l­ abor during this time, ­these first salarymen ­were often called “salary takers” or “­people living off of salaries” (kyūryō tori or hōkyū seikatsusha). They w ­ ere generally employed in two categories of work—­public-­sector government officials, police officers, and teachers; and private-­sector workers who ­were employed by companies (hi-­shiyōnin) (Dore 1973, 391; S. Koike 1929). They w ­ ere never clearly defined by what they could offer through the means of their par­tic­u­lar ­labor (Aono 1930, 65), though they w ­ ere clearly distinguished from manual laborers. In the beginning, their jobs w ­ ere ­limited almost entirely to public-­sector workers and t­ here ­were only a few corporate men, such as bankers. It was around 1887 that the model of the modern corporation spread through Japan, which generated an increasing need for a new type of worker who could work for t­ hese new institutions (Matsunari et al. 1957, 16–17). The samurai-­class salarymen ­were the obvious candidates for this kind of ­labor. As the Meiji Restoration threw open the dams of modernization, the samurai-­ class salarymen w ­ ere a pos­si­ble wave of unrest as well as a reservoir of potential for the Meiji government. On the one hand, t­ hese salarymen ­were seen as a threat in that they ­were suddenly impoverished ­under the Meiji deflation and they could potentially unite with farmers who equally suffered from poverty. On the other hand, they represented a ­labor force with the potential means of transcending the radical structural change from feudalism to capitalism, thereby facilitating Japan’s nascent national industries through the development of cap­i­tal­ist enterprises ­under the Meiji Restoration. In this way, from the perspective of the Meiji government, it was like killing two birds with one stone to be able to suppress the anger of samurai-­class salarymen who w ­ ere stripped of their feudal social status by tactfully shifting their energy to the modernization of Japa­nese industry. In other words, the Meiji government coped with this potentially explosive transition by redressing and mobilizing the anger of former feudal samurai through the



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

29

new role of “corporate samurai,” a policy known as “government aid for samurai” (shizoku jusan)3 (Matsunari et al. 1957, 19). In addition to the public-­sector workers, by the late 1800s a growing number of samurai-­class salarymen became involved in private-­sector industry. With the government’s investment in sericulture, spinning, and textile industries during 1878–1890, some samurai-­class salarymen became successful in­de­pen­dent man­ ag­ers. Though the ­great financial panic that began in 1881 was a major blow to the development of samurai-­class salarymen’s businesses, ­those salarymen assisted by government aid policies differed from t­ hose who became government officials or teachers, and they presented themselves instead as a pillar of capitalism in Japan (Matsunari et al. 1957, 19). Eventually, such white-­collar occupations as bank workers replaced government-­employed workers as the dominant representatives of samurai-­class salarymen, and their salaries even came to surpass t­ hose of teachers and public officials (Dore 1973, 391; Matsunari et al. 1957, 21).4 Making samurai into salarymen was not an easy task, however. Their so-­called samurai commercial code (shizoku no shōhō) had no relation to ­actual business experience, and they w ­ ere often criticized for conducting business with a “samurai mentality” of aloof whimsy (Matsunari et al. 1957; Yomiuri 1876; Yomiuri 1886). Their business sense was faulted for not actually being business oriented, and some banks deliberately urged samurai-­class salarymen to become “real businessmen” (shinno shōnin). At the same time, however, they w ­ ere not asked to discard their “samurai spirit” (shikon). This remained the base of their ethos—­ the “sincere and reliable” (shitsujitsu gōken) gentleman spirit of the samurai—­that became the motivating strength of samurai-­class salarymen and which was non­ ex­is­tent among the merchant-­class salarymen (the so-­called old ­middle class). “Gentleman spirit combined with business acumen” (shikon shōsai) became the motto for the Meiji cap­i­tal­ist corporations (Kinmonth 1981, 327–28; Matsunari et al. 1957, 21; see also Matsuo 2009).

The Lingering Tokugawa Class Differences The newly promoted capitalism and Meiji bureaucratic system successfully reappropriated the overthrow of the Edo-­period samurai class. Yet the modern Meiji system could not erase the class hierarchy of the Tokugawa feudal system so easily. According to the 1884 Meiji industrial statement (kōgyō iken), the standard of living for Japa­ nese citizens was divided into three levels: upper (13 ­percent), ­middle (29 ­percent) and lower classes (57 ­percent). The basic yearly living expenses w ­ ere 110 yen and 82 sen, 60 yen and 15 sen, and 20 yen and 15 sen, respectively. T ­ here remained a clear hierarchical structure, and the most

30 CHAPTER 1

representative upper-­class occupations ­were government officials, Shinto priests, scholars, and doctors (Matsunari et al. 1957, 22). The remnants of the Tokugawa class differences began to transform in the late 1800s as a new socioeconomic order took shape. Compulsory primary education was introduced in the 1880s, and the number of secondary schools also expanded. By the early 1890s, modern corporations began to emerge, and the number of men with secondary or tertiary education increased eigh­teenfold between 1895 and 1925, with such major banks as Mitsui Bank hiring dozens of ­these new university or high school gradu­ates.5 ­These new corporate and financial institutions began dismantling the old caste system and modernizing management (Matsunari et al. 1957, 28–29). T ­ hese transformations had significant social effects as well. By the turn of the ­century, the familiar trajectory ­today of the successful track for a male college gradu­ate took shape: a­ fter college men would join a com­pany, a­ fter ten years salarymen w ­ ere promoted to the managerial class, and a­ fter twenty years they would become executives. The aspiration of upward mobility through hard work and diligence, known as “self-­advancement” (risshin-­shusse) became popu­ lar not only among the former elites but also among wealthy merchants and farmers (Kinmonth 1981, 277). Accordingly, the system of individualistic competition based on educational credentials emerged alongside the modernization of the economy. Applicants to both imperial and private universities expanded, hiring practices grew more discretionary, and social recognition of educational quality became increasingly stratified (Kinmonth 1981, 131–34). It was also in the late 1890s when the major banks started hiring female employees for clerical office positions (Asahi 1961). They ­were called “salary girls,” who worked as clerks and typists at department stores, banks, and corporations.6 They faced strict gender division manifested in the kind of jobs, salary, and even their space in the cafeteria and hallways. As more Japa­nese men graduated from college, t­ here was a gradual transition from the small initial number of samurai-­class salarymen to mass numbers of modern salarymen made up of educated new white-­collar employees and salary girls (Gordon 2008; Matsunari et al. 1957). This early growth hit a wall in the financial panic of 1900–1903, when an estimated 800,000 p ­ eople lost their jobs or ­were unable to find employment. This spurred early l­abor movements, which eventually came to be known as the “salary increase movement” (zōhō undō) ­(Yomiuri 1901a, 1901b). By the mid-1900s, ­there was growing pessimism and anxiety among the samurai-­cum-­salarymen who felt increasingly impoverished ­under the uncertainties of the new cap­i­tal­ist system but who had become bound up in its development (Kinmonth 1981; Matsunari et al. 1957).



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

31

D EV EL O P M E N T O F TH E SA L A RYM A N CL ASS AS A M ASS CL ASS

The growth of white-­collar employment in late Meiji Japan took place within the increasing urbanization and bureaucratization of Japa­nese social and economic life. ­After the First Sino-­Japanese War (1894), Japa­nese capitalism expanded via light industry, and more ­people emigrated from the countryside, which resulted in a rapid increase in the number of corporate workers. This expansion of Japa­nese capitalism and corporations increased the number of ­people employed by companies (hi-­shiyōnin), which gradually formed a new social stratum in Japa­nese society (Matsunari et al. 1957, 31). As salarymen gained a socially recognized presence, the mass of this new group represented the emerging new m ­ iddle class of Japa­nese society.7 From the outside, occupational distinctions became blurred as more and more men took to wearing Western suits and commuting to work in the growing cities. At the same time, t­ here was increasing internal stratification and differentiation within the same class and an increasing number of p ­ eople at the bottom of this class (Kinmonth 1981; Matsunari et al. 1957; Murakami 1978; Naoi 1979; M. Takahashi 2001). As the number of salarymen increased, the “good old days” (as brief as they ­were) when a college gradu­ate was guaranteed promotions w ­ ere over. P ­ eople gradually understood that whoever they w ­ ere, manual laborers or salarymen, promotion was neither a ­matter of individual effort nor ­family background. Each individual’s fate and success w ­ ere increasingly seen as a m ­ atter of luck or fate of the entire mass class (Aono 1930, 12; Kinmonth 1981, 197–99; Maeda 1928). ­After the Russo-­Japanese War (1904), so-­called old ­middle class p ­ eople, including the sons of small-­and medium-­sized landowners, merchants, and manufacturers, also joined the “reserve army” of salarymen (Aono 1930, 14; S. Koike 1929, 26–27; Matsunari et al. 1957, 35). While at the beginning of the Meiji period the majority of salarymen ­were samurai-­class salarymen, by 1905 more and more nonsamurai citizens had joined the ranks of salarymen u ­ ntil they eventually outnumbered the original elite samurai-­class salarymen. This was also called the “decline of the old m ­ iddle class” (see Aono 1930; Ishikawa 1982b; S. Koike 1929) as many ­children of the old ­middle class ­were no longer able to become in­de­pen­dent businesspeople but instead became employees. The Russo-­Japanese War further intensified the increasing impoverishment at the root of the salarymen masses. A ­ fter the end of the Russo-­Japanese War, strikes and leftist movements protesting the declining economic conditions persisted, particularly among schoolteachers. The widespread poverty of the old m ­ iddle class and the emergent salarymen masses became one of the motivations for ­labor u ­ nion and socialist activities around this time (Gordon 2008, 129–35).

32 CHAPTER 1

In ­these ways, during the dynamic industrialization and modernization of Meiji Japan, the development of Japa­nese capitalism went hand in hand with the extinction of the samurai-­class salarymen. The transition from feudalism to capitalism and the growth of the new ­middle class of salarymen hailing from nonsamurai backgrounds reduced the size of the old ­middle class of in­de­pen­dent business ­owners. In the pro­cess, this transition both increased the total number of the m ­ iddle mass of salarymen and contributed to their overall impoverishment.

Taisho Period (1912–1926) During World War I (1914–1918), Japa­nese industry, especially the spinning industry, iron industry, and shipping industry, expanded its markets in China and other areas of East Asia. Japa­nese businesses took advantage of their relative uninvolvement in the war to accelerate development while other Eu­ro­pean nations ­were tied up in the war effort (Gordon 2008, 139). The number of companies in 1914 (16,858 companies) increased by one and half times to 23,028 companies in 1918, and capital investment doubled (Matsunari et al. 1957, 38). In 1920, the number of salarymen reached 1.6 million, and salaried employees became a vis­i­ble presence in urban areas like Tokyo (M. Takahashi 2001, 20). Accordingly, salarymen’s standard of living improved, and ­there was increasing mobility among ­people who transferred their occupations from banks or public offices to corporations. As the Japa­nese economy shifted from agriculture to commerce and industry, the white-­collar sector also diversified accordingly (Howell 1995; Miyake 1995). In 1904, farmers occupied 65 ­percent of the total population, and ­those in commerce and industry made up roughly 30 ­percent; by the 1910s the former decreased radically to 50 ­percent, and the latter r­ ose to 37 ­percent (Aono 1930, 56; Kinmonth 1981, 282–86; see also Tanaka 2002) (see ­table 1.1). Likewise, ­there was a significant increase in the number of individuals attending secondary education ­after 1900 and tertiary education ­after 1910 (Kinmonth 1981, 124–25, 163; Miyake 1995, 7). The rising number of gradu­ates of higher education was accompanied by the systematization and standardization of their employment during the 1920s, a transformation that led to the normalization of such education and employment tracks—an “educational credentialism” (gakureki shugi)—­which also included ­those in the lower class (Kinmonth 1981, 197–99; Miyake 1995, 11). Many gradu­ates from the prestigious imperial universities embraced the spirit of nouveau riche (narikin netsu) and even applied to corporations instead of government positions or academic jobs (Gordon 2008, 139–40). During this era of the “new rich” in 1914–1915, imperial universities transformed themselves into the training centers for white-­collar work (Miyake 1995, 7).

655.2 450.6

Domestic servant (kaji shiyōnin)

­Others

Source: Adapted from Miyake (1995, 7).

607.7

Commercial laborer (shōgyō rōdōsha)

1713.5

588.8

Specialized occupation (senmonteki shokugyō)

Nonproductive laborer (fuseisan rōdōsha)

523.2

Clerical technical staff (jimu gijyutsu shokuin)

Salaried worker (hōkyūseikatsusha) 197.8

1309.8

CATEGORY/YEAR

Lower ranked government official (kakyū kankouri)

1920 (1,000 ­PEOPLE)

747.1

781.3

835.9

2364.3

699.3

640.5

251.6

1591.4

1930 (1,000 ­PEOPLE)

­TABLE 1.1.  Position of Pre-­War White Collar Workers in Japa­nese Society

578.2

705.2

512.9

1796.3

1104.1

1773.7

413.2

3291

1940 (1,000 ­PEOPLE)

1.65

2.4

2.23

6.28

2.16

1.94

0.73

4.83

1920 (%)

2.52

2.64

2.82

7.98

2.36

2.16

0.85

5.37

1930 (%)

1.7

2.08

1.51

5.3

3.26

5.23

1.22

9.7

1940 (%)

34 CHAPTER 1

Nonetheless, the brief period of prosperity during World War I did not last long. Prices soon doubled, and the standard of living for salarymen and manual laborers dropped precipitously, with large-­scale “rice riots” beginning in 1918 drawing participation from the lower-­class salarymen. The salarymen who once symbolized cap­i­tal­ist modernity w ­ ere now questioned as being the victims of that modernity. Without being able to utilize their educational credentials, some salarymen became mocked by pejorative terms like “the suited poor” (yōfuku saimin), “lunch box hanger” (koshiben, meaning a low-­paid worker with a lunch box hung from one’s waist),8 and “middle-­class poor” (Aono 1930; Kinmonth 1981; Maeda 1928; Matsunari et al. 1957) (see figure 1.2).

The Rise and Development of the Salarymen ­ Labor Union The inflation following the end of World War I plunged the lives of many salarymen and manual laborers into the depths of poverty (Kinmonth 1981, 284–85). In reaction to ­these worsening conditions, manual laborers or­ga­nized the first ­labor movement of twentieth-­century Japan to demand a salary raise. The number of strikes increased from 64 in 1915, to 398 in 1917, and to 417 in 1918. Among ­these, the percentage of strikes that demanded salary raises r­ ose to 81.5 ­percent in 1918 (Matsunari et al. 1957, 46). As the conditions of salary and living standards worsened, the strike movements gradually involved salarymen too, expanding to vari­ ous “salary increase movements” (zōhō undō).9 Matsunari et al. (1957, 49) saw ­these salary increase movements as responsible for teaching lower-­rank salarymen the shared real­ity of m ­ ental anxiety and material deprivation as well as the idea that it is only through collective unity and movement that they could achieve stability of life and status advancement. Likewise, M. Takahashi (2001, 21) observes that the increased social recognition of issues surrounding salarymen si­mul­ta­ neously triggered a unified movement as a concrete response. The salary increase movements gave birth to the first salaryman ­union in Japan in 1919–1920. In the press and in The Japan L ­ abor Year Book, it was labeled “S.M.U.,” an abbreviation for the En­glish “salary men’s u ­ nion,” although as Kinmonth (1981, 289–291) notes, the a­ ctual term salaryman had not yet become widely used, and the u ­ nion itself was si­mul­ta­neously described by the more precise term “­union of ­those who live on a salary” (hōkyū seikatsusha kumiai). While this ­union was short-­lived—it soon collapsed u ­ nder the upheavals of the financial panic in 1920 that followed World War I—it contributed to the wider recognition of salaried workers as a mass social group (M. Takahashi 2001, 16). As economic conditions in Japan worsened in the 1920s, salarymen as a social group continued to experience job insecurity, punctuated by periods of collective

FIGURE 1.2.  Salaryman Stepping on His “Useless” Diploma. Source: Hosokibara (1928). Courtesy of Ōzorasha.

36 CHAPTER 1

movements. During 1922–1923 t­here ­were large-­scale layoffs of close to five thousand public officials and military personnel, as well as hundreds of workers in the packaging, shipping, and iron industries, the Manchu railroad industry, and the banking industry (Matsunari et al. 1957, 57–58). With the increasing number of unemployed, fewer than 1 ­percent ­were able to secure a job through job placement agencies (Yomiuri 1927). The widespread layoffs eventually fueled the revival of the salarymen ­union movements. The rejuvenated ­unions of this period w ­ ere complex and fraught with tensions, characterized by rampant factionalism and emotional f­ actors arising from personnel prob­lems (Matsunari et al. 1957, 58; Gordon 2008, 152). Specifically, one of the notable movements of the shipping com­pany Nippon Yūsen shows how salarymen resisted the custom of hiring from outside to fill the open executive position and instead advocated for the need to hire someone from the inside (S. Koike 1929, 67–68; Matsunari et al. 1957, 59). Theoretically the deprivation among the lower ranks of salarymen could be seen as easily uniting them with the blue-­collar workers, and in terms of starting wages, they generally received less than skilled blue-­collar workers. However, ­there remained a strong tension between salarymen and blue-­collar workers in terms of their position vis-­à-­v is the managerial class (Gordon 1985, 2008, 149; S. Koike 1929, 67–68; Matsunari et al. 1957, 59). Moreover, unlike the elite salary-­earning skilled laborers (hōkyū rōdōsha) during the early stages of capitalism who enjoyed a higher standard of living and the potential for rapid advancement, salarymen in the 1920s w ­ ere ejected from the self-­employed cap­i­tal­ist class, becoming “eternal rōnin” (S. Koike 1929, 32–33; Kinmonth 1981, 286). Regardless of their own deprivation, salarymen’s strug­gles neither reflected the consciousness of the blue-­collar workers (who ­were engaged in largely separate ­union movements); nor ­were they analogous to the modern notion of l­abor ­unions. In contrast to the blue-­collar u ­ nions, Matsunari et al. (1957, 60) found, salarymen generally took cooperative or supportive stances with the management and occasionally expressed unsympathetic stances t­ oward blue-­collar workers. They sometimes even acted to contain the strug­gle of the blue-­collar u ­ nions, which often fomented anger from ­those workers ­toward salarymen. Thus, salarymen’s consciousness as workers was seen as ambiguous (M. Takahashi 2001), strongly colored by the ideological understandings and socioeconomic experiences of the new ­middle class of salaried white-­collar workers (Matsunari et al. 1957).10

The White-­Collarization of Blue-­Collar Workers Historical and so­cio­log­ic­al studies show that class consciousness among all ranks of workers at this time was generally less distinct than in other socie­ties.



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

37

Instead, ­there was a trend ­toward assimilation with other workers that gradually developed among salarymen beginning around the 1920s (M. Takahashi 2001, 19). Moreover, ­there was growing discourse about how the income gaps between white-­and blue-­collar workers ­were decreasing and sometimes even reversed. Some commentators further remarked that beyond such objective reversals in income, in some ways white-­collar workers faced even more difficult living conditions (M. Takahashi 2001, 21). In other words, rather than white-­ and blue-­collar workers growing apart as industrial capitalism progressed, their shared lifeways and challenges grew together and increasingly intertwined. In his study of the industrial working class in Japan, Kumazawa (1996) shows that compared with the industrial working class in ­England at the time, Japa­nese industrial workers lacked an in­de­pen­dent culture, identity, values, and philosophy that marked them distinctly as working-­class. This was partly facilitated by the pro­cesses of late but rapid industrialization in Japan, ­under which the initial formation of the working class was marked by the abrupt relocation of individual workers from the countryside to the cities, where they w ­ ere cut off from local and ­family communities and had to adjust themselves to a “culture of f­ ree competition” (Kumazawa 1996, 19, 25–27). Moreover, t­ hese early proletariat laborers moved from job to job and did not embrace any sense of loyalty to their corporations (Nomura 1994, 50; see also Dore 1973; Smith 1988). While the growing together of white-­and blue-­collar workers’ lifeways has been predominantly described as the “white-­collarization of blue-­collar workers” in Japan, M. Takahashi (2001, 18) argues that this characterization does not fully explain the ambiguous homogenization of salarymen and the historical pro­cesses of white-­collarization in the early 1900s. Rather, he argues, the employee lifeways and system that salarymen embodied became seen as ideal by both white-­collar and blue-­collar workers. This ideal spread among workers ­because such treatment stood in contrast to the previous discrimination of blue-­collar workers vis-­à-­v is white-­collar workers. Their slogans implied that workers be “recognized for their ­human character” (jinkaku shōnin) rather than their par­tic­u­lar occupational status. And instead of equal treatment in the abstract sense, this ideal aimed for the concrete goal of being treated as white-­collar workers (shokuin nami no taigū) (M. Takahashi 2001). Their specific aim was the possibility to raise up individuals while at the same time to raise workers’ conditions together as a group. Even though it was not a smooth pro­cess, the gradual pro­gress in workers’ conditions and status can be traced from the transformation of workplaces in vari­ ous sectors in the prewar period up through the postwar. Early changes included expanding staff-­level treatment to skilled workers, the introduction of a monthly salary system in certain factories, the creation of employee associations to integrate workers, and improved welfare provisions for female workers in textile factories

38 CHAPTER 1

(M. Takahashi 2001, 18). Thus, without a distinctive autonomous working-­class community or culture, working-­class individuals also aimed to escape from their lower status via aspirations of self-­advancement (risshin-­shusse) through individualistic competition (Kinmonth 1981; Kumazawa 1996, 45). According to Kumazawa (1996, 38) and Shibata (2007, 36), what characterizes the first Japa­ nese industrial workers was not collectivism but an individualistic orientation marked by competitiveness and the sudden severance of social ties to f­ amily and village communities. Further, as t­ hese industrial workers tended to live separately from their own families, organ­izing and launching l­abor protests was also an impor­tant way for them to release their stress and vent their frustration with their hardships. At the same time, it was precisely the lack of distinctions with other ways of life (i.e., the absence of a distinct working class culture, community, or philosophy) that made the salaryman’s way of life seem attractive and attainable, and which facilitated the gradual “assimilation” of the salaryman model by a large segment of the population (Shibata 2007, 39–40). By the 1920s, industrial worker l­abor ­unions and salarymen ­unions began to forge closer ties. Specifically, at the October 1924 Kansai rally of the national ­labor ­union Sōdōmei, support grew to reconsider their rejection of salarymen ­unions, and Japa­nese industrial worker l­ abor u ­ nions tried to accommodate salarymen for the first time in order to have a stronger impact on the government and society (Matsunari et al. 1957, 60). This was a significant development as the previously loyal salarymen began taking actions against their benefactors (business leaders and government) and started holding hands with the industrial workers for the first time.

The Salar yman Age of Terror (Sarariiman Kyōfu Jidai) In 1927, a string of bank failures heralded the beginning of increasingly hard times for salarymen. Bankruptcy and restructuring among many banks and corporations led to mass layoffs, and thousands of residents in Tokyo and Kobe and workers from banks, retail stores, the shipping industry, and electric companies lost their jobs, with railway companies being the hardest hit. In addition to worker layoffs, the number of banks declined from 1,455 in 1927 to 913 in 1930, along with the downsizing or bankruptcy of nearly 500 companies (Matsunari et al. 1957, 63). In the midst of ­these difficulties, the New York stock market crashed in 1929, ushering in a global depression and deflation. As world markets tumbled and a global financial crisis spread, the late 1920s and 1930s in Japan came to be called the “salaryman



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

39

age of terror” (sarariiman kyōfu jidai), where no one was spared from suffering, including the white-­collar workers and management (Aono 1930; Yomiuri 1929). By 1932, over 88,000 white-­collar workers ­were unemployed (a white-­collar unemployment rate of 5.26 ­percent); one in five of all unemployed w ­ ere former white-­ collar workers (Kinmonth 1981, 287) (see figure 1.3).

FIGURE 1.3.  The Salaryman Age of Terror was published in 1930. Source: Photo­graph of book by author.

40 CHAPTER 1

For Aono (1930, 24), a salaryman-­turned-­Marxist essayist writing in the late 1920s, the ambiguous social position of the expanding category of the salaryman itself perpetuated the instability of salarymen’s subjectivity, as their economic position (proletariat-­like) did not neatly match with their consciousness (bourgeois-­ like). Aono (1930, 16) describes his salarymanhood as a period full of anxiety, ­mental atrophy, humiliation, and resignation. His fear as a salaryman derived from his terror of being laid off from the com­pany, and such fears over unemployment ­were common among many workers at that time. Although every­one including blue-­collar and white-­collar workers had the potential of losing their jobs, blue-­ collar workers’ discharge came with unemployment insurance, and it was unlikely that they would be laid off without warning due to their strong l­abor ­union (M. Takahashi 2001). In contrast, salarymen’s fear of layoff came from potential job loss without any unemployment insurance, a fear described as “the typical salaryman’s psychological state” (Aono 1930, 38; Kinmonth 1981; Maeda 1928). As Japa­nese society plunged further into economic crisis and militarization in the 1930s, the combination of increasingly disparaging economic conditions and the rapid growth of individuals competing for college entrance and white-­collar jobs eventually called into question the very category of the new ­middle class, and university gradu­ates became seen as empty in substance. Many ­people questioned the value of graduating from college (Maeda 1928). The pro­cess of suffering through job difficulties, competition, and unemployment came to be framed as the “proletarianization of salarymen” (Aono 1930, 30; Kinmonth 1981, 283, 288; S. Koike 1929; Tanaka 2002, 20). While the salarymen ­union (hōkyūsha kumiai) worked against the increasing militarization of Japa­nese society, its po­liti­cal influence was not strong enough to influence the military and bureaucracy, and many salarymen ­were devastated when the war began (Matsunari et al. 1957). Whereas salarymen in the Taisho period ­were motivated by a clear dream of earning a lot of money through land and stocks, salarymen in the early Showa period dreamed only to escape the realities of the pre­sent age, and they ­were seen as the least ideal occupation but also the least ideal marital partner (Yomiuri 1936).

The Massification of the Salaryman in Popu­lar Culture and Society By the 1920s and 1930s ­there was a growing lit­er­at­ ure on the banality and anxiety of salarymen’s lives along with a burgeoning popu­lar culture related to the depressing realities of salarymen’s lifestyle, such as in popu­lar ­music (Matsunari et al. 1957, 81–82). This played a dual function of giving suffering workers a coping mechanism as well as creating a more massified sentiment among the public



Historicizing Japa­nese Workers and Japa­nese Capitalism

41

at large. ­These satires and parodies played an impor­tant role in the construction of mass culture among Japa­nese citizens, including salarymen. The shared hardships familiarized salarymen with other segments of the population, which further pop­u­lar­ized the model of their middle-­class lifestyle. Intriguingly, as Miyake (1995, 5) suggests, this is related to how the growing mass class of salarymen mitigated the tension between capital and ­labor or between the industrial business leaders and workers. Already around the 1920s, due to the mass consumption of Japa­nese mass culture, the expansive potential of the new m ­ iddle class’s economic and cultural diversity became distinct from the old ­middle class and farmers, while at the same time it made it pos­si­ble to assimilate their lifestyles into the growing new m ­ iddle class model of living. Thus, even as economic realities contributed to a proletarianization of salarymen, rather than creating tensions between dif­ fer­ent classes, ­there was si­mul­ta­neously a dominant trend ­toward the middle-­ classization of the blue-­collar working class. This was bolstered by an “assimilation-­ oriented attitude” (dōka shikō) based on the idea of “recognizing one’s h ­ uman character” (jinkaku shōnin) (M. Takahashi 2001, 29), which made claims that could be embraced by both working-­class and non-­working-­class men. This was further facilitated by the intensifying state-­sponsored social, economic, and hygienic education proj­ects, such as the Daily Life Improvement Campaign, which recruited old-­middle-­class local residents and new-­middle-­class professional men and ­house­wives to serve as bridges and models for the lower classes (Garon 1997, 53–54, 129). Indeed, despite the increasing hardships faced by Japa­nese society as a ­whole, according to surveys available from the 1930s, ­there was an increase in the number of ­people who started seeing themselves as “upper m ­ iddle” or “­middle ­middle,” together with a decrease in the number of ­people who saw themselves as “lower ­middle” or “lower” (Ishikawa 1982b; Murakami 1982). Nonetheless, throughout the 1930s, the growing sense of sharedness in terms of lifestyles and mass culture became accompanied by the increasing militarization of Japa­nese society. As the entirety of Japa­nese society was drawn into the war effort, the national salarymen ­union and local chapters like the Hōkyūsha Kyōkai in the Kansai region w ­ ere dissolved (Matsunari et al. 1957, 93). Thus, as war clouds billowed across the Pacific, salarymen lamented being deprived of their dreams of a happy and stable life.

Salar ymen ­u nder War during 1931–1945 In 1931 the Manchurian Incident triggered the final leap into the Second Sino-­ Japanese War, and by 1937 many salarymen w ­ ere sent to war as soldiers. With

42 CHAPTER 1

widespread evacuations to the countryside (sokai) and the sudden loss of workers due to the war, some banks began hiring w ­ omen for formerly male positions. Despite the harsh conditions during the war, major banks had to remain open, and bankers w ­ ere suddenly seen as analogous to the lowest of all the social classes in the old hierarchy of Tokugawa feudalism. This was reflected in the newly coined and pop­u­lar­ized term for a new class system: warriors, farmers, artisans, tradesman, and bankers (shi nō kō shō gin)—­parodying the Edo cast system of warriors, farmers, artisans, and tradesman, this time with bankers at the bottom of society (Matsunari et al. 1957, 96). Thus, the war­time ­labor market contributed to a strong tendency to see the issues of white-­collar workers as intimately connected with the issues of all laborers in Japan rather than as exclusive to salarymen (Miyake 1995, 12). This helped lay the foundation for postwar ­labor ­unions to argue for “recognizing ­human character” (jinkaku shōnin) and eliminating discriminations based on blue-­and white-­collar workers by asserting that “all workers ­were active subjects contributing to national production, and therefore all equal” (Tipton 2002, 132; see also Gordon 2008, 211). In this way, the full mobilization of all sectors of society for total war contributed to uniting workers in structural ways. Even as the total mobilization of workers for war led to the dissolution of all prewar ­labor ­unions, workers w ­ ere consolidated u ­ nder a massive national-­level ­union in 1938 that united both white-­collar and blue-­collar workers u ­ nder the slogan of equality as equal employees u ­ nder the “­Great Japan Industrial Patriotic Association” (Dai Nippon Sangyō Hōkoku Kai, also known as Sampō) (M. Takahashi 2001, 18; Dore 1973, 375–403). This consolidated ­union had long-­lasting effects on the general organ­ization of ­labor ­unions in Japan (Scalapino 1965, 679–80). Although oriented t­ oward state goals of maximum productivity for the war, the massive scale of Sampō required that it be or­ga­nized locally at the individual factory or enterprise level. As Scalapino (1965, 680) remarks, while state and management goals ­were directed ­toward inculcating worker loyalty and national patriotism, “Ironically, perhaps, this era was one of considerable pro­gress for the industrial worker of Japan,” as the state mandated that companies secure certain wage and welfare ser­v ices for their workers. Altogether, by the end of World War II, an unpre­ce­dented number and range of workers ­were or­ga­nized into mass ­labor organ­izations. While or­ga­nized primarily by enterprise, workers ­were also “indoctrinated in the values and purposes of state on a scale unpre­ce­ dented for modern Japan” (Scalapino 1965, 681), which had a power­ful influence on postwar ­labor organ­ization and worker consciousness (see also Gordon 2008, 211–12).



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Peace and Democracy at Work: The End of World War II and the Rise of “Middle-­C lass Modernity” On August 15, 1945, the war ended with Japan’s defeat and unconditional surrender. This not only signaled the end of Japan’s imperialist ambitions but also the emancipation of the Japa­nese citizenry both inside and outside Japan. The workers who had been drafted to the military w ­ ere fi­nally released and returned to their offices. A happy homecoming was not waiting for them, however. Instead, they ­were greeted by “exhaustion and despair” (kyodatsu), the tremendous damages of the war and extreme inflation, desperate families, and struggling offices (Dower 2004). Nonetheless, in the midst of the aftermath of the devastated lands, distracted nation, crushed dreams, and mass confusion and disappointment, the dream of recovery, energy, strategy, and hope began to take root (Dower 2004, 7). According to Dower (2004, 16), the theme and idea of “peace and democracy” became the postwar mantra for citizens, while the meanings of the mantra for each individual varied greatly. ­Under such a mantra, Japan experienced tremendous changes, including (1) a newly reborn ­labor ­union movement, (2) resurgent socialist and communist propaganda, and (3) vibrant mass culture through mass-­market publication, a subculture of prostitution, black markets, a culture of de­cadence (kasutori culture), and the birth of many new religions (Dower 2004; Gordon 1998, 200). In many ways, the postwar chaos made it clear that the unity, cohesiveness, and discipline that characterized the Japa­nese military was not based on the idea of “loyalty and sincerity” (magokoro) or “harmony” (wa) but on the foundation of strategic authoritarianism (Dower 2004, 51). As Dower (2004, 136) suggests, the defeat stirred public anger and disbelief at the existing authority in Japan. In the postwar desolation, extreme deprivation radicalized many laborers, and shameful de­ cadence generated many sound criticisms of the existing order. About four million ­people ­were reported to have lost their jobs ­after the war, and the number of unemployed reached thirteen million in total, including seven million of t­hose returned from war (Gordon 1985, 363). At the same time, the newly demo­cratized arena of public debate and action opened unpre­ce­dented opportunities for some of the most suppressed war­time groups to find new voice, including socialist and communist groups in par­tic­u­lar. Against the background of socialist and communist gains in countries across Asia, t­ hese groups quickly grew, especially by using previously developed ­labor u ­ nion channels (Gordon 2008, 235–36; Scalapino 1965). Democracy thus took many forms in the immediate postwar period. For many workers, democracy meant having a voice in the workplace through direct control over production pro­cesses or by being able to elect representatives who would

44 CHAPTER 1

­ articipate in management councils. Democracy also meant gaining the right to “be p recognized for their ­human character” (jinkaku shōnin) and “be treated like white-­ collar workers” (shokuin nami no taigū), both among employees in the same workplace and between workers and man­ag­ers (Gordon 1998, 20; M. Takahashi 2001, 18).11 In the immediate postwar period, when previous systems of management ­were critically reassessed by newly liberated l­ abor leaders and reform-­minded leaders of the Allied occupation, ­these notions of democracy received official support. During the seven years from 1945 to 1952 when the Allied occupation held the reins of control, the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers (SCAP),12 began an extensive program of reform and promotion of democracy. They disbanded the special “thought police,” disestablished the government’s connections with state Shinto, freed Communist Party members from jail, permitted open po­ liti­ cal expression, began dismantling the zaibatsu corporate conglomerates, broke up monopolistic firms, enacted radical land reforms, and encouraged u ­ nion activities, including strikes (Gordon 1998, 7). In short, while the postwar was marked by despair for the past and the pre­ sent, it also came with indomitable energy and hope for a bright ­future. In this way the meaning of “Japan” gradually shifted to a more inclusive concept that was more accepting of individual agency, equality, and voice among the common ­people (Dower 2004, 136). The new potentials opened by this more inclusive notion of Japan w ­ ere also reflected in the lives of postwar salaried workers, who again became emblematic of the desires and achievement of a moderate level of material security. This eventually became the “most au­then­tic” characteristic of democracy in postwar Japan (Kumazawa 1989).

The Postwar ­Labor Union Strug­gles and the Rise of Enterprise Unions ­ fter the war, rampant deflation contributed to massive unemployment by the A end of the 1940s, and workers in all industries had to fight for basic security in terms of stable employment as well as living wages. To survive the economic crisis in the aftermath of the war, white-­collar and blue-­collar workers in both public and private sectors united as workers, building a resurgent, inclusive ­labor ­union movement (Dower 2004; Matsunari et al. 1957). The shared hardships galvanized u ­ nions to protest the difficult conditions facing a broad range of workers ­under the banner of being productive citizens who deserved the right to be respected and pursue a humanistic (ningenteki) livelihood (Gordon 2008, 211; Morishima 1992, 438; Tipton 2002, 150). As the history of prewar ­labor u ­ nions reveals, ­labor ­unions w ­ ere nothing new, but the scale and the number of ­unions had been l­imited, and many salarymen



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­ ere not directly involved in them. Postwar ­unions differed in their size and in w the scale of their activities, which included workers from many dif­fer­ent industries (Matsunari et al. 1957, 165). Moreover, compared with prewar white-­ collar ­unions, postwar u ­ nions w ­ ere also considerably more confident in their demands and bold in their activities. Initially this was due in part to the postwar rehabilitation of leftist leaders who ­were seen by the Allied occupation as a moderating and demo­cratic force that could ­counter the war­time militarism. ­After the Allied occupation announced support for u ­ nions in October 1945, membership r­ ose from about 5,000 to nearly 5 million by December 1946, which was over 40 ­percent of adult wage earners (Gordon 1998, 8). Union activists built off of the deprivation and frustrations of workers and pursued militant tactics and radical goals, and through June 1946, ­there ­were 233 instances of “production control” involving 157,000 ­unionized men and ­women, in which workers attempted to wrest control over the production pro­cess from man­ag­ers (Gordon 1998, 8). Two of the main issues that u ­ nions pushed for in the early postwar period included protection against dismissal and livelihood wages (Gordon 1985). Rather than negotiating with man­ag­ers to establish rules for layoffs as many ­unions in the United States have done, Japa­nese ­labor u ­ nions saw complete protection from layoffs as an “all-­or-­nothing affair,” as layoffs ­were “an attack on the individual’s pre­sent livelihood, his f­ uture earning power, and the u ­ nion organ­ization” (Gordon 1985, 363). Furthermore, while demands for a livelihood wage had been common since the prewar, in the early postwar it was an increasingly pressing issue as food shortages and hyperinflation threatened the livelihood of many workers (Shibata 2007, 136; Gordon 1985, 276). Motivated by the newly revitalized l­abor u ­ nions and the serious deprivations of the postwar period, workers showed an energy and assertiveness that was unimaginable before World War II (Matsunari et al. 1957, 100). Gordon (1998, 8) sees the workers of this era as “challenging fundamental notions of private property and managerial authority” by questioning the chain of command on factory floors as well as the differential treatment of workers within firms, alongside prewar continuities in both ideologies and actions among the ­labor leaders ­behind ­these movements. At the same time, according to M. Takahashi (2001, 29), ­these ­union movements’ intentions w ­ ere similar to that of a mutual aid association: they took a somewhat cooperative stance with management rather than the antagonistic stance that often characterizes the relationship between u ­ nions and employers. The era of bold u ­ nion actions u ­ nder postwar democracy proved to be shorter than many activists had expected. By the late 1940s and early 1950s, a­ fter numerous demonstrations by a range of u ­ nion activists, including both radical socialist

46 CHAPTER 1

and communist groups as well as more moderate procapitalist groups, SCAP policies turned from broad-­based encouragement for democ­ratization and po­liti­cal participation to the more conservative goals of po­liti­cal and economic stability, which became known as SCAP’s “reverse course.” In addition to enforcing restrictions on demonstrations and strikes by the growing socialist-­and communist-­ led movements, SCAP aimed to boost Japan’s economic capacities as a growing manufacturing and export-­led nation. Despite SCAP’s attempt to call off strikes, however, u ­ nions remained active. This was accompanied by growing divisions among ­labor u ­ nions in the 1950s and 1960s, which led to a split between the more moderate and loose federation of enterprise ­unions called Dōmei and the more militant and po­liti­cally active interenterprise federation of ­unions called Sōhyō (Gordon 1998, 9).13 While both blue-­collar and white-­collar workers in ­these ­unions shared the desire for better treatment by employers, ideological differences emerged on how to achieve such concessions, which ­were colored by the growing po­liti­cal divisions between leftist and conservative movements. However, due in part to the prewar and war­time enterprise-­centered organ­ization of ­unions, the ideological differences between the dif­fer­ent federations ­were mainly relegated to national-­level ­union leaders, whereas most members remained more engaged with their enterprise-­level branches. During this time, rather than banding together in ­unions based on a shared sense of occupation or class, the majority of white-­collar ­union members remained active in pursuing issues within their par­tic­u­lar workplaces and thus ­were not active in broader national movements for industrywide collective bargaining or po­ liti­cal influence (Levine 1965, 654–55). Nonetheless, during 1953–1954, along with strikes by workers from securities firms and banks, the “fighting spirit” of the salarymen gained popu­lar attention as their own recognition of the need for unification culminated in a strike for h ­ uman rights and for dismantling what they saw as the feudalistic ­labor and salary system (Matsunari et al. 1957, 174, 178). While the Allied occupation ended in 1952, Japa­nese government and industry leaders continued to pursue conservative economic policies in efforts to help the nation “catch up,” and the majority of Japa­nese man­ag­ers used postwar rhe­ toric of personal sacrifice, which denounced conflict within the com­pany as selfish (Gordon 1998, 201). Man­ag­ers also attempted to form alliances with more cooperative ele­ments among the ­labor ­unions that could help them manage the workforce (Gordon 1998, 10–11, 201). Despite their differences, however, Gordon (1998, 40) notes, both the radical ­union members and the employees who cooperated with the management shared an impor­tant quality: “They hardly ever viewed the workplace as just a place to earn a wage in the detached manner of many of their Anglo-­American counter­parts. They rather saw it as a site for the creation of enduring community and meaning in daily life.”



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The Strug­gle for a “Humanistic Lifestyle” and the Emergence of Companyism By the 1950s, while the standard of living for white-­collar workers declined, t­ hose of blue-­collar workers improved. This transformation came together with the ­labor ­unions’ requests for equality and full membership in the workplace by eliminating status distinctions between white-­collar (shokuin) and blue-­collar workers (kōin), which spurred more and more companies to recognize both kinds of workers simply as employees ( jyūgyōin) in the same enterprise (Gordon 1985, 347; Ishikawa 1982a, 34; Kumazawa 1996, 49; Miyake 1995, 16; N. Takahashi 2010, 28–29). Foremost among ­labor ­union arguments at this time was the right to be treated in a “humanistic way,” to have their “moral worth as ­humans recognized” (jinkaku shōnin), and to be able to pursue a “humanistic lifestyle” (ningenrashii seikatsu) (M. Takahashi 2001). Accordingly, by making claims based on reciprocity, such as “workers cooperate with the enterprise, and therefore the enterprise owes certain guarantees to employees,” the ­labor ­unions demanded an improved wage system. Specifically, they argued for a livelihood wage (seikatsu-­kyū) that would rise periodically to meet employees’ life-­cycle needs through age-­and seniority-­linked wage advancement (Gordon 1985, 276, 297). The first two de­cades of the postwar period ­were thus marked by the nearly equal ideological clash of ­unions and man­ag­ers, which was played out in the workplace and in open public demonstrations between increasingly united government and industry leaders, on the one hand, and increasingly divided l­ abor ­union factions, on the other. However, as man­ag­ers and more moderate ­union leaders began to cooperate over key issues involving job security, se­niority, and livelihood wages, they ­were able to reshape the new ­labor relationship. By the late 1950s, this new ­labor relationship became known as “the Japa­nese employment system” (Gordon 1985, 1). By the 1960s the so-­called corporate-­centered society took shape (Gordon 1998, 18–19), and u ­ nion leaders and man­ag­ers worked in tandem to mobilize workers efficiently and to safeguard workers’ job security and salaries, thus raising productivity and increasing economic benefits and job security for both management and workers (Shibata 2007, 151). This mutual reconciliation among ­labor ­union leaders, ­union members, and man­ag­ers laid the foundation for what came to be known as enterprise-­based ­unions. While this protected the employees within a specific com­pany, it also stymied the development of certain benefits, such as social security systems, that could cover workers beyond par­tic­u­lar enterprise bound­aries (Kumazawa 1996, 62; Lechevalier 2014, 88–89). At the same time, this contributed to man­ag­ers’ goals for allying with u ­ nions and gaining the cooperation of workers in reconstructing the workplace as an integrated

48 CHAPTER 1

community rooted in a strong sense of “us” as a com­pany (Gordon 1998, 197). Accordingly, this fostered an attitude among the majority of Japa­nese citizens “that the good of the enterprise normally coincided with the common good of employees, of man­ag­ers, of consumers, and of the public at large” (Gordon 1998, 19). One of the most impor­tant transformations during this period of workplace reconstruction and integration was the impact of the shift from the prewar l­ abor system, which had clearly distinguished white-­collar workers from blue-­collar workers, to an employment structure where both groups came to be placed ­under the same personnel system (Nomura 2000; M. Takahashi 2001; N. Takahashi 2010). In the past, the Japa­nese ­labor market was marked by high mobility (Dore 1973, 385), and blue-­collar workers had been known for being “footloose” and moving from job to job individually or as apprentices with power­ful ­labor contractors (oyakata) (Gordon 2008, 102; Levine 1965, 642–50). However, u ­ nder the postwar ­labor system, blue-­collar workers ­adopted values and attitudes that w ­ ere similar to white-­collar workers (Gordon 1998, 200; Shibata 2007, 121). This included an increased commitment to a par­tic­ul­ ar workplace as well as an increasing gendered division of ­labor within the ­family, where the model of a wife as dedicated homemaker became embraced by both white-­collar and blue-­collar families “as a modern, scientific contribution to building a new Japan” (Gordon 1998, 200). At the same time, even blue-­collar positions w ­ ere increasingly given to t­ hose with high school diplomas, which also reflected the rising expectations and competitions for academic credentials that now extended to blue-­collar workers (Miyake 1995, 15). ­These orga­nizational practices w ­ ere first used by larger corporations and gradually extended to medium-­and small-­sized enterprises and subsidiary companies. The most famous of t­hese was the T ­ oyota production and management model that gained international attention from business scholars and became synonymous with Japan’s distinctive postwar economic structure (Dohse, Jürgens, and Malsch 1985). ­Later, this became known in the West as Toyotism, ­after the model of corporate welfare and “com­pany citizenship” promoted at T ­ oyota, which was seen as an alternative model to Fordism (see Keizer 2010, 2; Lash and Urry 1994, 71–75). More than just an economic system, the Toyotist employment model gave citizens socioeconomic stability and ideals to strive for as “a symbol of the desirable life” (E. Vogel, 1963; see also Kelly, 2002), laying the foundation for the companyist ideology of socioeconomic life in postwar Japan. On the individual level, one could say that identification with one’s workplace and the interpenetration of corporate and private life formed the root of what could be called Toyotist subjectivity. While the system was criticized for demanding long working hours and producing “corporate ­cattle” (shachiku), it was ­under this con-



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text that mass middle-­class identification emerged as the stability-­oriented social and emotional architecture of mainstream consciousness that marked Japan’s middle-­class modernity (Kelly 2002). Together, ­these postwar developments contributed to the emergence of the new ideology of companyism (kaishashugi) (Barshay 2004; see also Kojima 2002; Takeuchi 1998). This ideology, which emerged from the “white-­collarization of the blue-­collar workers” (K. Koike 1988), encouraged shared commitment among workers to their companies through long-­term training and employment security and by extension enfolded men and their families with their com­pany’s success (Lechevelier 2014, 87–89). This contributed to the spread of shared expectations for livelihood among workers and their families that would l­ ater play a major role in Japan’s economic recovery. It also played an impor­tant role in the growing sense of prosperity among individual citizens which laid the foundation for an emerging and newly inclusive consciousness of middle-­class modernity among a growing segment of the Japa­nese population.

Economic Realities, Public Images, and Responses of Postwar Salarymen Out of the postwar recession and unstable job market, a new optimism for an improved lifestyle was born. By the time the Allied occupation ended in 1952, the Japa­nese economic output had recovered to prewar levels, and between 1951 and 1963 the national output nearly tripled (Lockwood 1965, 448). This was accompanied by an unpre­ce­dented fervor for consumption, education, and access to middle-­class ways of life, which began to sweep across the Japa­nese population in the 1950s (Gordon 1998, 52). By the late 1950s p ­ eople already began feeling a sense of improvement in their standard of living and ­were assured that ten years from now their life would be better (Ishikawa 1982a, 49–50). The rapid economic recovery and concomitant dissemination of durable consumer goods (taikyū shōhizai) generated social recognition of the large mass of the new ­middle class among citizens. By the late 1950s, the number of workers classified as “employed by ­others” (koyōsha)—­broadly recognized as salaried workers, as opposed to self-­employed or agricultural/fisheries sector workers—­ reached about 22.8 million, or roughly 53 ­percent of the workforce (MIAC 2018), and for the first time since before World War II, it again represented a massified social class (Matsunari et al. 1957). Like their prewar counter­parts, they varied in their occupations, education, income, and consciousness, and some of their working conditions ­were even worse than ­those of manual laborers. Man­ag­ers also tried to hire temporary employees (including ­women) and subcontractors as a buffer to protect their regular workers in the 1950s and 1960s (Gordon 1985, 390).

50 CHAPTER 1

This resulted in two distinct categories of employees within an enterprise: regular com­pany employees (seiki shain), which included both white-­collar and blue-­ collar workers, and nonregular employees (hi-­seiki shain) (Lechevalier 2014, 87–89; Shibata 2007, 169). The resurgence of the salarymen as a new mass class of salaried employees within the postwar corporate-­centered society was accompanied by the transformation of the urban geography of Japan and attendant lifestyles of its residents. This also played into the government’s “income-­doubling plan” that was announced in 1960. The plan aimed for “specific state-­sponsored policies of productivity” through rationalizing agricultural production and “investing public funds exclusively in industrial infrastructure” (Shibata 2007, 160–61). The mechanization of farming not only reduced the number of workers in the agricultural industry; it also signaled the end of subsidies to small farmers. In addition, expanded access to higher education and increasing demands for workers in the cities drew many p ­ eople out of the farm-­centered countryside and into the company-­centered cities. Altogether, the Japa­nese population became increasingly urbanized, and com­pany housing blocks (danchi) began to spring up throughout the cities. As urban life took on a new immediacy and real­ity for increasing numbers of Japa­nese across the country from the mid-1950s to the mid-1960s, mass media began to center on white-­collar workers and their lifestyles, and a public discourse of the new m ­ iddle class gained popularity (Miyake 1995, 14). Indeed, it was only during the 1960s that the term salaryman, which used to refer to some features of individuals’ lifestyles, came to encompass the model of the new ­middle class f­ amily: a “standardized h ­ ouse­hold consisting of a ­couple with two ­children” (Okamoto and Sasano 2001, 24–25). And as incomes ­rose in the 1950s and 1960s, ­people from all walks of life gained direct access to this increasing affluence that defined the new ­middle class in the form of commercialized mass-­culture products, including labor-­saving domestic devices, cars and suburban homes, and tele­ vi­sion sets (Gordon 1998, 182).

The Solidification of the Corporate-­Centered Society At the heart of the growing economy and the growing mass of middle-­class families ­were the workplaces that provided the f­ amily wages for full-­time employees and more ­limited wages for nonregular female and male workers. The increasing social and cultural centrality of corporations in Japa­nese society in the 1950s and 1960s, especially ­those connected with the major conglomerates (keiretsu), became one of the enduring features of postwar Japan. As Gordon (1998, 57) notes, they proved to be more “total and durable” than the institutional configurations of corporations in much of Eu­rope and North Amer­ic­ a.



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By the 1960s, the combination of state and corporate goals for creating a stable ­labor force, long-­term prospects for job security and advancement among full-­ time male workers, and a corporate-­centered middle-­class lifestyle for men and their families became an increasingly power­ful centripetal force that brought the corporate values of workers and man­ag­ers closer together. Oppositional actions such as the shop-­floor activism of previous de­cades grew less common, and a si­ mul­ta­neously more exclusive and rigidified perspective took hold among employees. This perspective encouraged employees to devote themselves to the goals of the com­pany as the best way for them to support their families and to contribute to society as a ­whole, and the widespread ac­cep­tance of this perspective was a corporation-­led fait accompli that Gordon (1998, 131) calls the ascendance of the “hegemony of corporate values” across Japa­nese society.14 This coincided with the consolidation of the state ideology of economic nationalism, which became the guiding princi­ple of the postwar, postoccupation economic policy. As individual lifeways became bound up with the corporate-­centered society, government policy for economic-­focused national revitalization was promoted by what became known as the iron triangle of the government, bureaucrats, and industry. Rather than stressing the ideology of unrestrained free-­market capitalism, this policy emphasized the importance of “administrative guidance” (Gordon 2008, 248) as the best way to maximize benefits both for corporations and for individual employees. In ­actual practice, t­ hose who benefited most ­were the state, man­ ag­ers, the regular male employees’ families, and companies as a w ­ hole. Given the turmoil and uncertainty that had marked the history of white-­collar-­ workers-­cum-­salarymen since their inception in the early Meiji period, during the rapid reconstruction and growth of the Japa­nese economy from the 1950s u ­ ntil the early 1970s, the working and living styles of workers in Japan reached a level of security and prosperity that was both unpre­ce­dented and previously unimaginable.15 Moreover, the growing economic and cultural proximity between blue-­ collar and white-­collar workers enfolded both within an increasingly corporate-­ centered salarymanhood: a lifeway modeled on corporate workers’ styles of work and life, mitigated by burgeoning mass culture industries and products. The rise of mass media and the expansion of mass higher education also produced a “standardization of information and attitudes,” and more and more ­children from farm families and working-­class backgrounds began ­going to college (Murakami 1978, 3). Class cultures that had greatly differed based on occupation, age, sex, and region dis­appeared, and the standardization of and diversification within mass culture became salient. In other words, the cultural life of the 1960s and 1970s was not an expanding mass culture marked by homogeneity but rather a mass culture that was growing b ­ ecause of an expanding inclusiveness that absorbed diversities (Ishikawa 1982a, 37–38).

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Mainstreaming Middleness in the High Growth Era: Class Consciousness in ­J apan’s Middle-­C lass Modernity The economic and industrial transformations within Japa­nese society had far-­ ranging social effects as well, which contributed to unpre­ce­dented changes in individual lifestyles and attitudes. With the rapid economic growth of the 1950s and 1960s, Japa­nese workers increasingly saw themselves as “­middle” or “average” (Yomiuri 1970a, 1970b, 1973, 1975, 1976, 1977). As the “traditional” patterns of life organ­ization dis­appeared, the narrowly circumscribed lifeways that typified the “traditional small worlds” of neighborhoods also dis­appeared (Bestor 1989; E. Vogel 1963), together with the social hierarchies that they w ­ ere bound up within. In the growing urban and suburban neighborhoods, ­people ­were now able to feel some sense of equality in society, and an increasing number of individuals identified with and strove for the lifestyle model of the new m ­ iddle class. Likewise, Naoi (1979, 387) located an increasing identification with “upper ­middle” and “­middle ­middle” from the 1950s to the 1980s. ­Those identifying with “upper ­middle” and “­middle m ­ iddle” r­ ose from 40 ­percent in 1958 to 62 ­percent in 1981, while ­those identifying with “lower ­middle” or “lower” declined from 49 ­percent to 33 ­percent during this period (Aoki 1981, 29; Ishikawa 1982b, 12). This phenomenon was not ­limited by occupation; it was true for both white-­ collar and blue-­collar workers. While blue-­collar workers’ consciousness largely remained as lower class in the mid-1950s, a 1962 survey on the “lifestyle and opinions of blue-­collar workers at large companies” conducted by Rikkyo University (1963) revealed that two-­thirds of blue-­collar workers identified themselves as ­middle (Ishikawa 1982a; Murakami 1982).16 By 1975, the number of p ­ eople with “ ‘­middle’ consciousness” (chū ishiki) surpassed the number of ­those who identified themselves with “ ‘lower’ consciousness.”

Unpacking the New ­Middle Class: Demo­cratizing Workplaces, Standardizing Salaries, and Massifying Consumption in the High Growth Era Given the internal diversity and the fluid and expansive growth of the new ­middle class during the tumultuous postwar years, it is clear that this Japa­nese middle-­ classization, or what Tominaga (1979, 11) calls the creation of a “diverse ­middle class,” was not created out of any single structural context or solely by means of social or governmental strategy or support. Crucially, this mainstreaming was promoted by two distinctive structural conditions—­inclusive ­labor ­union activities and the resulting inclusive postwar employment systems.



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Japa­nese ­labor ­unions have contributed greatly to the social ideals of middleness in ways that mark them as starkly dif­fer­ent from l­abor ­unions in other industrialized socie­ties. Rather than agents of social transformation that raise and accentuate distinctive class-­related consciousness and class differences, postwar ­labor ­unions merged management, salarymen, and workers. This blurred the boundary between the ­middle class and the lower class, mitigating potential social tension (see Gordon 1998; Matsunari et al. 1957; Murakami 1982; M. Takahashi 2001). Subsequently, the postwar l­ abor u ­ nions aimed to de­moc­ra­tize society by demo­cratizing the workplace. Through negotiation with management, ­labor ­unions succeeded in intermixing worker groups within companies and eliminating white-­collar and blue-­collar distinctions in salary systems and job security. As ­labor ­unions included both office staff and shop-­floor workers, they ­were not organ­izations exclusively for blue-­collar laborers, and white-­collar staff also took leadership in u ­ nion activities. In this way, many of the office staff in t­ hese ­labor ­unions took the same viewpoint as shop-­floor workers, and many staff also saw themselves as employees rather than as white-­collar office workers in contrast to blue-­collar shop-­floor workers (Ishikawa 1982a, 33). Over time, the ideological character of occupation and socioeconomic class was gradually removed and disembodied from the a­ ctual class groups, which was characterized as an “assimilation orientation” among Japa­nese workers (M. Takahashi 2001) that contributed to the “de-­structuration”—­the elimination of the class system—of Japa­ nese society at large (Murakami 1982). The “de-­structuration” of the distinct personnel systems between white-­collar and blue-­collar workers meant that management aimed to evaluate workers fairly by applying the same standards. The standardization of evaluation and job promotion ­were agreed to by both workers and man­ag­ers partly as a way to resist and restrain unbridled competition and frequent job changes among workers, which had long been a prominent feature of the Japa­nese ­labor market (e.g., Dore 1973, 385; Kinmonth 1981, 319, 328; Levine 1965, 642–50). Together, the amalgamation of radical and moderate ­labor ­unions’ calls for equality at the workplace and man­ag­ers’ desires for a stable ­labor force created a par­tic­u­lar kind of competitive equality of job security that was built on the understanding that workers would continue to compete and be judged according to their per­for­mance but that this would occur within a general framework of long-­term job security and corporate welfare. Thus, the resulting wage and status differences ­were understood and accepted as necessary. The elimination of status and wage differences and changing workshop management practices facilitated a consciousness among workers within companies as being the same employees. This characteristic l­ater became a f­ actor in the formation of the so-­called collectivist aspects of Japa­nese management (Ishikawa

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1982a, 34; Murakami 1978, 2), exemplified by such workplace innovations as the quality control circles and seniority-­based wage increases that gave workers a sense of solidarity with man­ag­ers by sharing responsibilities for production control and long-­term commitment to the com­pany. In addition to standardized treatment in the workplace, the rising social ideals of middleness in postwar Japan ­were also facilitated by a more equal salary system that enabled a broad range of workers to pursue and anticipate similar salaries, bonuses, and periodic wage raises. This took place against the backdrop of a general eve­ning out (heijunka) of salaries across all sectors of Japa­nese society during Japan’s high-­growth era. According to the f­amily bud­get survey, a national survey conducted between 1957 and 1979 and based on the average annual salary of five distinctive class groups—­upper, upper-­middle, middle-­middle, lower-­middle and lower classes—­there was a general trend in mainstreaming salaries across society where upper-­class salaries decreased and lower-­class salaries increased (Ishikawa 1982b, 18; Murakami 1978, 2; 1982, 38). Consequently, the increase in wages among farmers and blue-­collar workers (including small enterprises) resulted in a gain in income relative to white-­collar workers (Lockwood 1965, 452), and income differences diminished greatly from the 1950s to the 1970s. ­There was an eve­ning out of salaries among all workers, and both the upper and the lower-­class groups ­were approaching the middle-­middle group (see figure 1.4; see also Ishikawa 1982b, 24; Murakami 1982).17

FIGURE 1.4.  Annual Salary Based on Class Percentages. The baseline of Middle Middle is 1, with numbers above or below representing the order of magnitude of difference from Middle Middle. Compiled by author based on data in Ishikawa (1982, 18).



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From a broader perspective, ­these developments—­the inclusive personnel system that encompassed dif­fer­ent types of workers within the same enterprise and the eve­ning out of salaries—­facilitated a similar sense of work consciousness and lifestyles both in the workplace and in workers’ private lives. Moreover, as rapid economic growth encouraged mechanization, rationalization, high-­volume production, and mass consumption, ­there was also mass dissemination of what w ­ ere seen as luxurious consumer goods and an eve­ning out in lifestyles as well in the countryside and cities (Lockwood 1965, 453; Murakami 1978, 1982; Plath 1964). This was symbolized in the rise of the phrase my homeism (the ideal of owning one’s own home) and the growth of consumer goods in the 1950s and 1960s, including electric home appliances, as well as the popularization of credit cards, haute couture, international travel, and other trappings of modern life that soon came to be seen as requisite pleasures for a middle-­class lifestyle (Miyajima 1982a; 1982b; Naoi 1979).

The So­cio­log­i­cal Analy­sis and Ambiguities of Japan’s Middle-­Class Consciousness: Locating Middleness While so­cio­log­i­cal analyses recognized that salarymen and their families came to occupy a distinctive social, economic, and cultural position amid the growing urbanization and material affluence of postwar Japa­nese society, they also found the internal heterogeneity of the new ­middle class in terms of salarymen’s industry type, regional background, job content, firm size, and corporate culture,18 which mark the par­tic­ul­ ar characteristics of Japan’s new ­middle class that distinguish it from social classes labeled as m ­ iddle class in many other socie­ties, especially in Eu­rope. The Japa­nese ­middle class was fueled by rapid economic growth and social change to a degree that was unseen in Eu­rope. Specifically, despite the rise of a new m ­ iddle class in postwar E ­ ngland and France, Murakami (1978, 3) argues, the old class structures lingered on, and mi­grant l­ abor from Eu­ro­pean countries made it comparatively difficult for a new ­middle class to achieve such a massified phenomenon as it did in Japan. Moreover, with the growth of postwar welfare states in Eu­rope, t­ here was a growing sense of tension between the m ­ iddle class and the working class (Ishikawa 1982a, 31; Kawasaki 1981, 111; Zweig 1952). Altogether, entrenched differences in standards of living as well as life attitudes, educational standards, mannerisms and morality, and po­liti­cal consciousness remained between the ­middle, upper, and lower classes in Eu­rope. Among the ­middle class in ­England and France, for example, t­ hese distinctions w ­ ere manifested in a strong sense of identity as m ­ iddle class and a sense of alterity vis-­à-­v is the upper and lower classes (Ishikawa 1982a, 30).

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As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, the socioeconomic conditions and popu­lar consciousness of Japan’s new ­middle class have provoked much debate ­because of their distinctiveness compared to other middle-­class socie­ties. In U.S. so­cio­log­i­cal circles and in the po­liti­cal and economic discourse in E ­ ngland, France, and Italy, the m ­ iddle class’s distinctive lifestyle, consciousness, and identity are often ascribed to their occupations as well as their position within the occupational hierarchy in the respective society (Aoki 1981; Ishikawa 1982a; Naoi 1979). In contrast, Marxist analy­sis of the new m ­ iddle class in Japan highlights the ambiguous position of salaried workers in the Japa­nese economy. Specifically, salarymen differ from so-­called bourgeois management officials or proletariat manual laborers in that they function as middlemen and provide “lower management” (Matsunari et al. 1957; Murakami 1982). While their subjectivities are closer to ­those of managerial assistants than to ­those of manual laborers, their relation to the means of production remains more analogous to manual laborers. Yet they nonetheless feel like they belong to the same stream due to the eve­ ning out of employment systems that provide employment security, better employment conditions, and a se­niority salary system. This ambiguity lies b ­ ehind the reason that some scholars have critiqued the new ­middle class not as social real­ity but as an illusion or false consciousness (kyogi ishiki), which can be potentially harmful to salarymen’s ­mental health and well-­being (see Aoki 1981; Matsunari et al. 1957). Indeed, as early as the 1920s, Morimoto (1924) questioned the importation of Eu­ro­pean class terms, and argued that the term “mainstream class” (chūryū kaikyū) was more appropriate than the commonly used European-­derived terms of “­middle class” and “in-­between class” (chūsan kaikyū and chūkan kaikyū) to describe the par­tic­u­lar socioeconomic structure of modernizing Japan. T ­ hese latter Eu­ro­pean terms both implied the distinct positionality of the ­middle class within a social hierarchy of production that was specific to Eu­ro­pean industrial society. In contrast, Morimoto claimed that the mainstream class (chūryū kaikyū) in Japan was the class of ­people who have a humanistic life (ningenrashii seikatsu) and “cultured life” (bunka seikatsu), and this was not related to a position in a socioeconomic hierarchy of production as with Eu­ro­pean notions of m ­ iddle class encapsulated in the terms chūsan kaikyū and chūkan kaikyū (Morimoto 1924, 201). This early approach to focusing on the cultural orientation of the ­middle class rather than ­simple socioeconomic positioning has contributed to an enduring trend in analyzing postwar life as well. In her analy­sis of the notion of ­middle, Naoi (1979) argues that it is one’s subjective evaluation of life circumstances or inclinations (kurashi muki) rather than the concept of occupational prestige or the structure of education or income that strongly affects one’s sense of belonging to the ­middle social stratum in Japan. Thus, for Naoi, the Japa­nese concep-



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tion of ­middle consciousness (chū ishiki) is essentially dif­fer­ent and in­de­pen­dent from the Western so­cio­log­i­cal concept of “new middle-­class consciousness” (chūsan kaikyū ishiki) in the ideological, socioeconomic class-­based sense. This is ­because during the 1960s and 1970s t­ here was an increase in both the number of ­people who saw themselves as working class (in terms of social class, kaikyū) and also in the number of ­people who subjectively evaluated their life circumstances or inclinations (kurashi muki) as ­middle, average, or ordinary (in terms of social stratum, kaisō). Similarly, Ishikawa (1982a, 35) sees this as the assimilation of “perceptions of social stratification” (kaisō ishiki) rather than the elimination of class differences or the assimilation of dif­fer­ent class consciousness (kaikyū ishiki). In his trenchant analy­sis of the folk term “­middle” (chū) and its social effects, Kelly (2002) sees postwar mainstreaming not as standardizing socioeconomic real­ity and individual lifestyle differences but rather as standardizing attitudes ­toward certain lifeways. This si­mul­ta­neously produces “a structural differentiation of workplaces, ­family forms, and school outcomes” (Kelly 2002, 241). Thus, Kelly (2002, 234) suggests that the Japa­nese folk notion of “mainstream” (chūryū), rather than “­middle class,” denotes “social inclusiveness rather than categorical differentiation.” As such, “the real effect of this ‘mainstream’ identification has been to ‘declass’ and ‘massify’ the debates about social stratification” (Kelly 2002, 235). In this way, the rise of the new m ­ iddle class in Japan was not truly the rise of a class in the Marxist progressivist sense—­this Japa­nese middle-­classization did not erase social inequalities in society (Naoi 1979; Tominaga 1979).19 Put differently, as Kelly (2002, 234) notes, such “mainstreaming” of the represented (and desired) designs for living can take place “in spite of, and not in terms of objective differentials” (emphasis added).

The Institutionalization of Work and Home: Postwar Gendered Relations and the Corporate-­C entered Society The solidification and diffusion of the postwar ideology of companyism that undergirded the postwar salaryman model of life was of course driven by the corporate-­centered social structure and resulting inclusive employment systems that emerged in the 1950s and 1960s. However, the practical support for t­ hese ideologies in daily life was made pos­si­ble by the dedication of the ­family (Lechevalier 2014, 87–89). To understand the far-­reaching effects of Japan’s postwar economic transformation during t­ hese years, it is crucial to put the lives of salarymen in context with the development of the postwar h ­ ouse­hold as well.

58 CHAPTER 1

Over the rapid economic growth period from 1966 to 1973, ­there was a general shift in the meaning of the term salaryman from the eco­nom­ically oriented prefix of salary-­to the gendered postfix of -­man. In other words, whereas previously the image of the salaryman was more closely linked to his/her status as receiving a wage (i.e., as evidenced by the interchangeable use of the words salaryman and “salary receiver” [hōkyūsha]), by the 1960s and 1970s the term salaryman came to symbolize a male worker in a conjugal pair with a ­house­wife. Moreover, in the new postwar gender order, both salarymen and h ­ ouse­wives w ­ ere redefined as belonging not only to a com­pany and a f­ amily but also to the nation through government social policies that drew on the support of companies as well as local w ­ omen’s associations (Gordon 2008). As Gordon (1998, 54) notes, t­hese social policies reinforced the burgeoning cultural presence of corporate hegemony through naturalizing distinctive male and female roles. This reinforced ­women’s dependence on men by tying certain social benefits, such as health insurance and pensions, to men’s employment. In other words, t­ here grew a clear division of l­abor based on gender that combined the professionalization of the salaryman as the primary breadwinner with the professionalization of the ­house­wife as the primary homemaker, as well as the naturalization of men with the former and ­women with the latter (e.g., Imamura 1987; Su. Vogel 1978). The creation of this model was marked by two impor­tant characteristics in the relationship between work and ­family: the meaning of employment for workers’ families and their social welfare and the meaning of employment for workers themselves in terms of stability and life planning. For workers’ families, as with (postunionization) Fordist models in the United States and Eu­rope, the successful negotiation between ­unions and employers for a family/living wage came hand in hand with the rigidification of the gendered division of ­labor between husband and wife (Gambino 1996; May 1982; Neilson and Rossiter 2008). Commenting in the early 1960s, E. Vogel (1963, 16) remarked that “welfare is provided by neither the government nor the ­family nor personal connections, the large firm assumes critical importance ­because it provides security as well as income.” By the 1970s and 1980s, Japan began developing a “Japanese-­style welfare society” that retrenched the role of the f­ amily (in par­tic­u­lar, of w ­ omen) as social welfare providers, with pension and health care plans and tax breaks built around full-­time (male) workers’ corporate citizenship (see Ochiai 2011, 230–32). Consequently, rather than the state, ­these two institutions of corporations and home became naturalized as the loci of welfare provision, leading to Japan becoming known as having “the least generous welfare provisions” among industrialized countries (Shibata 2007, 409; Nomura 1998, 137–38). In this way, Japanese-­style management and its social welfare, including health insurance and



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pensions, ­were “powerfully supported by a mutually dependent relationship between men and w ­ omen” (Kumazawa 1996, 13; Gordon 1998, 54). Consequently, Japan became known for what Dore (1973) calls “welfare corporatism” (as opposed to “welfare statism”): corporations bridged the bound­aries of individuals and government and supported employees’ welfare. This system became known as “corporate welfarism,” or “welfare capitalism” (as opposed to “stock market capitalism”) (Dore 1973, 2000), and has been intimately tied to the postwar ideology of “companyism” (Baba 1991; Barshay 2004) or more broadly Japan’s “corporate-­centered society” (O. Watanabe 1990). In contrast to welfare statist models found in Eu­rope, Japan’s government spending on welfare is relatively low (Suzuki 2015), and corporations became the primary providers of welfare, while the state has remained “intimately bound up in the networks of co-­ordination and allowing them to function effectively without . . . ​dominating them” (Tiberghien 2014, 31). This postwar mutual dependence of men and w ­ omen took root quickly as the new ­middle class model of life spread throughout the country. Dore’s (1958) so­ cio­log­i­cal inquiry in 1951 and E. Vogel’s (1963) and Su. Vogel’s (1978) ethnographic research in a suburb of Tokyo from 1958 to 1960 shows the beginning of ­these modern f­amily relations and idealized gender relations and lifestyles (see also Imamura 1987; Lebra 1984; Plath 1964). Their work reveals that as much as prewar salarymen ­were a key ele­ment in the mediation of structural changes from feudalism to capitalism, the way in which the postwar salarymen pro­cessed and structured their lives also acted as a mediation of postwar modernization. This further standardized the transition from class-­based “feudalistic” lifeways to gender-­based “demo­cratic” lifeways in industrialized Japan. Indeed, as early as 1970 the social category of salaryman had expanded to include the entire wage-­ earning population, which in turn enfolded 75 ­percent of Japa­nese families within the definition of “salaryman f­amily” (Shibata 2007, 356). As “professional ­house­wives” (sengyō shufu) became fully in charge of the home, salarymen w ­ ere able to fully devote themselves to corporations and became the sole economic providers for their families. Working together, the salaryman husband and professional ­house­wife came to represent the desirable lifestyle u ­ nder the new m ­ iddle class modernity (Gordon 1996, 6; see also E. Vogel 1963; Su. Vogel 1973). The development of gendered work and ­family roles was also accompanied by a shift in salarymen’s aspirations. E. Vogel (1963) noticed two distinctive features that emerged during the period of rapid economic growth: aside from the dual structure of the ­middle class that consisted of the old ­middle class vis-­à-­v is the new m ­ iddle class, ­there was a strong emphasis on security that came from belonging to institutions (com­pany, school, neighborhood, and f­ amily). He further suggests that the new order of the salaryman had become a symbol of the

60 CHAPTER 1

desirable life, to the extent that it had an impor­tant effect even on ­those who ­were not part of large organ­izations. As a result, the new order of salarymen lifeways “mediate[d] the direct impact of Westernization and industrialization by offering a model of life which is modest enough to be within the range of realistic hopes and modern enough to be worthy of their higher aspirations” (E. Vogel 1963, 268).

The Economic ­Bubble and Questioning One’s Humanness The hegemonic desire for stability did not go unchallenged in the growing affluence of postwar Japan. According to government statistics in the late 1980s, total annual working hours per person in Japan surpassed 2,100 hours, the highest levels reported among the advanced cap­i­tal­ist nations (Gordon 1998, 182). While this had been a growing trend throughout the 1950s and 1960s, new economic crises gave birth to new insights in reference to the quality of life for salarymen, which had not drawn much public attention previously (Okamoto and Sasano 2001, 25). The naturalization and ac­cep­tance of workers’ commitment—­which was recognized by both workers and man­ag­ers—­was rooted in the tacit understanding that companies would look ­after their workers and by extension their ­family members. This sense of trust in reciprocity, which had been forged out of a combination of compromise and cooperation between ­unions and management in the 1940s and 1950s, was necessary for the hegemony of the corporate-­centered “enterprise society” to take shape and endure (Gordon 1998, 183). The foundation of this view was the perception that a “com­pany as an enduring orga­nizational structure was considered to be more impor­tant than the investors who happened to hold its shares at any given time” (Buchanan et al. 2012, 297) and, furthermore, that companies ­were “social entities” that encompassed employees, suppliers, and consumers (Buchanan and Deakin 2009, 19; see also Keizer 2010; Lechevalier 2014). This trust did not always go untested. As Gordon (1998, 188) notes, during the post-­oil-­shock recession and the comparatively low growth in the late 1970s and early 1980s, many companies made moves to downsize their workforce and cut benefits. Due to government pressure to raise the retirement age from fifty-­five to sixty, many companies looked for other ways to mitigate rising personnel costs. Specifically, they devised ways to cut costs by reducing se­nior workers through voluntary early retirement or transfers or filling their positions with temporary workers, while “partially fulfilling an implicit promise of ‘continuous’ employment” (Morishima 1992, 436). Nonetheless, Morishima (1992, 451) reports that employees’ reception of corporate changes was rarely oppositional b ­ ecause “the style of management long associated with large Japa­nese firms—­HR policies that value



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employees and place priority on employee maintenance and development—­also appears to be conducive to implementing changes in employment practices without strong employee opposition.” Moreover, in contrast to U.S. and Eu­ro­pean employment conditions, ­there ­were l­egal pre­ce­dents that protected workers from layoffs based on purely economic considerations. Instead, u ­ nions compromised with management to accept a ­limited degree of cutbacks (Gordon 1998, 188), which allowed a higher level of continuous employment compared to many other socie­ties.

Postbubble Fragmentations: New Challenges to Salarymen’s Work Lives The 1980s ­were characterized by both overworked salarymen and extravagant material affluence, and as academic and popu­lar media discourses revealed, ­there ­were vari­ous pressures both eco­nom­ically and socially. In 1989 the real estate ­bubble reached its peak, and ­after the Bank of Japan raised interest rates in January 1990, the stock market plummeted, bringing the country into recession. Banks became overwhelmed with toxic assets, and corporate growth slowed, leading to declining consumer demand, deflation, and sinking profits. This was the beginning of the so-­called lost de­cade of the 1990s. The socioeconomic changes brought about by the bursting of the economic ­bubble and recession ­were accompanied by a significant change in both public perceptions of salarymen and in their ­actual lifestyles. One of the major shifts was in salarymen’s relationship with their workplaces. Previously their interests had been defended and negotiated through the relatively amicable relationship between themselves, the enterprise ­unions, and management. By 1990 a consolidated u ­ nion of more than eight million members, Rengō, was born (Whittaker and Deakin 2009, 282). Rengō maintained strong orga­nizational unity and had veto power in policy deliberations with the Ministry of ­Labor’s advisory councils, ­until the government ministries w ­ ere reor­ga­nized in 2001 (R. Watanabe 2014, 66). However, compared to ­earlier u ­ nion movements, Rengō never gained strong social influence. As the economy suffered and companies w ­ ere restructured, Rengō’s po­liti­cal power weakened, and the rate of ­labor ­union organ­ization decreased, dropping from 34.4 ­percent in 1975 to 24.1 ­percent by 1994 and declining to 18.7 ­percent in 2005 (Kumazawa 1996, 82; R. Watanabe 2014, 66). Eventually, Japa­nese l­abor u ­ nions lost veto power in policy deliberations, and they could not stop the ruling Liberal Demo­cratic Party from implementing vari­ous ­labor market deregulations (R. Watanabe 2014, 61). Beginning in 1995, decisions regarding employment policy shifted from advisory councils with ­labor ­union participation to “deregulation committees” dominated by employers and deregulation

62 CHAPTER 1

advocates (Imai 2011, 168; R. Watanabe 2014, 62).20 This not only freed the government to implement extensive ­labor market deregulations in the early 2000s, but it also freed the management at many companies from u ­ nion regulations, enabling them to expand their managerial control u ­ nder the name of restructuring. Restructuring specifically targeted the “three excesses”—­excess debt, excess production, and excess workforce. Workforce restructuring proved to be difficult due to both ­legal and social preferences for retaining workers. This was not, however, due to the l­egal enshrinement of long-­term employment that guaranteed employees employment but rather due to the ­legal difficulties of firing an employee.21 In ­actual practice, long-­term employment was seldom a contractual guarantee (Coriat, Geoffron, and Rubinstein 2000, 182) and was never complete.22 Rather, it was an arrangement where management had broad discretion over extending dif­fer­ent degrees of more-­or-­less long-­term employment. In the postbubble environment, however, more and more companies started increasing their exercise of discretion, including through reducing the number of regular employees by hiring freezes or hiring nonregular employees, encouraging semiforced early retirement, temporary or permanent transfers (shukkō and tenseki) to subsidiaries or branch offices, and layoffs (Brinton 1993; Kumazawa 1996; Morishima 1992; Nomura 1994; Yomiuri 1994a, 1994b, 1994c). With Japan’s rapidly aging society, moves at reducing employment costs centered on middle-­aged workers who ­were increasingly seen as a burden due to their higher salaries (Nomura 1994; H. Satō 1994; see also Dore 1986; Morishima 1992). Corporations began using new l­abor laws to find ways of laying off older workers and actively promote early retirement among both blue-­collar and white-­collar middle-­aged employees (Morishima 1992).23 As a result, the regular employees who remained in the companies “continue[d] to throw themselves, now more desperately than ever, into a competition with their fellow workers to display their abilities and ‘enthusiasm’ ” (Kumazawa 1996, 82). At the turn of the twenty-­first ­century, the postwar image of salarymen’s stable and life-­long insured lives was thus increasingly called into question due to the economic recession, increasing globalization pressures, and neoliberal economic reforms. Now individual salarymen recognized that they had to cope with sudden job loss, early retirement, transfer, structural marginalization, and potential poverty by themselves. This also affected the families of workers, as the Japanese-­style welfare system had been built on two pillars: stable ­family and stable employment. Without having the latter assured, this could lead to vari­ous forms of ­family dissolution, divorce, and suicide. In short, economic restructuring since the 1990s has starkly expressed the discrepancy between the idealized images of mainstream lifeways through stability and the individuated and unstable realities of Japa­nese workers in the post-



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bubble economy. The personal hardships, salary cuts, and layoffs or failures at promotions also became ascribed more and more to individual failings or weakness, putting salarymen in a double bind and pushing them to think beyond the narrow confines of corporate-­centered life. Accordingly, Okamoto and Sasano (2001, 27) see that the prolonged recession might have become a turning point for ­people’s consciousness t­ oward work and f­ amily life. They suggest that u ­ nder the new socioeconomic conditions of postbubble Japan, in the media salarymen have become seen as increasingly disembedded from corporate and f­amily institutions, and they themselves have begun relativizing their roles of employee and breadwinner as just some of the many roles they can fulfill u ­ nder the new socioeconomic conditions of postbubble Japan.

Conclusion As this chapter has shown, what underlies Japan’s corporate-­centered society has been the turbulent formation of a par­tic­u­lar social compromise between employers and employees that has tied their interests together ­under the ideology of companyism (Barshay 2004; Kojima 2002; Lechevalier 2014; Takeuchi 1998) and which in turn operated as a mediating ideology that tied the success of individual companies with the success of Japa­nese society as a ­whole ­under a broader ideology of economic nationalism (Garon 2013, 112). Crucial to the support of ­these ideologies is the way that vari­ous social ser­v ices and welfare functions have been provided by corporations, which by extension ties salarymen and their families to specific corporations. As a result, national success, corporate success, and individual success became tied into a tight knot of what Gordon (1998, 54) calls “corporate hegemony.” Up u ­ ntil the 1990s, such corporate hegemony was maintained discursively through the cultural discourse of Japan’s new m ­ iddle class and the inclusive Japa­nese employment system. ­Today, popu­lar discourse in Japan bemoans increasing socioeconomic class differences, and a range of moral panics warn that Japa­nese society is increasingly becoming like that of the United States, with a shrinking and sinking m ­ iddle class (e.g., Itō and Yamada 2007; Oshio 2012; T. Satō 2000; Yamada 2004). ­These changes are not only eco­nom­ically significant; they are also symbolically significant. Japa­nese men and their spouses had been attracted to the promise of new ­middle class lifestyles through the concrete forms of secure employment and livelihood wages, which resulted in the inclusive Japa­nese folk notion of “mainstream consciousness” (Kelly 2002). However, t­hese men are now suffering the greatest shocks both eco­nom­ically and symbolically as they are suddenly cut loose through vari­ous corporate reforms.

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Since the postbubble recession of the 1990s, while salarymen’s lives as a full-­ time com­pany man and primary breadwinner for their families have been structured through the ideal image of the stable life of the new ­middle class, they now might find themselves caught between two power­ful ideological systems—­the resilient gender ideology of being a breadwinner that operated u ­ nder the postwar ideology of companyism and the globally hegemonic political-­economic ideology of neoliberalism. The ideological dissonance created by ­these discordant demands on salarymen’s lives are having broader impacts across Japa­nese society. A growing body of scholarly lit­er­a­ture reveals how the forces of globalization and neoliberalism have led to the collapse of Japan as a “middle-­class nation” and t­ oward the birth of Japan as a “stratified society” (kakusa shakai), “unequal society” (fubyōdō shakai), or precarious society with an expanding “underclass” (e.g., Allison 2013; Hashimoto 2018; Ishida and Slater 2010; Itō and Yamada 2007; T. Satō 2000; Shirahase 2014; Tachibanaki 2006; Yamada 2004). This has led a range of scholars to consider the long-­term socioeconomic repercussions of Japan’s changing economy and rapidly aging population on the new generation of Japa­nese who are growing up u ­ nder ­these conditions. What w ­ ill happen to individuals’ previously mainstream orientation of lifeways and life goals if ­there is a difference in ­people’s aspirations from early on in their lives? Are we witnessing the beginnings of ­these social prob­lems already, as suggested by claims that Japan has become a “hope-­ stratified society” (kibō kakusa shakai) (Yamada 2004) with a growing underclass that has fallen out of mainstream lifeways (Hashimoto 2018)—­a society with socially marked differences in individuals’ psychological expectations for the ­future? More broadly, as neoliberal reforms have begun to attack the very source of corporate-­centered life that has been the wellspring of Japan’s mainstream consciousness in the postwar period, what effects ­will this have on this previously resilient characteristic of Japa­nese society and on Japa­nese workers? In the next chapter, I attempt to answer some of ­these questions by turning to the mechanisms and implementation of neoliberal restructuring inside corporations. With an eye to the legacy of active conflict, compromise, and commitment that has marked the history of Japa­nese workers and the rise of the “new ­middle class” in the postwar period, the next chapter closely examines how individual workers have reflected and acted on such structural changes and how they have critically navigated the new conditions that they face in twenty-­first-­century Japan.

2 WORKING IN AND WORKING ON NEOLIBERALISM

STEP Corporation, a Japa­nese IT conglomerate in Tokyo, was in the midst of long structural changes. Restructuring began quietly at first in major divisions, but it reached all other divisions by the time of my fieldwork in the mid-2000s. Over my months at STEP I witnessed the effects of restructuring firsthand and saw how employees ­were mobilized by and responded to t­ hese effects in a variety of subtle ways. Beginning in November 2006, some of the desks w ­ ere removed, and I noticed a slightly decreasing number of employees in our Research Division. Then by December our division was pushed to the edges of the office in a vis­ib ­ le pro­cess of structural marginalization, which also changed how employees interacted. At first employees ­stopped meeting for lunch together. By January 2007, when our division had been squeezed to one corner and taken over by the Consulting Division, a calmness remained among the employees at work, but they ­stopped talking to each other. The air of cooperativeness slowly grew colder, infused with a tense stillness of juggling current job tasks and increasing pressure to find a f­ uture job. Soon ­there was almost no communication among employees except when someone who was quitting came to each desk to say good-­bye and distribute gifts. Every­body knew what was happening, but no one was willing to openly talk about the difficulties and uncertainties on the horizon. The ax fell in spring 2007, when the entire division was closed. Se­nior employees ­were encouraged to take early retirement or ­were sent to dif­fer­ent divisions or subsidiaries; the remaining employees ­were dismissed. Koga-­san, a young male employee only recently hired ­after obtaining his postgraduate degree, told me how he had to find another job without having much work experience. Forced into a 65

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job search, Koga-­san noted dejectedly, “I just spent two years looking for jobs, but I have to start looking again.” The com­pany justified their actions by assuming that young workers could easily find new jobs. In fact, while such restructuring puts young employees like Koga-­san in a difficult spot as they are ejected from the internal l­ abor market of the com­pany without any transferrable skills, the situation for older experienced workers is more difficult and can be a dead end. ­Because of the tacit agreement of long-­term employment, Japan’s external l­abor market is more suited for younger workers and remains l­imited for experienced employees, who face severe difficulties for reemployment (JILPT 2015). According to my in­for­mants, the key transitional threshold of mobility is the age of forty—­after this age, one is often seen as too costly to retain in one’s own com­pany or to be reemployed in a new com­pany. Thus, ­there are even fewer possibilities for midcareer employees to find success in the external ­labor market (Martine and Jaussaud 2018, 230; McCann, Hassard, and Morris 2004, 2006; St. Vogel 2006). Ultimately, while Koga-­san ­later found a new job, one experienced employee in his midforties, Machida-­san, was encouraged to take voluntary retirement or move to a dif­fer­ent division. The com­pany offered a large severance package if Machida-­san accepted retirement. If he chose to stay, he would no longer be a researcher, and his ­career profile would be diminished. ­After considering his ­family and ­children’s ­future, Machida-­san de­cided not to take retirement and to stay at STEP by moving to a dif­fer­ent division in 2007. More than just corporate changes, the restructuring at STEP also altered the ways employees worked. The new president promoted the reforms ­under the slogan of “profitable and objectifiable” and gloated that they successfully managed to reduce personnel costs. However, for employees, the push to be profitable and objectifiable meant that far from becoming neoliberal agents empowered with flexible autonomy for personal success, they found themselves treated as unprofitable objects and left to compete without protection. Indeed, many STEP employees ­were well educated and experienced. According to conventional l­ abor market logic, such individuals should be the beneficiaries of “neoliberal flexibility” whereby they market themselves as “entrepreneurs of themselves” in the competitive l­ abor market (Foucault 2008; Rose 2007). However, the realities of the rigid internal l­abor market in Japan meant that the positive possibilities of such flexibility ­were outweighed by the difficulties of reemployment. Rather than being able to reframe their condition through such cultural idioms as “a bundle of skills” (Urciuoli 2008) or a “com­pany of one” with autonomous employment potential (Lane 2011), as in other postindustrial cap­it­ al­ ist economies, many STEP employees worried exclusively about job security. Indeed, their worries w ­ ere echoed by many in­for­mants across the corporate world in the midst of Japan’s postbubble corporate reforms, a pro­cess that has been

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called “the greatest overhaul of the Japa­nese cap­i­tal­ist system since [World War II]” (Tiberghien 2014, 27). Cap­i­tal­ist systems are complex structures rooted in the par­tic­ul­ ar articulations of global and local socioeconomic institutions. As such, restructuring as a part of neoliberal and corporate policies can be understood as a euphemism for the deconstruction and reconstruction of institutions and ideas that make up the lifeworlds of citizens. In this chapter, I draw from over ten years of research (2006– 2019) including fieldwork and longitudinal interviews with employees and former employees from a range of companies in order to “bring to life abstract accounts of ‘economic restructuring’ ” (Ortner 2011) and examine its effects on a broad range of workers. In d ­ oing so, I address the following questions: What sort of corporate restructurings and reforms have been conducted by corporations? How has restructuring affected the structural relationship between corporations and individuals, namely, the welfare corporatism that has been Japan’s dominant po­ liti­cal economic system since the 1950s? What has restructuring done to individual workers and their subjectivity, as corporate culture is transformed and rearticulated with new forms of organ­ization, evaluation, and governance? And how does this relate to the restructuring of the social and emotional architecture of postwar Japan and the “structures of feelings” (Williams 1977) that have underpinned the ideology of companyism and the nation’s middle-­class modernity? To this end, this chapter shows the ways that neoliberal restructuring took shape in Japan by (1) contextualizing the historical and socioeconomic conditions of postbubble Japan, (2) examining the specific deployment of and reactions to neoliberal techniques in the Japa­nese workplace, and (3) analyzing the effects of economic restructuring on institutions and individual subjectivity. I argue that Japa­nese corporations have capitalized on the desecuritization of employment by promoting neoliberal techniques as a new strategy of efficiency, flexibility, and profitability. In ­doing so, employees’ subjective positions have shifted from seeing themselves as a part of the com­pany to being seen as an interchangeable input for com­pany profit goals, leaving their sense of commitment and expectations derailed from the postwar tracks of Japan’s social contract. Yet I wish to emphasize that neoliberalism in Japan is not simply a hegemonic fait accompli. The neoliberal techniques that many corporations employed did not successfully lead to new ways of working nor to the cultivation of neoliberal subjectivities among employees (cf. Peck and Tickell 2002). Rather, as Collier (2005, 34) observes, “neoliberalism provides a technical frame for maneuvering, in a manner that is ultimately ambiguous, between two systems of valuation.” As I show in this chapter, instead of rationalizing and legitimizing risk (Beck 1992) and becoming self-­regulating enterprising selves, many employees have turned inward and become increasingly risk averse in their work lives. At the same time,

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both employers and employees have maneuvered neoliberal reforms through critical and reflective engagement. More critically, the diversity of responses and reflections among employees reveals how employees in Japan are active agents in trying to gain control over work and f­ amily u ­ nder the increasingly insecure national and global economy. In t­ hese ways, they have adapted to the neoliberal reforms while maintaining a critical distance from the ideological assumptions and subjectivizing effects of neoliberal logics. In other words, the development of neoliberalism in Japan problematizes the assumption that the internalization of neoliberal subjectivity in the form of self-­regulating, enterprising selves is the only telos of global capitalism.

Neoliberalism from Within: From Mass New M ­ iddle Class to Neoliberal Japan Up ­until the 1990s, the ideology of companyism and a mass m ­ iddle class was maintained discursively through the cultural discourse of Japan’s postwar modernity and the economic discourse of Japa­nese management, which together supported the national orientation of economic nationalism. Achieving job security through long-­term employment became the mainstream aspiration for many men and ­women as a key to achieve a stable life. Beginning in the 1990s, however, the global winds of neoliberal policies entered the Japa­nese workplace following the bursting of Japan’s ­bubble economy. While Japan’s economy had been previously celebrated and feared as a power­house, the postbubble stagnation—­brought on by the intensifying interconnection of Japan’s economy with global financial flows and the transformation of Japan’s ­labor force—­has significantly tarnished the positive image of the Japa­nese economy (Lechevalier 2014; St. Vogel 2006). ­After several years of economic and po­liti­cal stagnation following the ­bubble burst, support grew among business and po­liti­cal circles for the full-­scale restructuring of the Japa­nese economy (St. Vogel 2006). This began with financial deregulation and government reform during the Hashimoto (1996–1998) and Obuchi (1998–2000) administrations in the 1990s and accelerated in the 2000s with ­labor deregulation and structural reforms (Tiberghien 2014, 40–43). Importantly, this grew out of the seeds of ­earlier neoliberalist moves ­toward the privatization of the railway industry, telecommunications, and other industries led by the Nakasone administration in the 1980s. In the early 2000s, the Koizumi administration (2001–2006) took the most radical approach to ­labor deregulation, privatization, and structural reforms; ­these ­were the cresting of a long-­building wave aimed at fostering market-­based efficiency and productivity while reducing government deficits. Amid the financial and structural reforms of banking and cor-

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porate regulations, l­abor policies became a key target of deregulation. Taking advantage of Japa­nese ­labor ­unions’ declining influence, signaled by decreasing membership and po­liti­cal power, the era of widespread ­labor deregulations and corporate reforms began (Imai 2011; R. Watanabe 2014, 2015).1 By the 2000s, reforming employment practices became a priority. Both neoliberal advocates and corporations questioned the so-­called Japa­nese management that had marked corporate governance in postwar Japan (St. Vogel 2006). This system consisted of a bundle of practices, including long-­term employment, se­ niority, slow evaluation/promotion, nonspecialized ­career paths, internally or­ga­ nized l­abor markets and competition, and enterprise ­unionism (for specifics, see chapter 1). While they became a model emulated around the world during Japan’s postwar economic miracle, ­after the bursting of the ­bubble economy and the subsequent recession, ­these same practices ­were increasingly criticized as the reason for Japan’s economic inefficiencies (Suzuki 2015, 153; St. Vogel 2006). They ­were criticized as “feudalistic” practices that delimited female participation, protected long-­term employment through a closed internally or­ga­nized l­abor market, and rewarded individuals slowly while also producing overworked “corporate men” (kaisha-­ningen), who sacrificed themselves for the com­pany (Endō 2001). In response, during the Koizumi administration the term “structural reforms” (kōzō-­kaikaku) became a buzzword among politicians, economic advisors, and corporate leaders. While abstractly technical in its connotation, the term was synonymous with neoliberalism in both its purpose and practice. ­Under this banner, politicians sought to restructure public ser­v ices while many corporations sought solutions for rationalizing their business practices (Miyamoto 2009; N. Takahashi 2010). Koizumi promoted deregulation, privatization, and other forms of restructurings, echoing neoliberal reforms in the United States and the United Kingdom, by transferring “inefficient” public ser­vices to private-­sector businesses in order to foster market-­based efficiency and productivity and to reduce government debt. Nonetheless, Koizumi’s policies did not improve Japan’s fundamental economic condition. Instead, unemployment ­rose from a steady state of roughly 2 ­percent that had persisted from 1955 ­until the early 1990s to a high of 5.5 ­percent in 2002–2003 (MIAC 2015), “le[aving] both men and ­women facing much more unstable employment than before” (Roberts 2011, 574). Furthermore, the 2007–2009 world financial crisis rocked the Japa­nese economy again, affecting corporations more broadly due to increased international capital flows. Unemployment peaked again at 5.5 ­percent in 2009 (MIAC 2015). In addition to the reforms of the public sector, private-­sector companies also pursued vari­ous management reforms. Since the 1990s Japa­nese management single-­mindedly aimed to “steer employees into becoming more in­de­pen­dent, creative, and proactive and to contribute more to opening up new business

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­ pportunities and generating higher profits” (Matanle 2006, 65), embracing the o ideology of Homo economicus (Foucault 2008). As Miyazaki (2006, 150) notes, “reformers have championed the ‘strong individual’ (tsuyoi kojin) willing to take risks (risuku) and responsibility (sekinin) as the antidote to the ‘com­pany man’ (kaisha ningen). . . . ​In the popu­lar imagination, this strong individual is a new phenomenon. This person represents the f­ uture as juxtaposed against the com­ pany man of the past.” One of the barriers to this new imperative was the previous system of welfare corporatism. While it had enabled a par­tic­u­lar codependent relationship between corporations, employees, and their families, it also brought a heavy burden and obligation for corporations. The ideal solution was to replace Japanese-­style management with what was characterized as American-­style management: flexible short-­term employment, rapid evaluation/promotion, and specialized ­career paths. Fundamentally ­these changes ­were aimed at dismantling corporations’ expensive long-­term employee provisioning and livelihood wages, so both employers and employees “would have to become less loyal” to each other (St. Vogel 2006, 5). As in other industrialized countries, the goal was to facilitate l­ abor market flexibility by breaking the internal ­labor market (see Keizer 2010). New university gradu­ates and middle-­ranked man­ag­ers w ­ ere hit the hardest by ­these reforms, as companies across Japan instituted hiring freezes on new recruits and found ways of shedding the personnel costs of experienced employees (Genda and Rebick 2000, 87). In par­tic­u­lar, u ­ nder the severe recession since the 1990s, middle-­aged employees who had attained relatively high salaries pegged to se­niority have been prime targets of downsizing aimed at cutting expensive, top-­heavy personnel costs and focusing on protecting a smaller number of productive workers (Shibata 2007, 122; see also Itō 2017; McCann, Hassard, and Morris 2004; 2006; Nomura 1998). Thus, while regular employees enjoyed more job security than their Western counter­parts (Genda and Rebick 2000), since the late 1990s Japa­nese companies have conducted vari­ous restructurings—­closing factories, moving production abroad, selling subsidiaries, and conducting M&As—­ and regular employees’ dismissals have become a real­ity (St. Vogel 2006; see also Itō 2017). In ­these ways, Japan’s encounter with neoliberalism highlights the clashes between the older cap­i­tal­ist system and newly emerging global cap­it­ al­ist values. In contrast to the previous emphasis on stability and long-­term provisioning, economic reforms gave a new frame of reference—­flexibility—­for institutions and management to justify their actions, which was neither legally pos­si­ble nor socially acceptable before. As a result, ­under economic restructuring in the 2000s corporate governance practices became increasingly disembedded from the resilient social institutions and expectations of employees and their families.

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Inside the New Management Practices As a conceptual strategy, neoliberal restructuring is clear in its goals: fostering increased financial and ­labor market flexibility and reducing personnel costs. As an ­actual practice for governing employees, it involves a range of management strategies, including the discretionary work system and new competitive merit systems linked with “management-­by-­objectives” (MBO) (Keizer 2010)—­both of which ­were significant departures from “the historical nonexistence of a ‘job description’ in Japa­nese companies” (Imai 2011, 165). The discretionary work system links the salary of regular employees to their work per­for­mance instead of a­ ctual working hours (R. Watanabe 2014). It was promoted as a way to f­ ree employees from being tied to mandatory long work hours and to give them control over their own work schedule. Alongside this, MBO was introduced as a strategy to formalize job tasks and expectations, on the one hand, while rewarding competent employees regardless of age, gender, education, rank, and years of employment, on the other hand. In terms of Japa­nese management, the new MBO system was particularly transformative. It was intended to reform the Japa­nese system in line with the Western system of clearly defined contracts. To this end, MBO was the basis of a new self-­management technique, the performance-­based merit system (seika-­shugi) that became pop­u­lar­ized throughout the Japa­nese corporate world. It was implemented to offer grade, pay, and promotion as incentives based solely on short-­ term per­for­mance against clear targets (Conrad and Heindorf 2006; Morishima 2002; see also MHLW 2011).2 While individually empowering in theory, one of the unstated aims of the performance-­based merit system was to reduce the current and ­future burden posed by primarily seniority-­based wages, which ­were becoming increasingly costly as the Japa­nese workforce became one of the oldest in the world (MHLW 2011). The new merit system was implemented to replace the inefficiencies of ­these older business practices that ­were seen as barriers to competitive growth and in­ de­pen­dent and proactive employees (Moriya 2005; Nomura 2000). Unlike the previous “ability-­based merit system” (nōryoku-­shugi), where one’s “job competency” (shokunō) is not l­imited to par­tic­ul­ar job tasks but rather means broader “potential ability,” “adaptability,” and “­human skills,” including interstitial work and hidden ­labors b ­ ehind primary job tasks (Endō 1994; 2001; Hirakimoto 2005; MHLW 2011; Yasuda 2007),3 the new merit system was lauded by management as demo­cratic, progressive, and empowering for individual employees, to make them into competitive global talent (gurōbaru jinzai) who could compete internationally. Theoretically, employees no longer needed to sacrifice their private life for the com­pany; instead, they should be loyal to their jobs only by producing concrete results, and they should not rely on the com­pany for their private life.

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The new merit system was promoted as an innovative strategy for killing two birds with one stone: it offered a g­ reat incentive to motivate workers by treating them as individual, autonomous employees through wage differentiation and the potential for quick promotion and also provided management with an efficient system for cutting ­labor costs by dismissing employees and reducing benefits. By 2001, 76.7 ­percent of Japa­nese corporations with more than three hundred employees and 78 ­percent of corporations with more than one thousand employees had ­adopted performance-­based merit systems (MHLW 2011; 2012; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006). Nonetheless, even as merit-­based evaluation systems became widely implemented, only about 11 ­percent of companies rated the system as successful, with nearly 73 ­percent citing vari­ous prob­lems that ­were caused by the new system (MHLW 2011; see also Hirakimoto 2005; JIL 2003; Miyamoto 2009; Moriya 2005; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006; St. Vogel 2006).

Old Work Ways and New Work Metrics: Employees’ and Man­ag­ers’ Responses Despite its already questionable success at other corporations by the mid-2000s, the discretionary work system and new evaluation system w ­ ere slowly implemented at STEP’s Research Division. At STEP, the transformation into the new system had begun quietly in 2003, but it became more controversial ­after a new president from the STEP Corporation’s STEP Trading took over in 2005. Employees spoke of the new president as a “business autocrat” who could not see any value besides profits. An experienced employee in her late thirties, Tanabe-­san, explained that the new president regarded government-­related research as unprofitable, so he shifted the division’s focus to private research. Since many STEP researchers purposely chose STEP for its government-­related research, the change adversely affected many researchers’ motivation. When the president applied the same discretionary work system and new “objective” merit system that he had used in STEP Trading to the Research Division, employees ­were further demoralized. Indeed, such repercussions ­were not ­limited to STEP. According to my in­for­ mants from across the corporate world, the idea of discretionary work and performance-­based evaluation gained popularity among many employees at first. As a practice, however, both systems could be deployed in ideological ways for creating new hierarchies of value based on quantifiable output and profitability. ­Under the new system, employees w ­ ere tasked with defining clear objectives for the upcoming evaluation period in annual or biannual meetings with man­ag­ers, and one’s merit was determined by how well one accomplished t­ hese objectives. ­These objectives ­were often quantifiable, such as the amount of profit earned directly through an employee’s job, and employees’ achievements w ­ ere assessed at

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the end of each evaluation period in relation to the corporation’s overall objectives. While this increased competition among coworkers, it undermined their cooperation at work in a variety of ways and produced new challenges for man­ ag­ers as well.4 Listening to employees and management, it was clear to me that while many employees supported the new system, the ­actual practice of MBO that lay at the core of the performance-­based merit system triggered initial difficulties for both employees and man­ag­ers. The difficulties of implementing and navigating the new system w ­ ere made clear in a conversation with a managerial con­sul­tant, Tsukada-­ san, whom I met at one of my field sites. Tsukada-­san was hired by dif­fer­ent corporations to train employees in the MBO system. When he came to the Tokyo office of one corporate conglomerate in 2007 to give a workshop on how the system worked, he explained that many ­people ­were puzzled about quantifying their goals as they ­were more familiar with qualitative objectives, such as “working hard” (ganbaru) or “making efforts” (doryoku suru). He noted how even though employees came up with specific goals, “­because the evaluation is often done by their own man­ag­er, he/she would rather know what their specific boss wanted him/her to achieve or what the most commonly expected goal might be.” As a result, incentives aimed at producing self-­motivated employees could in fact constrain such motivation by making some employees even more concerned about their coworkers’ or bosses’ goals, rather than empowering them to set new goals in­de­pen­dently. Articulating new goals might be especially difficult for some long-­term employees in administration. For instance, Shirai-­san, a clerical worker in her late twenties, was one of the participants in Tsukada-­san’s workshop. Shirai-­san had worked as an administrative staff for several years ­after ju­nior college. While originally the performance-­based merit system was only applied to management, by late 2006 the system had expanded to other divisions, including hers. Twice e­ very year she strug­gled to figure out what to write for her goals and personal development targets. She explained that unlike salespeople who can quantify objectives, employees in clerical positions ­were not able to objectify their goals in numbers. As her work content did not change from year to year, she confessed that she ­really had nothing to write as a new goal. ­Others I talked to in Research Divisions often problematized the quantification of their work by distinguishing themselves from employees in Sales and Marketing Divisions. However, I also learned that Sales and Marketing Divisions had their own challenges due to the long-­term and often very personal nature of business relationships at Japa­nese corporations (see also Yasuda 2007, 134). Kakuta-­ san, an employee in his forties working in the Sales Division of a major corporate conglomerate, shared such concerns:

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Even in sales, it is difficult to see e­ very business negotiation [shōdan] through to a sale. This is ­because Japa­nese business negotiations involve a long pro­cess, and this pro­cess can rely almost exclusively on the personal relationships between individual employees or a few individuals representing each com­pany. So especially if it is a “replacement meeting” where one employee replaces another for some reason in the midst of ongoing business negotiations, it can be extremely difficult for the new individual to pick up the negotiations at the same level of trust, and this difficulty may be reflected in the eventual outcome of the negotiations. So even though employees are unable to execute a sale in the end, management should evaluate how far employees succeed in making it to subsequent business meetings. Kakuta-­san’s insistence on recognizing employees’ efforts highlights the fundamental transformation in employee evaluation that the new performance-­based merit system imposed in the Japa­nese workplace, while the nature of business negotiations themselves had not changed much (see also St. Vogel 2006). No longer ­were employees’ indirect contributions to the business’s long-­term goals recognized by man­ag­ers—­quick, clear results and short-­term goals became the norm, even as business practices remained tied to long-­term relationships (see also Hirakimoto 2005; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006). For management as well, the contradictions of performance-­based evaluation became clear in cases where ­there was ­little appreciable difference in employees’ per­for­mance. In my conversations with employees at the large manufacturing com­pany TEC Corporation, Maeda-­san, an experienced worker in his fifties, shared the difficulty in evaluating employees, claiming that “objectivity is misrepresentative” in such evaluations. He explained: “We say seika, seika [per­for­ mance], but it is r­ eally difficult to see results [seika] in such a short term. And honestly employees in my division are generally average [donguri no sei kurabe] and ­there is not much to distinguish one employee from another. How can we make distinctions?” As man­ag­ers strug­gled with ways of creating differential evaluations, in some cases favorable evaluations ultimately went to employees with the highest education or the employee most favored by the boss (see also Joe 2004; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006). This led some corporations to reincorporate aspects of seniority-­based evaluations b ­ ecause they could not discern ­actual per­for­mance differences in a short period. The new merit-­based evaluation system thus not only altered employees’ perceptions about promotions and salaries; it also altered the concept of competency in evaluating workers’ ability. ­Under the new performance-­based merit systems, competent skills strictly mean per­for­mance ability—­whether one achieves a spe-

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cific target—­and competency is thus reducible to pure ­labor output (rōdōryoku). ­Under the new evaluation system, reforms of the wage system w ­ ere aimed at reducing ­labor costs, and thus long-­term perspectives on employees’ potential and hidden ­labor ­were substituted for immediately objectifiable and quantifiable goals. As Keizer (2010, 144) notes, “By introducing per­for­mance related pay, firms could bring wage costs down ­because it rewards employees for their ­actual contribution rather than the potential productivity of their skills.” As evaluations and salary systems ­were transformed, employees often recalled, one of the major changes in their corporations was that some employees became inward looking, and ­others focused only on their specific job tasks and ­stopped fulfilling interstitial work. According to employees, this both increased competition among coworkers and undermined their cooperation at work (see also Morishima 2004). In addition, the increasing number of irregular employees resulted in a lower ratio of full-­time employees, which increased workloads for the remaining full-­time workers. Furthermore, due to the new discretionary system, employees s­topped working overtime at the office and brought their work home to finish privately. The changes in STEP mirror the broader changes in social attitudes ­toward expectations and demands on workers in con­temporary Japan. Since the 1990s, companies have attempted to reduce personnel costs by reducing overtime, but this has had the ironic effect of increasing unpaid overtime among some workers. Since the early 2000s, media and scholarly attention to cases of work-­related deaths and suicides has put pressure on companies to clamp down on cases of unrecorded overtime (North and Morioka 2016, 61). A se­nior researcher at STEP, Sasaki-­san, told me how in the past if employees worked overtime at the office, while some might be just inefficient workers, many w ­ ere hard workers and w ­ ere praised for “­doing impor­tant work for the com­pany.” At STEP, in the past t­ hese efforts had been compensated monetarily. A ­ fter the new discretionary work system was implemented, however, the implications of working overtime changed: it was instead seen as demonstrating one’s incompetency at worst and at best as meaningless ­labor due to the lack of monetary compensation. In addition, this system that was supposed to objectively evaluate employee per­ for­mance also caused some confusion for employees regarding its fairness. The experienced STEP employee Tanabe-­san noted that despite her efforts, her boss was too busy to see her working. Moreover, her salary did not improve, adding, “It may actually be slightly decreasing without my knowing it, but now I cannot even ask my colleagues, as theoretically we all have dif­fer­ent salaries.” Indeed, Tanabe-­san’s experience was not unusual. Analysts reported l­ ittle merit-­based wage increases and a general decline in real wages since the mid-1990s (e.g., N. Takahashi 2010). In the end, for many the new system did not reduce ­actual working hours or increase wages as had been claimed, and in some cases it actually led to longer

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uncompensated working hours. As Imai (2011, 103) notes, “Although ‘scheduled working hour’ declined, it did not mean the reduction of the amount of overtime work and unpaid overtime. . . . ​The high level of unpaid overtime tells that a part of the increasing cost caused by the reduction of scheduled working hour was absorbed by the ‘ability to be flexible’ demonstrated by workers,” namely, in the form of a reduced number of full-­time workers taking on greater workloads for less pay. Across the Japa­nese corporate landscape in the 2000s, the combination of deregulated ­labor policies and new management rubrics increased working hours among regular employees (Imai 2011; R. Watanabe 2014). In other words, the discretionary work system and MBO converged to penalize work ways that previously had been appreciated and compensated by management. In ­these ways, the implementation of discretionary work and performance-­ based merit systems created a number of contradictions in workplace pressure, workplace morale, and coworker cooperation, which also left some employees questioning the fairness of evaluations based solely on metrics (Joe 2004; Morishima 1999). Tajima-­san, an experienced man­ag­er in a large printing com­pany, noted, “In the past, if the evaluator saw that an employee’s ‘way of working’ was distinctive, co-­workers more or less agreed with the evaluation precisely b ­ ecause such qualifications w ­ ere ‘vis­i­ble’ and recognized by o ­ thers, and thus such promotion could be seen as fair.” However, with the transformation of the evaluation system into one based on target sheets and quantifiable output, the easily recognizable expressions of work ways that had previously been part of employee evaluations ­were dismissed. Thus, while the new wage system might motivate workers who ­were already driven by the desire for high salaries, it could undermine the morale of average or below-­average employees (Ōtake and Karato 2003, 7).5 This is not to say that employees felt they ­were no longer being watched by management or that their workplace demeanors w ­ ere no longer being observed. Rather, as Shibata (2007, 484) notes, t­ hese changes in employee evaluation meant that “the panoptic gaze of evaluation has retreated to [a] faraway place . . . ​compared to [the] evaluation system of [the] (old) Japa­nese management system.” Ultimately, many in­for­mants felt that neoliberal policies had been wielded by management as “theoretical arms” (riron-­busō)—­weapons of self-­defense to protect corporate actions against criticisms—to benefit management by cutting ­labor costs and using flexibility as an excuse for reducing employees.

“Ex-­Communication” in the Workplace The ­human cost of this increasingly intense and decreasingly stable corporate culture is easily overlooked when the effects of neoliberal practices are examined from a macro perspective of l­ egal regulations, market movements, and l­abor pol-

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icies. Green­house (2010, 3) suggests that ­these effects “are not ­limited to the vertical relationships between state and society, but . . . ​they also affect the lateral relationships among individuals.” One impor­tant effect of neoliberal reforms in Japan has been changing corporate relations within the workplace, including breakdowns in communication as well as in workplace morale. In many instances, restructuring overwrote existing corporate social dynamics not by successfully creating new subjectivities and values but by overlooking the resilience of certain qualities and practices b ­ ehind the postwar model of companyism and Japan’s mass middle-­class modernity. During STEP’s restructuring, the systemic changes produced vari­ous repercussions in employees’ social dynamics. Employees refrained from communicating during work, and they spent less time socializing. Every­one seemed to become more detached from each other and the workplace, and more and more employees suddenly dis­appeared from the office as they w ­ ere sent off to subsidiaries or took early retirement. In late 2006, I came to know Sugawara-­san, an experienced researcher, who came to my desk to distribute a gift before he retired. It was the first time we had met and the last time to see each other at the office. Since we could not talk freely in the office, we exchanged business cards and met ­after work. Sugawara-­san had just turned seventy and had gone through reemployment at STEP in 1996 ­after mandatory retirement, retiring completely in December 2006. A self-­proclaimed Marxist, he had been an active l­abor u ­ nion member at STEP since 1959. He realized how lucky he was to retire at this moment, explaining that he had originally entered the Marketing Division, but his boss recognized his interest in research and consulted with management. STEP allowed him to pursue his dream as a researcher without the usual practice of rotating him through dif­ fer­ent divisions and locations. Moreover, though he had suffered from depression, he said the com­pany had protected his employment during that difficult time. Faced with a completely dif­fer­ent corporate culture in 2007, Sugawara-­san was sympathetic ­toward STEP’s employees. He reflected nostalgically about the time he spent with bosses and colleagues for after-­work drinking and also lamented that “­these young employees have no place [like a l­abor ­union] to go to and no se­niors in the com­pany to whom they can voice their opinions, ­because every­body is basically competing against each other for their own security.” As with Sugawara-­san’s observations about young STEP employees, the gradual changes in corporate social dynamics ­were also striking for Takagi-­san, a sixty-­ year-­old former executive at a major electronics com­pany. Over the course of his ­career, he had experienced major corporate changes, and he felt that his com­pany made a crucial m ­ istake by hiring a famous American consulting com­pany and translating American standards ­wholesale to implement their merit system. According to Takagi-­san, corporate restructuring did not facilitate open competition

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and communication in his com­pany; instead, ­people shifted to communicating exclusively and discretely and s­ topped sharing information with colleagues and ju­niors. Takagi-­san recalled, “Before, you would just join after-­work drinking and get to know all the insider info. . . . ​But ­these days, the method of communication has become diversified and exclusive such as SNS [social networking sites], so ­there are far more prob­lems emerging.” He speculated, “The older practices of evaluation, se­niority, and long-­term employment systems, despite being ‘unfair’ to my wife and f­amily [as I worked long hours], have turned out to be ‘fair’ a­ fter all. Now we have so many hidden, dirty t­ hings ­going on.” Takagi-­san noted that while the previous system had the potential to encourage overwork and produce “corporate men” who w ­ ere devoted to working hard for the com­ pany, this system did not make them feel like they ­were “corporate slaves”—­that is, employees who ­were purely exploited for com­pany gain. At a medium-­sized printing com­pany, M. Corporation, dif­fer­ent prob­lems emerged. Corporate restructuring exacerbated existing tensions among employees. Saikawa-­san, an executive man­ag­er, shared his experience: At companies, unfortunately we have this practice called brownnosing [gomasuri]; we have always had ­people who brownnose, but ­under the new merit/evaluation system, this became intensified, discrete, and even insidious, especially among ju­niors. Competition is always inevitable in companies, and in the past brownnosing was not unavoidable ­either. But employees knew that they could never be promoted so easily and quickly due to the seniority-­based merit system; this also restrained employees from brownnosing so discretely and restrained bosses from acting based on extreme favoritism. Saikawa-­san supported the new system but warned about its implementation ­ ecause of its potentially devastating effects. He explained that short-­term evalub ations have made employees more individualistic b ­ ecause they are discretely competing while undermining workplace cooperation and morale. Consequently, for Saikawa-­san, the new merit systems turned out to be “backward” as they inadvertently brought out the dirty side of Japa­nese individualism and competition. In addition to new evaluation systems, many Japa­nese companies pursued corporate downsizing by consolidating factories and conducting mergers and acquisitions, which required enacting large-­scale early retirement schemes, transferring employees, and closing entire divisions, as in STEP. Apart from the direct effect on employees who ­were laid off, ­these reforms had devastating effects on the subjectivity of workers who remained employed. Instead of thinking of colleagues’ layoffs as “someone e­ lse’s business,” many employees took it personally and worried they might be next, sometimes becoming suspicious of their com-

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panies (McCann, Hassard, and Morris 2006, 101). Such radical restructuring led some to act passive-­aggressively in unpre­ce­dented ways. For example, some employees began expressing their anger among each other and on whistle-­blower websites (e.g., Joe 2004; Meyer-­Ohle 2009). M ­ ental illness and suicide attempts also ­rose among employees who w ­ ere fired or demoted (Joe 2004; Kuroki 2010; Shibata 2012). Surprisingly, while Japa­nese employees had been known for loyalty, some employees also had no hesitation in slandering management and revealing confidential information about their com­pany, further damaging their companies’ social reputation.

Private Actions and Corporate Reactions to Neoliberal Reforms As neoliberal reforms began to reshape workplaces and work ways, employees did not sit idle. As early as the late 1990s, when Fujitsu began implementing its performance-­based merit system, employees responded with a range of actions aimed at expressing their frustrations with the system (Joe 2004; see also Meyer-­ Ohle 2009). Importantly, only seldom have they resorted to public actions in the form of strikes or u ­ nion activities and then only when the workers had nothing left to lose ­after being fired or being stuck in insecure temporary contracts (e.g., Gordon 2015, 91). Rather, employees have often taken private actions to indirectly communicate their dis­plea­sure while also attempting to secure their own livelihoods. The private actions in response to the increasing pressures of neoliberal workplaces take many forms. In cases that have gained the most media attention, individuals took extreme actions such as burning themselves to death as a result of workplace pressure (Kumazawa 2010) or ­dying by suicide in their former workplaces ­after being fired (Joe 2004). T ­ hese cases highlight the extreme ways that neoliberal metrics of per­for­mance shift the locus of responsibility for employees’ success or failure to the workers themselves through the rhe­toric of self-­ responsibility (jiko sekinin). This logic absolves the neoliberal system itself of responsibility for creating such categories of winners and losers in the first place, thereby individualizing and internalizing the institutional and systemic c­ auses of employees’ suffering. While the cases of suicide are the most destructive and la­men­ta­ble forms of private action by employees (Kuroki 2010; North and Morioka 2016),6 many employees have taken less drastic approaches to the new demands of neoliberal working culture. For example, Yokota-­san, a vice man­ag­er in his fifties at TEC Corporation, explained that he supported the new system, declaring that it was impossible to go back to the previous system as his com­pany can no longer pay

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automatic increases ­every year to ­every employee. At the same time, he could not ignore the negative impact that the new merit system had at his com­pany. He explained that “once employees became aware that their per­for­mance was evaluated based merely on what they put down on the target sheet they became increasingly defensive and started recording extremely l­imited goals that they could easily achieve.” Yokota-­san called this an overall “target sheet deflation” as employees lowered their objectives in order to achieve safe evaluations (see similar cases in Joe 2004). Likewise, overemphasis on the objective index of quantitative goals resulted in ignoring the innumerable “hidden ­labors” b ­ ehind primary job tasks in employees’ evaluations (Yasuda 2007, 134). Some in­for­mants pointed out that a major limitation of the new per­for­mance grid was that they did not clearly recognize interstitial job tasks between the larger job tasks, and this prompted some employees to cease performing tasks that ­were not on their target sheets, such as relaying messages to coworkers, cleaning up messes, and so on. Other employees began to avoid any challenge beyond what was explic­itly evaluated on the target sheet and withheld information from coworkers in order to raise their own relative evaluations. As more and more companies began implementing some form of neoliberal governance over their workers in the 2000s, many employees began critically reflecting and privately responding to management’s ideology and practices. Through anonymous internet slander, target-­sheet manipulation, interstitial work avoidance, and knowledge withheld from coworkers, employees subversively demonstrated their agency as dissatisfied employees through a kind of competitive subterfuge, ultimately turning management’s goals for autonomy and efficiency into a self-­serving strategy for survival at the expense of workplace cohesion. In ­these vari­ous ways, Japa­nese employees resisted the neoliberal policies of discretionary work and MBO systems in the workplace. At the same time, it also shows that many employees in Japan did not employ the new logic of neoliberalism that companies promoted to mobilize their workers. Individual employees discovered that their companies’ promises of rewarding employees quickly and fairly according to their per­for­mance ­were merely excuses for con­ve­nient solutions to “correct” personnel inefficiencies in ways that ­were previously difficult due to strict ­labor laws. Ultimately, many employees became extremely competitive, and some became uncooperative with their coworkers in order to survive within the increasingly individuating system (see also Morishima 2004, 35). Crucially, this was not to promote themselves as neoliberal entrepreneurs and build their c­ areers outside of the com­pany but to survive within their companies for the less ambitious goals of their own ­family’s security. In this way, many continued to seek success by stay-

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100

81

%

90 80 Career in One Organization

70 60 50 40 30

40.5

23.9

44.6

21.9

49.0 40.5

26.2

50.3

50.9

42.9

26.1

Career in more than One Organization 24.6

24.4

23.1

20 10 0

15.3

1999

15.1 2000

14.0 2001

13.3 2004

11.7 2007

11.3

10.1

2011

2015

Selfemployment Career Year

FIGURE 2.1.  Desirable ­Career Development. Q: “What kind of ­career do you wish to have?” The three pos­si­ble responses w ­ ere as follows: Career in One Organization, Career in more than One Organization, and Self-employment Career. Data compiled by author, adapted from JILPT (2016).

ing with their current employer despite the new system that encouraged employees to take more risks and accept more responsibility for their own c­ areer development (see figure 2.1).

Reconstruction: Systemic Revision of Japa­n ese Management Not surprisingly, the vari­ous prob­lems emerging in workplace dynamics have not gone unnoticed among com­pany man­ag­ers and among leaders in the Japa­nese corporate world more broadly. While private and discrete in their actions, as an aggregate mass employees’ attitudes and actions have sparked public discussions about the negative effects of the new management practices. As a result, ­there have been signs of reconsidering the impacts of restructuring. Since the mid-2000s, a growing discourse has emerged questioning ­whether the new merit systems ­were even suited for Japa­nese p ­ eople, with some claiming that they created a new dual structure of the Japa­nese economy: a small group of highly competitive and efficient multinationals and a majority of companies that remain “very Japa­nese” and eco­nom­ically inefficient. ­Others have decried the government and corporations for having pursued the U.S. model too far (St. Vogel 2006, 213). Many Japa­ nese corporations and consulting companies have thus begun critically analyzing

82 CHAPTER 2

the differences between the new and old merit systems and calling for amendments to suit their own companies (Keizer 2010, 175; St. Vogel 2006; see also MHLW 2012). Importantly, not all Japa­nese corporations started from the same point when facing economic restructuring, and this was reflected in the diverse pathways they took ­toward restructuring. For instance, some corporations like the medium-­sized printing com­pany I studied started using open or closed MBO forms, leaving employees and supervisors to develop the specific criteria. ­Others actively differentiated their performance-­based merit systems from conventional MBO systems by incorporating other evaluations. For example, some companies developed evaluation systems based on a combination of work pro­cess, cooperativeness, effort, and personal assessments. O ­ thers steered away from pure numerical targets by instead focusing on a new conceptualization of competency as “the ability to consistently replicate per­for­mance” (seika no saigensei). Some reincorporated the ability-­based merit system by adding ­factors of se­niority, while ­others reintroduced long-­term employment. Other strategies pursued by management included motivating workers through vari­ous ­human resource development proj­ ects, publicizing per­for­mance standards and evaluation results, and strengthening ­human relationships in addition to assessing individual per­for­mance (see Keizer 2010; Miyamoto 2009; Moriya 2005; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006, 2007; St. Vogel 2006). To address morale issues due to increasing income disparities among regular employees, many companies have considered ways to minimize ­these disparities by only applying merit-­related compensation to bonuses and other fringe benefits (Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006). Another strategy has been to manipulate the way that evaluations themselves are conducted: some man­ag­ers avoided extremely high or low evaluations to prevent discrepancies in employee’s wages, which could undermine workplace morale (St. Vogel 2006, 124, 151). Indeed, research conducted by the Ministry of Health, L ­ abor and Welfare (2011) shows that even as the number of companies with performance-­based merit systems increased from the end of the 1990s to the early 2000s, by the mid-2000s, the number of companies with such systems began to decline. Tatsumichi and Morishima (2006, 78) call this phenomenon “making per­for­mance metrics ‘milder’ ” (mairudo ka), reflecting companies’ self-­conscious efforts to reduce income disparities since 2000. According to Tatsumichi and Morishima (2006), this is b ­ ecause companies have learned from the failures of other companies in the past that incorporated per­for­mance metrics that resulted in large disparities and which lost the support of their employees. They suggest that as performance-­based merit systems have spread throughout Japan, more and more companies have attempted

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to soften the edges of the “bare results-­based merit system” (Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006, 78; see also St. Vogel 2006). ­These changes demonstrate how man­ag­ers are creatively responding to their new challenges and their own needs produced by new neoliberal policies, which has also resulted in new diversity in Japa­nese employment practices between and among industries and companies. More critically, rather than eradicating the previous system altogether, ­these changes show the resilient desires among management for maintaining understanding and support from their employees and for providing long-­term provisioning for core workers, while also changing the rules of the internal ­labor market and loosening conditions for long-­term employment (Imai 2011; Keizer 2010; Tatsumichi and Morishima 2006; St. Vogel 2006).

Rethinking Reforms: Diverse Strategies for Revising Management Systems While diverse and diverging in their pro­cess and forms, ­these transformations in the workplace herald a new chapter in the development of Japa­nese capitalism. This is marked by a dynamic recombination of postwar employment systems with neoliberal logic, which has produced new mutations in the meanings and modes of work for employees. For my in­for­mants, the par­tic­u­lar variations of ­these systems ­were less impor­tant than how such variations ­were manifested in practice. For example, Hotta-­san, a man in his late thirties working for a medium-­sized manufacturing factory, experienced a shift to performance-­based merit systems at his com­pany in 2005. He recalled that when his com­pany first a­ dopted the system, it undermined the assumption among employees that “the com­pany ­will train employees for the long term.” Previously employees had joined expecting to invest their working lives in the com­pany for the long term and to be invested in by the com­pany through long-­term training, benefits, and job security in return. The performance-­based merit system, however, made employees question ­whether the com­pany would provide long-­term provisioning. According to Hotta-­ san, ­after the implementation of the new system, employees became defensive and backward looking. Moreover, the system also resulted in creating differentiation in wages among employees, which reversed the previous link between wage and se­niority, consequently affecting “the smooth functioning of com­pany communication.” Hotta-­san explained that in the end the com­pany recognized ­these negative effects and revised their system in response, adopting a new system with the performance-­based merit system as the base and with additional metrics of evaluation, called “­human connections.” In concrete terms, rather than a single standardized target sheet, the com­pany encouraged employees with two forms of

84 CHAPTER 2

responses regarding their achievements: a challenge sheet and an essay in which employees wrote in their own words what they have done in terms of effort, the potential for improvement, and the potential for their f­ uture achievements. A dif­fer­ent approach was tried at a major printing com­pany where another in­for­mant, Matsuda-­san, worked. Matsuda-­san’s com­pany also went through major revisions to their merit system beginning in 2006. As a veteran man­ag­er, Matsuda-­san told me about how he had been involved in rethinking the merit system to respond to declining employee morale. Since 2006, they incorporated “permutation tournaments” (irekae sen) with the performance-­based merit system. This tournament allows employees who received low evaluations to have a second chance to achieve higher evaluations and possibilities for promotion the following year rather than falling further ­behind in the promotion track as in conventional merit systems. Matsuda-­san proudly claimed, “While the com­pany uses short-­term evaluations, they also give another chance to ­those who once became ‘losers.’ Thus ­there are ­people who ­were winners this year, though the same ­people ­were classified as losers last year.” In short, while performance-­based merit systems ­were originally developed to replace the older systems, in the end, most companies found it necessary to reevaluate and reincorporate parts of t­ hese previous systems. As in Hotta-­san’s and Matsuda-­san’s companies, man­ag­ers realized that mobilizing employees and enhancing employees’ per­for­mance require companies’ careful evaluation and long-­ term provisioning and support for their employees. As such they could not completely abolish the previous qualitative evaluations or long-­term employment orientation.7 Indeed, the prob­lems triggered by the initial attempts at implementing new systems eventually produced increasing support for the older Japa­nese management practices (see figure 2.2) and a growing awareness of the need to foster self-­motivation beyond external motivators such as pay raises and bonuses.

Restructuring and Resilience: Neoliberalism in Japan As corporate leaders and management have tried vari­ous strategies to rethink and recalibrate neoliberal reforms and systems in Japan, this has had vari­ous repercussions on employees. Crucially, while employees have become directly affected by the structural reforms of divisions, voluntary retirement, and neoliberal metrics of mea­sur­ing per­for­mance, their responses have been ambivalent, reflecting the combination of resilient commitment to their companies and uncertainty about how committed their companies w ­ ere to them.

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85

100 % 88.1

90 80 70 60

77.5

74.6 72.3 60.8

76.9 61.8

79.1 76.1 62.3

78.0 66.7

77.8

86.1 84.3 71.9

87.5 74.5

88.9

Lifetime Employment

87.9 76.3

Sense of Unity with the Organization

50 40 30

Seniority System

20 10 0

1999

2000

2001

2004

2007

2011

2015

Year

FIGURE 2.2.  Support Ratio for Japanese-­Style Employment Practices. Q: “Which of ­these practices do you support?” The three pos­si­ble responses ­were as follows: Lifetime Employment, Sense of Unity with the Organization, and Seniority System. Data compiled by author, adapted from JILPT (2016).

Iwaki-­san was one employee who expressed both support for the new systems and ambivalence about their long-­term effects. An employee in his midthirties at a major construction com­pany and a former college rugby captain, Iwaki-­san was very competitive and earned several qualifications u ­ nder the new merit system. In 2009, Iwaki-­san reiterated his support for the new system, but he also qualified this: Compared with the time when the idea of venture companies became popu­lar, I feel t­ here is an increasing desire for stability among employees. Given the ongoing recession, ­there is no guarantee about how long we can maintain our current standard of living, so I can see why civil servant jobs have become popu­lar ­these days. . . . ​Many young employees rely on salary and bonuses for basic living and ­future planning, so if their salary and bonus change dramatically, it ­will ­really disrupt their life plan. It can be devastating especially if one has f­amily. So more stable employment or stable salary help young employees in developing f­ amily plans precisely ­because of our uncertainty. From a dif­fer­ent ­angle, an experienced employee at STEP, Machida-­san, shared his reflection on the corporate restructuring that confronted him with a difficult choice about his plans and possibilities. ­After he had been moved to a dif­fer­ent division, he questioned his ­career ­because he was no longer a researcher. And,

86 CHAPTER 2

around 2015, STEP cut their staff by more than two hundred employees. Regular employees over forty-­five like Machida-­san ­were presented with a ­legal consent form to take voluntary retirement with severance pay and one year’s worth of salary. Machida-­san explained how STEP’s restructuring affected the way he thought about his com­pany and life: I used to like my com­pany. But g­ oing through corporate restructuring firsthand, ­things became unclear, and one can easily lose perspective. . . . ​ When ­people are suddenly presented with a tremendous amount of money in front of them, they can become weak. This kind of ­thing just does not happen in life, you know. So, p ­ eople become weak, they start to think, “Which path is better? Which is easier . . . ?” I also thought about this as a good chance, as I could just pay off all of my loans at once and become ­free. Without any loan, maybe I could move on to do what I ­really want to do in my life. ­After a long discussion with his wife, however, he de­cided to decline the offer. Reflecting on his choice in 2017, he told me how his decision could have been dif­fer­ent if he had been single, as he might have pursued a new c­ areer with the severance package. As someone with two c­ hildren, he explained, “But f­amily is the base of my life and I cannot live alone.” Machida-­san also realized how lucky he was to be able to continue to support his ­family now. While some experienced employees who are close to the retirement age can take advantage of early retirement to pay off loans and start something they would ­really like to do, many employees I met ­were like Iwaki-­san and Machida-­san, who supported the idea of a new system for valuing individual per­for­mance as well as the older systems that guaranteed long-­term provisioning, social stability, and life planning. U ­ nder the older system individuals had pursued an “individualistic, competitive game of accumulating membership capital ­under ‘collectivism from above’ ” (Shibata 2007, 495) in which the long-­term protection and incremental salary acted as a buffer to reduce tensions among employees and with management. This was b ­ ecause the management track acted as an extension of the general track of advancement rather than separate from regular employees. This was strategically developed to prevent potential disparities by looking past individual differences and giving long-­term prospects to individuals. This also prevented extreme favoritism, as ­there was a structural limit to how fast and how far even favored individuals could rise (see Endō 2001; Genda and Rebick 2000). In this way, while u ­ nder the previous system employees may have felt alienated by the ­labor pro­cess, the contextual, long-­term perspective and protection mitigated this. Certainly, some employees became overly devoted to corporations and

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overworked while being physically estranged from their f­ amily or personal lives. Nonetheless, the livelihood of employees’ families was protected through the long-­ term employment and livelihood wage u ­ nder Japan’s welfare corporatism. Thus, it was only by becoming neoliberal subjects—­that is, by being subjected to neoliberal reforms in the com­pany—­that employees began actively trying to gain control over work and to secure their f­ amily’s livelihood, which further fueled their aspirations for regular and long-­term employment. For their part, many employers have tried to salvage some form of long-­term provisioning, despite economic pressures. For both employers and employees, then, neoliberal reforms have not completely eroded the ideas and ideals among companies and workers that the workplace cannot be fully divorced from social responsibilities. What is significant about the Japa­nese case is the par­tic­u­lar articulation of structural changes and individual consciousness. As with other socie­ ties suffering from a shrinking and sinking ­middle class, many workers in Japan have lost their sense of security—­yet crucially they have not lost their belief in the possibility of such security nor in the responsibility of companies to provide it. Rather than settling into a state of precarity-­oriented “aspirational normativity” and eking out a “less-­bad bad life” (Berlant 2007, 291), Japa­nese workers’ aspirational normativity resiliently points t­oward full-­ time employment and mainstream livelihoods for their own undeniable responsibilities for their families. Structural changes neither legitimized the logic of global capitalism nor destabilized individual expectations and subjectivity regarding work and f­ amily. Instead, the extended pro­cess of reflexive restructuring and resilience has created another cultural complex u ­ nder new economic pro­cesses: individuals have rearticulated seemingly anachronistic values and retrenched their desires to maintain security and control over work and ­family, even as they pursue increasingly tenuous routes ­toward economic stability.

Conclusion Breaking with postwar Japan’s companyist model of long-­term mutual obligation and commitments, postbubble neoliberal economic restructuring has produced a new kind of alienation among employees. My in­for­mants’ comments revealed a general sense that while Japa­ nese employment systems had been criticized for their rigid and demanding effects, they nonetheless promised to reciprocate employees’ dedication and protected the lives of employees’ families (see Gordon 1998; Lechevalier 2014). ­Under neoliberal reforms, however, ­these safety nets ­were shaken in the name of employee empowerment and global competitiveness, only to reveal crude cap­i­tal­ist alienation.

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What developed in Japan is a stark inflection of the global emergence of a “new culture of insecurity” that is marked by the “complete de-­coupling of the best interest of the com­pany from the best interest of employees” (Muehlebach and Shoshan 2012, 337), with par­tic­u­lar weight placed on the shoulders of both younger and experienced employees. Employees in Japan did not see their new neoliberal flexibility as liberating and empowering but rather as alienating and dehumanizing. Thus, while employees’ discrete be­hav­iors and extreme individualism ­under the new merit systems at first seemed complicit with neoliberal subjectivity, this actually revealed their resistance—­their desperate ­will to protect their ­family’s livelihood without naturalizing the discourse of enterprising selves. This is not a publicly vis­i­ble, revolutionary re­sis­tance. Rather, it is an ontological re­sis­ tance of retrenchment: holding tightly to social values of f­amily, work, and social responsibility against the tide of market-­driven, individuating competitiveness. Despite the premise of liberating individuals through open competition and communication, the reaction of many individuals to neoliberal governance in Japan can best be understood as ­silent re­sis­tance through a combination of turning inward, discrete competition (as opposed to previous cooperation and open competition), and desires for predictability and security. Individual employees discovered that what­ever the com­pany had proposed e­ arlier, including promises of rewarding employees quickly and fairly according to their per­for­mance, turned out to be a crude pretense for con­ve­nient solutions for cutting personnel costs. Of course, Japa­nese corporations have long practiced the preservation of core workers via the marginalization of “peripheral” workers, such as day laborers, part-­time workers, and subcontracted companies (Gill 2001). However, what marks ­these new moves of neoliberal restructuring is corporate retrenchment in a literally narrower sense—­digging narrower trenches for an increasingly shrinking core of employees and pushing more and more employees outside of the internal l­abor markets of companies and into the uncertain external ­labor market. Rather than sitting idle, employees have critically reflected on and privately responded to management’s hegemonic ideology and practice. Specifically, employees demonstrated their dissatisfaction through competitive subterfuge—­turning management’s goals for autonomy and efficiency into a self-­serving strategy for survival at the expense of workplace cohesion. And while increasing irregular employment has caught global attention as a crisis heralding the end of Japan’s new ­middle class lifestyle, the ways in which corporations are pursuing strategies of narrowing without completely dismantling the existing systems and values altogether—or without fully converting into an American model (St. Vogel 2006, 4)—­ and the ways that individual employees did not uncritically follow the expectations of management reveal both employers’ and employees’ agency and re­sis­tance to top-­down neoliberal reforms.

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Ultimately, neoliberal policies alienated corporate goals from individual goals, delinking individual c­ areers, companyist reciprocity, and economic nationalism. The buffer of contextual, long-­term perspectives and protection was removed, unleashing disintegrating forces that had previously been kept in check. The result has been a permutation of neoliberalism as ex-­communication—­a new alienation created by the simultaneous ejection of employees from the “corporate community” rhe­toric of postwar companyism and the internal breakdown of communication and cooperation within the workplace among employees themselves. In contrast to the growing resonance with global neoliberal goals favoring “mobility over stability and short-­over long-­term strategies” among government and corporate leaders (Peck and Tickell 2002, 392), my in­for­mants continued to ­favor stability and long-­term life planning over capricious promises of flexibility and risk, in spite of broader structural changes. And for their part, many employers have tried to salvage some form of long-­term provisioning, despite the economic pressures. Thus, what is significant about the Japa­nese case is the par­tic­u­lar articulation of structural changes and individuals’ consciousness: structural changes did not destabilize individual expectations, responsibilities, and subjectivity regarding work and ­family but instead rearticulated and retrenched desires for maintaining security and control over work and ­family to cling to increasingly tenuous routes ­toward economic stability. In the next chapters, I examine how t­ hese changing conditions of employment and economic insecurity bleed into life ­after work and leisure spaces in Japan. As calls for recognizing the need for balancing work and private life have increased in recent years, the very meanings of work and private life have also under­gone considerable changes for individual men and w ­ omen. Thus, in part II, I explore how the effects of economic reforms reveal both continuities and changes in the ways individuals use after-­work and leisure spaces, like hostess clubs and recreational (­running) clubs, and how such spaces enable new possibilities of self-­ fashioning and intimacy beyond the corporate context in con­temporary Japan.

Part 2

­A FTER WORK, BEYOND LEISURE, AND INDIVIDUAL DESIRES

3 THE BUSINESS OF LEISURE, THE LEISURE OF BUSINESS

Following Japa­nese working men and w ­ omen through contexts of work and play reveals diverse and often contrasting h ­ uman dynamics played out as they cultivate and perform dif­fer­ent sides of themselves. The interpersonal dynamics that emerge in each space are deeply connected to the structure of ­human relations among the individuals, including structural relations at work and home and in broader society, intergender and intragender dynamics, and individual personalities. While bud­get cuts since the 1990s affected the extravagance of Japa­nese corporate outings, nights out remain an impor­tant feature of corporate life in Japan. This chapter explores the shifting yet resilient meanings and motivations of participating in corporate outings for workers in twenty-­first-­century Japan with a focus on hostess clubs and reveals how t­ hese spaces continue to represent both the culture of care (omotenashi) and business relationships in corporate Japan and the mediation of gender ideologies for workers facing the new pressures of neoliberalizing workplaces. Drawing on my participant-­observation at three hostess clubs in Ginza—­the expensive Club Ai, the international club Class A, and the midrange Club Sumire1—as well as three other hostess clubs I visited as a customer with in­for­mants in Ginza, Roppongi, and Ueno, I follow the narratives and experiences of salarymen and hostesses ­after work in the contexts of increasingly competitive economic conditions, narrowing spheres of corporate welfare, and changing norms of gender and ­family in twenty-­first-­century Japan. To begin, the following story of a night out with employees from a Japa­nese com­pany highlights the combination of structured events and spontaneity, hierarchy and camaraderie, and the diverse meanings that mark after-­hours sociality. 93

94 CHAPTER 3

Sales Division’s End-­o f-­Year Party Part One (Ichiji-­kai) at a Belgian Restaurant in Kagurazaka On December 28, my in­for­mant Chaoka-­san, a man in his early fifties who was at the time an expatriate in Boston, invited me to join the “end-­of-­year party” (bōnenkai) for TEC Corporation’s Interior Furnishing Department’s Sales Division. TEC Corporation is a large manufacturing corporation that deals with interior and exterior design for buildings and cars; it is also a g­ reat example of a com­ pany that combines the new performance-­based merit system and long-­term employment. Chaoka-­san was back from Boston for a business trip in Tokyo, and a few members of TEC Corporation and I went to the airport to pick him up. Through his introduction, I had met many male and female employees, both young and old, who had taken me on a tour of their production exhibit e­ arlier that day. Throughout the tour, I kept hearing the name Kodama-­san, but I did not get a chance to see him at the exhibition site. Chaoka-­san explained that Kodama-­san was already waiting for us at the restaurant reserved for the eve­ning, adding, “Kodama is my se­nior [sempai], and I wanted to introduce you to him. He looks a bit scary, but he is just a bald, old man. Do not worry!” ­Later that eve­ning several of us left the office to head for the restaurant amid heavy, pouring rain. Sugimoto-­san, Chaoka-­san’s direct ju­nior, frequently checked to make sure that Chaoka-­san and I w ­ ere OK. ­After riding one stop on the subway, we reached Kagurazaka Station and walked to the restaurant for the party. It was a cozy and pleasant Belgian restaurant where they serve beer and Western pub food. Climbing up to the third floor, I was surprised to find only three ­people in the spacious room, sitting and laughing: Kodama-­san (the general man­ag­er) and two young ­women sitting on ­either side of him. Chaoka-­san greeted them and introduced me to Kodama-­san politely. ­There ­were only five of us at first, and Kodama-­ san told me to sit across from him and next to Chaoka-­san. Soon a few more lower-­rung man­ag­ers arrived and sat close to Kodama-­san. ­After a short time, I noticed that one of the w ­ omen began spoon-­feeding the young salarymen around her, offering appetizers with her spoon. She would also show flirtatious affection to the men next to her. Though she did not do this to Kodama-­san, she l­ater lavished this attention heavi­ly on Chaoka-­san, who was sitting next to me. For some reason, ­every time she fed a man this way, she would also look at me as if to check my reaction. Indeed, ­these two ­women sitting next to Kodama-­san—­Noriko-­san and Mika-­ san—­turned out to be the receptionists (uketsukejō) in the exhibition room of the com­pany. As both male and female employees told me ­later, receptionists have

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considerable power in the com­pany; they are hired for their attractive appearance, and they act as the face of the entire com­pany. Their job is to represent the com­ pany at receptions. As the Interior Furnishing Department frequently uses the showroom, the department wanted to thank ­these two young ­women for “helping their profits” this year. Among all the ­women in the party, I did not see any of the female employees talking to the receptionists or acting like them, and I ended up being the only female talking to them. Noriko-­san told me that she was a temporary worker (haken) and was sent from a staffing agency. It is con­ve­nient to outsource beautiful receptionists to pre­sent a good appearance for the com­pany. Yet despite their temporary status, both Noriko-­san and Mika-­san ­were included in the end-­of-­ year party for the employees in the Sales Division, as they had worked together over the course of the year. More employees arrived, and each was directed to draw lots to determine their seating arrangement. According to one experienced male employee, the reasons for the lottery system w ­ ere as follows: (1) no one wanted to sit close to the man­ ag­er, Kodama-­san; (2) t­ here ­were fewer w ­ omen than men, so they wanted to spread female employees more randomly; (3) they thought it would be nice for every­one to get to know each other informally. E ­ very time a member received a seat close to Kodama-­san, every­one showed an exaggerated reaction. Fi­nally, ­after some secret seat-­card exchanges, all thirty or so employees, female and male, sat down and made a toast. Occasionally the chairman would make some comments and make someone give a small speech. The mood was generally comical, energetic, and fun, demonstrating the common characteristics of this kind of group entertainment. Whenever the participants w ­ ere asked to make speeches, they w ­ ere also constantly interrupted and heckled, often to the extent that one could not hear what the speaker was saying. It was like watching a Japa­nese comedy (manzai) in a com­pany context.2 One female employee, Akiko-­san, explained to me that “this is typical Japa­ nese comedy/humor—­you get each other to laugh by constantly ribbing and tenaciously teasing them.” What­ever it meant to the individual participants, they looked spirited and lively as they constantly teased and ridiculed each other. One could say that through the ­labor of comedy and entertainment, they ­were “working hard” even in the context of the year-­end after-­work party. Hasegawa-­san was the only outsider pre­sent at the party, and he happened to sit next to me due to the lottery. Hasegawa-­san was a young designer for TEC Corporation’s Design Division and was not dressed in a suit. As an outsider and specialist, he was rather reserved and behaved quietly. But as our conversation went on, he told me how the Design Division is more individualized and less collegial compared with other divisions, so he was happy to be able to join this party.

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This end-­of-­year party concluded with numerous speeches from many ­people. The content was generally uniform and included remarks of gratitude for the year with a few extra comments to make ­others laugh and ended with some statement of the individual’s vision for the next year. At the end of the gathering, before we officially closed the party, ­there was a speech from Kodama-­san. As he stood over the t­ able, he looked stern, yet his speech was power­ful and dynamic, empowering his subordinates. He talked about this year’s high profits, and he thanked all the employees, including the two receptionists and the designer, Hasegawa-­san, and said that he wanted all of them to feel proud of this achievement. But he went on to express a degree of dissatisfaction with ­these results, urging that “it could be better.” Fi­nally, he ended with how much he trusted this group and believed that the members of this division could make t­ hese high goals pos­si­ble. It was an extremely charismatic and inspiring speech in which he si­mul­ta­neously showed his strict and passionate stance, rewarding his division’s per­for­mance and further encouraging his subordinates. During his speech, while every­one was more or less looking down, Chaoka-­ san was looking at Kodama-­san with a distant look in his eyes. According to Chaoka-­san, some employees could ­handle Kodama-­san’s personality, but ­others could not stand him. Then he told me quietly, “ ‘Severe discipline when needed!’ [For this,] Kodama is infamous. But he is a good guy with a good heart. I am the only one who understands who he is. . . . ​It is like self-­sacrifice [jiko gisei]—he made himself a mean and authoritarian boss to solidify his employees. He definitely is very concerned with disciplining/training [shitsukeru] and cultivating [sodateru] his subordinates.” ­After Kodama-­san’s speech, the young employee sitting next to Chaoka-­san was called on to make the ceremonial closing. We did a ritual clapping to close the eve­ning, known as sanbon-­jime, which consists of rhythmic hand clapping in three sets of three claps and one final clap to close the meeting with a lively and spirited crescendo.

Part Two (Niji-­kai): ­After Party at a Japa­nese Dining Bar in Kagurazaka ­ fter the ceremonial closing, every­one poured outside, waiting in the rain. While A I was trying to figure out what was next, Sugimoto-­san told me that t­here was already a second place reserved. As we started walking, the dynamics of the group became ambiguous, and we ­were not sure who was leaving or staying. ­There was a rumor that we would all go to the second place, but I also saw that some w ­ ere drifting away. During this transition, p ­ eople negotiated with themselves and each other as to ­whether they would stay or leave, and by the time we

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reached the second meeting place, t­here ­were only eigh­teen ­people. During the dinner Chaoka-­san had mentioned to me the diverse ways that employees received Kodama-­san, and it was clear that many young employees preferred not to engage with Kodama-­san personally. This was confirmed ­after the party when the employees made arrangements for the a­ fter party (niji-­kai). When I asked if Kodama-­san was coming, many young employees told me not to invite Kodama-­ san. Chaoka-­san also explained that “it is better to go without Kodama ­because that way his ju­niors would be able to have more fun.” He made sure that Kodama-­ san and the vice man­ag­er, Yokota-­san, left so that at the ­after party ­there would only be Chaoka-­san and the younger ­people, including the receptionists. Once we ­were all inside the dining bar (izakaya) that had been arranged for the ­after party, we ordered side dishes and drinks, and conversation picked up. It was like a backroom meeting where every­one could fi­nally feel relaxed without worrying about being overheard by their boss. In short order every­one started making fun of Kodama-­san, some even mimicking and problematizing what he said during his speech that night. The TEC ­after party followed a common pattern in corporate sociality. Changing locations and group members throughout an eve­ning of corporate

FIGURE 3.1.  Nijikai in Kagurazaka. This was the second gathering at a Japa­nese dining bar in Kagurazaka, where every­body was more energized. Source: Photo­graph by author.

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entertainment serves many purposes. One purpose is to facilitate consecutive degrees of catharsis and camaraderie. Indeed, as the a­ fter party wore on, Chaoka-­ san explained that ­these employees had r­ eally been waiting for this second gathering b ­ ecause they would feel more open and energized. Without any formality, they behaved very differently—­louder and more playful. They also actively poked fun at Kodama-­san. This change in their be­hav­ior is a phenomenon that also winds through the politics of interpersonal dynamics that I encountered at the STEP Corporation, at hostess clubs, and at a local marathon club (see chapter 4). In ­these dif­fer­ent locations, p ­ eople often behave differently, or to be more precise, they behave in a livelier way as the night goes on, and it also depends on the absence or presence of their bosses in the division, the female head of the hostess club (mama-­san), or the leader of the marathon club, respectively. Recognizing my reaction, Chaoka-­san mentioned that it is amazing how some of ­these ju­niors would behave differently without the presence of Kodama-­san: “They change drastically [garatto kawaru].” Chaoka-­san’s comments came from the position of one who understood the ju­niors’ feelings as well as t­ hose of the se­ niors. He occupied an ambiguous position ­because he was an insider in the com­ pany and had known the bosses and ju­niors for a long time, but since he had been relocated to the United States for seven years, he was also something of an outsider. With such a status, the ju­nior salarymen felt more comfortable asking Chaoka-­san questions. According to him, his role at this a­ fter party was to listen to his ju­niors and encourage them. Chaoka-­san was more sympathetic t­ oward Kodama-­san, but as the night wore on, even Chaoka-­san joined in with the ­others in lampooning Kodama-­san to make his ju­niors laugh and have fun. Indeed, as much as Kodama-­ san used himself as a mean boss to solidify the ju­niors, ­these subordinates themselves also used Kodama-­san as the target of teasing; as a result, they strengthened their bonds among themselves in a fun and relaxed after-­work context. While we w ­ ere still drinking and eating, another TEC employee, Ninomiya-­ san, called to invite us to go to his favorite Korean barbecue place in Ueno. Ninomiya-­san was in his mid-fifties, working as an engineer in the Technical Division. While he did not participate in the Sales Division’s party, he was close to Chaoka-­san and knew the ju­nior men. He had known that it was about the time that the ­after party would be over, so he called Chaoka-­san, and the night of entertainment continued.

Part Three (Sanji-­kai): After-­After Party at a Korean Barbecue in Ueno By the time we arrived at Ueno Station by cab, Ninomiya-­san was already waiting. We could not locate him among the many suited men around us, and we

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spent some time looking. Fi­nally, Ninomiya-­san found us, and we began arguing about whose fault it was for not finding the other first in the ­middle of a large intersection for half an hour. Eventually Ninomiya-­san proudly announced that he would take us to a “real” Korean barbecue. It was about ten thirty, and at this third meeting, neither the female employees nor the receptionists joined. They claimed that they w ­ ere too tired, so they w ­ ere released to go home. T ­ here ­were only about seven p ­ eople left by the time we set off to find Ninomiya-­san’s restaurant—­six salarymen and one designer, who ­were all close to Chaoka-­san. On the way we got lost in the m ­ iddle of a seedy neighborhood drenched in neon lights, and the rest of the members showered Ninomiya-­san with teasing and criticisms like, “Are you r­ eally taking us somewhere?” or “You are our se­nior; how could you take us to this sketchy neighborhood?” Fi­nally we found a homey restaurant in the ­middle of the gaudy neon lights. As Ninomiya-­san entered, he greeted the female Korean owner in Korean, which impressed all of the complaining ju­niors. Then Ninomiya-­san seated us and started ordering dishes for us in a mixture of Korean and Japa­nese. Soon plates of meat arrived at the ­table one a­ fter another. It was already around eleven o ­ ’clock, but t­ hese young salarymen w ­ ere hungry again. Many w ­ ere eating what­ever was put in front of them. In fact, in t­ hese loose after-­work situations, salarymen’s diets are not ­under their own control. While female employees are often given a chance to choose what they want to eat, male employees’ stomachs are often controlled by the situation and whoever is ordering food—­usually the boss or guest who is treating the ju­niors. For his part, Chaoka-­san was also happy to feed ­these young men as he watched them eat so much and with tireless gusto. Chaoka-­san and Ninomiya-­san w ­ ere the only se­niors among the group, and soon they started teasing and ridiculing each other. Despite good-­natured lampooning, t­ here was no vicious gossip, but rather they talked about was happening ­behind the scenes at the office. Young salarymen asked the se­nior salarymen about par­tic­ul­ar bosses, inquiring about the personality and dynamics of the bosses and their likes and dislikes. The se­nior salarymen would tell some memorable anecdotes and funny stories, exaggerating the events and inciting the laughter of their ju­niors. For ju­niors, it was a rare and valuable opportunity for them to hear the real stories and to get closer to their se­niors. H ­ ere, unlike at the ­after party, the ju­niors ­were good listeners and enjoyed the chance to see the ­human side of their se­niors and to hear all of the juicy stories. Every­one was laughing and having fun, and t­ here was a friendly and nonjudgmental atmosphere among the group.

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FIGURE 3.2.  Sanjikai in Ueno. Ninomiya-­san from a dif­fer­ent division took us to his favorite Korean barbecue in Ueno. Source: Photo­graph by author.

Part Four (Yoji-­kai): What Happened to Us in the End? ­ fter dining on Korean barbecue for a while, half of the members left, and five of A us lingered on. Around this time, Ninomiya-­san’s cell phone rang—it was a call from a Chinese hostess he knew who worked nearby. Ninomiya-­san was a regular customer, and she was asking if he would come to the club that night. Ninomiya-­ san announced that he wanted to take us to a hostess club run by a Chinese owner. Seeming a bit worried, one young salaryman warned us as that ­there ­were many incidents where Japa­nese men ­were robbed ­after being drugged with sleeping pills at seedy establishments. In response to his warning, Ninomiya-­san dismissed such fears, telling us that “this hostess club may not be a nice one but it is a safe one.” As we ­were still debating, the Chinese hostess called him again and again, nagging Ninomiya-­san to come. Chaoka-­san and I ­were tired by this point, and Chaoka-­ san suddenly grabbed the phone from Ninomiya-­san and turned down the invitation. Not giving up, the hostess insisted that she just wanted to see his face, even just for a second. Caving, Ninomiya-­san told them where we ­were. Soon two hostesses arrived at the Korean restaurant and dragged us all to the club.

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Unlike the Japa­nese and international hostess clubs I was familiar with through my own fieldwork, this club was a bit filthy, and the atmosphere was strange, looking almost like someone’s private living room. Moreover, the mama-­san was not in kimono but in a casual dress. ­There ­were many stuffed animals hanging on the walls. The hostesses’ dresses ­were risqué (tight, low-­cut, short skirts); they wore their hair in a casual style, and they ­were aggressive in coming to other restaurants to drag their clients in. T ­ hese ­factors distinguished it from expensive Japa­ nese hostess clubs in such places as Roppongi or Ginza (e.g., Allison 1994; Gagné 2010b, 2015), and the result was that the place seemed more casual and informal, which created a relaxed ambience inside. In the kitchen, t­ here was a master (male barkeeper/chef), who I ­later found out was a former salaryman. While at international hostess clubs many hostesses are fluent in Japa­nese, at this club the young Chinese hostesses spoke l­ imited Japa­nese. B ­ ecause of the language barrier, our interaction and conversations ­were ­limited to such questions as about our age, blood type, or birthday. Soon Ninomiya-­san began dozing off while other customers ­were singing karaoke. As we knew that he was tired, we let him nap while we engaged in mundane conversation. ­After a short time Ninomiya-­ san fell into a deep sleep. We all felt as tired as he was, so we de­cided to leave, but Hasegawa-­san, from the Design Division, de­cided to stay to keep watch over Ninomiya-­san. He explained to us that he would go home on the first train the next morning, around four ­o’clock, and ­later come back to the com­pany. It was already two in the morning, and t­ here w ­ ere no trains ­running, so the rest of the members took a cab home.

After-­Work Leisure in Postbubble Japan The hostess club that the TEC employees ended up at a­ fter their long eve­ning was one example of the diverse kinds of drinking establishments in Japan, which have long been closely intertwined with corporate as well as noncorporate life. While seemingly clear-­cut in its meaning as a club where men are hosted by w ­ omen, hostess clubs differ widely depending on the country as well as the social context and changing historical and economic milieus. In other Asian socie­ties, such as in China and ­Korea, hostess clubs emerged as sites for entertaining po­liti­cal and business elites and feature private booths and sexual ser­v ices that offer explicit sexual intimacy and encourage the expression of a dominant masculinity (e.g., Cheng 2000; Lie 1995; Zheng 2009). However, the after-­work leisure spaces of hostess clubs in Japan represent a dif­fer­ent kind of business.3 In fact, it is hard to describe this multipurpose space, with its combination of seemingly antithetical categories of work and play, business and entertainment,

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and com­pany and home. Allison (1994) defined the hostess club by first discussing what it was not: it is part of corporate culture, but it is not a com­pany; it is part dining place, but it is not a restaurant; it is part drinking place, but it is not a bar; many now also come with karaoke facilities, but they are not karaoke boxes; it has female workers, but it is not a place for prostitutes or any kind of sex industry; it has a mama-­san (as the head of the club) waiting for trusted members to come “home,” but it is not a home where a real “mama” (wife) is waiting. Regardless of ­these ambiguities, it is widely known that hostess clubs, especially ­those in certain high-­end districts like Ginza, are very expensive, and thus, as my in­for­mants explained, Ginza clubs are like a brand or status symbol for men to drink at. Building from this, I broadly define a hostess club as the space of an after-­ work, expensive, socially exclusive drinking place where male (and sometimes female)4 customers individually or collectively, volitionally or obligatorily, visit on weekdays ­after work to drink together and to receive the ser­vice of paid drinks and attendance and conversation by female hostesses—­all ­under the surveillance of the mama-­san.5 While the commercialization of intimacy and sophisticated ser­v ice are often framed as something new in postindustrial society, the idea and practice of such

FIGURE 3.3.  Before opening, hostesses clean and prepare the kitchen. Source: Photo­graph by author.

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exchanges in a commodified fantasy space are historically embedded in Japan (e.g., Nagai 1991; K. Watanabe 2004). Business and leisure have long thrived hand in hand, and Japan has long had a vibrant culture of after-­hours entertainment, the most famous from the past being Yoshiwara, the largest licensed leisure quarter in Edo (the old name for Tokyo) (Seigle 1993; Teruoka 1989). Leisure quarters like Yoshiwara ­were strictly managed and boasted a range of establishments that catered to diverse individual patrons of dif­fer­ent classes and offered a space for a range of intimate encounters and corporate entertainment needs (K. Watanabe 2004). While the legacy of Yoshiwara continues to color the fantasy realm that hostess clubs occupy, the organ­ization of corporate and ­family life in modern Japan has created new needs for emotional release and the humanizing of corporate relations that after-­work leisure spaces can serve. The rise of the postindustrial economy has come hand in hand with an intense focus on emotion management at work (Raz 2002). At the same time, the democ­ratization of f­ amily forms also reinforces a dif­fer­ent kind of emotion management at home. Together, this has reinforced the importance of a space where customers can be released from emotion management at work and at home and where business and leisure can intertwine as a way of building interpersonal connections and trust among salarymen through the shared release of emotions. By drinking and carousing together, such spaces facilitate communication without being as constrained by the dominant ideologies that are operative in other spheres of Japa­nese society.

Economic Restructuring and the Hostess Club Industry since the 1990s During the ­bubble period in the 1980s, corporate entertainment, such as visiting hostess clubs and golfing, played impor­tant roles in facilitating Japa­nese business relations beyond strictly corporate settings (e.g., Allison 1994; Ben-­Ari 1998). During the heyday of Japan’s economic growth, t­here ­were plenty of corporate expense-­account clients and privately wealthy individuals to fuel the corporate entertainment industry, particularly hostess clubs. Yet postbubble corporate restructurings have affected not only the workplace but also after-­work entertainment. It is precisely ­because hostess clubs rely on long-­term corporate clientele and relationships that they have been deeply affected by the changing po­liti­cal economy of postbubble Japan. Among the hostess clubs I studied, at expensive clubs like Club Ai, 70 ­percent of the customers in the early 2010s ­were corporate; at the relatively inexpensive Club Sumire, 50 ­percent w ­ ere corporate customers; at the international hostess club Class A, less than 40 ­percent w ­ ere corporate customers. Moreover, along with the growth of cheaper, casual, and non-­corporate-­exclusive drinking

FIGURE 3.4.  Namiki Dōri, the famous Ginza street located inside the main street. Source: Photo­graph by author.

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places, such as cabaret clubs (kyabakura),6 bars, dining bars (izakaya), karaoke boxes, gay bars, and other businesses, many hostess clubs and high-­end restaurants have strug­gled to maintain their clientele in the face of cheaper alternatives. From my observations and conversations with mama-­sans and salarymen, economic reforms have affected businesses like hostess clubs primarily in three ways. First, they have affected the economic conditions of hostess clubs, as they have affected the kinds of companies that are able to use the spaces, and as a result they have starkly revealed the differences between the successful companies that can continue to afford the spaces and ­those that cannot. While the former have been able to navigate the waves of reforms and volatility of global capital flows, the latter ­were not able to adapt to the new demands for efficiency and profitability. As a result, some corporations could not sustain their corporate expenses beyond strictly business. Viewing ­these changes from the backstage of high-­ end hostess clubs, many mama-­sans noted that during the b ­ ubble period, it was the CEOs of medium-­sized and small-­sized companies and real estate firms who spent money flamboyantly in hostess clubs. By the 2000s, however, the mama-­ sans noted that such individual entrepreneurs have dis­appeared, and only large, stable corporations and very small but successful corporations who survived the recession remain as corporate customers at the high-­end clubs. Second, due to the long recession, hostess clubs’ payment systems have become even more impor­tant. Most hostess clubs operate on a system of corporate tabs and deferred payments, which is based on long-­term trust relations and the long-­ term solvency of their customers. While this guaranteed stable patronage during good economic times, in recessionary Japan this system put the hostess clubs in danger as some companies and clients went bankrupt and never came back to pay off their tabs. Lastly, as hostess clubs have felt the pinch of b ­ elt tightening across the corporate world, they have been forced to change their own practices. Along with the changes to employment systems in corporations, hostess clubs also implemented similar changes to their employment structures. Together with a decreasing number of full-­time (long-­term apprentice) hostesses, hostess clubs also started hiring part-­time hostesses, who worked as com­pany employees in the daytime but wanted extra cash, and also began using temp staff from large dispatch companies. As with similar changes in other industries that disrupted employee and management relations, such personnel changes also affected the working relations among hostesses and between hostesses and mama-­sans. Some mama-­sans also used their version of a performance-­based merit system (uriage sei) to pressure hostesses to work hard to gain more profits individually. Such pressure sometimes led to a revolt among the hostesses, where all of the hostesses at one club would

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suddenly move to dif­fer­ent clubs in order to seek better working conditions, jeopardizing the original club. In ­these vari­ous ways, the structural changes in the Japa­nese business world have clearly affected what kinds of corporations have been able to continue to visit hostess clubs, who pays for the costs, and the frequency of customers who come. The new challenges facing establishments like hostess clubs thus reflect the changes that have occurred in corporate management ­under the banner of restructuring. Restructuring in Japan has affected the ways that companies do business, including their leisure of business, and this has of course affected the business of leisure, including hostess clubs and other forms of corporate entertainment (e.g., high-­end restaurants, golf courses, ­etc.). This raises an impor­tant question for scholars of both business and leisure in Japan: how do such changes affect the sociality of workers and gendered relations beyond the workspace, and what meaning does after-­work sociality now have?

Situating Hostess Clubs, Masculinity, and Intimacy in Con­t emporary Japan The term hostess club evokes many dif­fer­ent images around the world, and the meanings and uses of such spaces differ depending on the social, historical, and economic conditions involved. Promoted as the “leisure of business,” hostess clubs take a variety of forms across Asia. In China, hostess clubs w ­ ere originally introduced by Japa­nese businessmen but w ­ ere adapted as “karaoke bars,” and they emerged as sites for entertaining po­liti­cal and business elites. They feature individual booths and offer ser­v ices including drinks, singing, and dancing, as well as prostitution (Zheng 2009). Similarly, in ­Korea, the concept of hostess clubs includes a range of institutions from high-­end “room salons” to lower-­end “karaokes” (tallanjujom) and brothels, which also frequently offer sexual ser­v ices for additional charges (Cheng 2000; Lie 1995).7 In both China and K ­ orea, t­ hese clubs feature private booths and sexual ser­v ices that offer explicit sexual intimacy and encourage the expression of a dominant masculinity, and the role of hostesses thus includes a range of both sensual and sexual ser­v ices for male clients. The after-­work leisure spaces of hostess clubs in Japan offer a dif­fer­ent example of the leisure of business. In Japan customers pay for expensive drinks and snacks and conversations with hostesses, and no sexual ser­v ices are offered. Even though customers pay high prices for drinks and are bound by exclusive membership (based on trust-­bound corporate membership systems), t­here are no private booths and l­ ittle privacy within the space. Thus, what marks the business of hostess clubs in Japan from ­those in many other socie­ties, such as in China

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or ­Korea, is the par­tic­u­lar construction of an open, safe space, which is marked by the par­tic­ul­ar medium of ser­v ice, which is “primarily talk” (Allison 1994, 8). In this space, verbal interactions are uninhibited, including business-­related conversations and romantic or even lewd conversations with customers. Hostess clubs in Japan therefore ambiguously occupy the spheres of corporate life, social life, and private life—an ambiguity that has made them the target of both criticism and admiration. In analyzing ­these gendered spaces, one issue frequently raised by scholars is masculinity, in par­tic­ul­ ar “hegemonic masculinity” (Connell 1997). At first glance, in understanding hostess clubs’ role as part of the broader practice of corporate drinking in Japan, functionalist readings argue that male customers at hostess clubs seem to perpetuate the image of “salarymen doxa” (Roberson and Suzuki 2003). By wielding economic capital to purchase the companionship of w ­ omen at ­these clubs, male workers are seen as promoting patriarchal, corporate ideology or a kind of salarymen masculinity through con­spic­u­ous corporate consumption. In such readings, hostess clubs are thus the front stage for the reinforcement and pre­sen­ta­tion of corporatized masculine prerogative. Alternatively, when analyzing individual hostesses and male customers of hostess clubs, a second issue that is often raised is the commodification of emotion or intimacy in ­these spaces. For example, Marxist readings might assume that hostesses are exploited by being commodified and made to embody a false self through the gendered ser­v ice of “emotional ­labor” (Hochschild 2003). Likewise, given the structure of high-­priced but ­limited ser­vices, male customers are sometimes seen as having false consciousness in buying a nonmaterializable dream while simply being ripped off by the business of hostess clubs. According to this reading, hostess clubs are the backstage where modern cap­it­ al­ist logic penetrates both female and male participants by manipulating their emotions and playing on their desires. The business of leisure is seen as co-­opting them into perpetuating the commodification and marketization of all ­human social relations, while si­mul­ta­neously deflecting their attention from the realities of exploitation that lie ­behind the global po­liti­cal economy. In ­either of ­these readings, both hostesses and their customers are seen as caught up within a cap­i­tal­ist system of commodification, alienation, and exploitation, with l­ ittle agency of their own. Yet understanding the experiences of male customers and female hostesses challenges such exclusively functionalist or materialist readings and offers impor­tant insights into the management of emotions, intimacies, and masculinities operating in ­those spaces. In this way, in order to understand the social meanings and effects of outings, it is necessary to contextualize t­ hese spaces and the micro interactions between men and w ­ omen and how they fit into individuals’ work life, home life, and private motivations and desires.

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I now turn to the key characteristics that undergird the hostess club business, including the vari­ous motivations and meanings for customers. Then, I describe how corporate groups continue to use hostess clubs to help facilitate their business and social relations. Fi­nally, I analyze the rising number of individual customers who come for personal leisure and their vari­ous motivations and experiences as men working within the new social and corporate conditions of the late 2000s and 2010s. In spite of vari­ous structural changes, it is precisely ­because the multiple and flexible intimacies that are constructed and facilitated within the space of the hostess club serve as vectors directed t­ oward other ends beyond corporate (or sexual) consummation that they are able to continue to serve the diverse motivations of their clientele u ­ nder Japan’s changing economic conditions.

The Multiple Meanings of Patronage While hostess clubs are often associated with corporate gatherings or corporate entertainment, ­there are many distinctive patterns of participation by Japa­nese businessmen, and their purposes are often ambiguous and overlapping. Over the course of my fieldwork, three customers in par­tic­u­lar made the complexity of this space clear. Naruse-­san, Wata-­san, and Minagawa-­san ­were all long-­term patrons who had been coming to Club Ai since its opening in 1991. All three followed the mama-­san from her former club where she had been a chi-­mama (the second-­ ranked mama-­san in a club). T ­ hese men came with their respective clients once in a while for corporate entertainment ­after dinner, but they also came to the club individually or with their friends for social gatherings a­ fter work. Naruse-­san was relocated to Osaka as a business bachelor (tanshin funin), and his f­ amily lived in Yokohama. He always came individually or with his close friends for more personal enjoyment whenever he visited Tokyo. Naruse-­san explained Club Ai as a kind of “second home” in which to meet his friends. Naruse-­san originally got to know Club Ai as his parent com­pany in Tokyo used the space for corporate entertainment. However, ­after he was sent to a subsidiary office and started living alone in Osaka, he started using Club Ai for more personal purposes. According to him, his wife had enough to deal with when he was at the ­house, so even though he could only come home once a month or so, he could not have his friends over to his real home. Wata-­san, a Tokyo resident, came to the club for two reasons: corporate and personal. I saw him come with his clients and ju­niors for corporate group outings, but he also began coming individually to meet with his favorite hostess by paying out of his own pocket. Lastly, Minagawa-­ san, who lived in Tochigi Prefecture, sometimes came alone when he was in To-

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kyo on business to see the mama-­san, as they had known each other and supported each other’s business for many years. While he felt isolated in the anonymous urban space of Tokyo, he explained that he felt “like himself” in the space of the hostess club, a place where he had known the owner for a long time. Thus, the same individual, depending on how he comes and with whom he comes, holds dif­fer­ent meanings, motivations, and flows of money, sometimes overlapping, sometimes distinct, and sometimes si­mul­ta­neously. This is a key point for understanding the multiple experiences and desires that hostess clubs are able to provoke and sustain for many of their customers. Given the variety of customers and motivations, it is not easy to typologize the kind of man and the kind of purpose he might have. Instead, it is necessary to contextualize what kinds of meanings and desires operate u ­ nder the seemingly s­ imple and practical business of leisure and after-­work consumption.

Managing Corporate Intimacy In corporate entertainment, when customers come with their clients, suppliers, and business associates, as well as coworkers, subordinates, and bosses, they usually come ­after a formal or semiformal business dinner. T ­ hese men are often called “com­pany expense-­account ­people” (shayō-­zoku), and the purpose could be to facilitate business relations with clients, to commemorate a promotion, achievement, transfer, or farewell, or to celebrate year-­end and New Year’s parties. Or if sales are stagnating, a boss might bring his or her subordinates to raise the morale and spirits of the workers and to encourage them by drinking together. As with TEC’s end-­of-­year party, hostess clubs usually occupy the last rung in this ladder of corporate outings (hashigo). The pro­cess often starts off with dinner at a restaurant, followed by a visit to a bar, karaoke, or other entertainment space like a hostess club that is open u ­ ntil late. ­There are thus impor­tant physical, spatial, and temporal dimensions. A ­ fter a long day of business meetings and an eve­ning of treating clients to restaurants and bars, hostess clubs serve to relieve the pressure on the hosting com­pany to entertain their clients. An experienced hostess, Kiyomi-­san, explained: In the case of business entertainment, the customers [who are hosting] are already tired ­after hosting their clients all eve­ning. As businesspeople cannot take their coworkers or clients to their home, then, we are useful for them as we w ­ ill take over their part in hosting their clients. For our long-­term trust relationship, we try our best to serve their clients and entertain them.

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Corporate entertainment is thus a delicate pro­cess that involves balancing the vari­ous dynamics between se­niors and ju­niors, among male and female employees, and most importantly, between companies and their clients. Arranging a night out for an impor­tant client requires considerable planning and careful management. Even before they arrive at the club, the mama-­san and the hostesses are in close contact with their customers in order to lubricate after-­hours communication over drinks (called nominikeeshon—­a combination of the Japa­nese word “to drink” (nomu) and the En­glish word communication). Customers usually call the club beforehand to reserve seating and mention the reason for their gathering. Their business deal itself can never be de­cided by the club, but it is influenced by how the mama-­san and the hostesses treat them in the club and how the customers spend their time ­there. In this re­spect, hostesses’ primary role is as surrogate business negotiators to lubricate after-­hours alcohol-­fueled sociality. One customer, Komuro-­san, who owned a medium-­sized trading com­pany, described the delicate business of ­doing corporate entertainment by stressing that “it is difficult to figure out who the other man ­really is, and what he thinks and desires deep down [hara no naka no kimochi].” Komuro-­san explained that by taking his clients to dif­fer­ent spaces over the course of a night, including restaurants, bars, and clubs, they can experience changing spaces and atmospheres, and they can see hidden aspects of who they are gradually released and exposed. Ascending the ladder of an eve­ning’s events together across dif­fer­ent contexts thus helps to expose the multiple sides and deeper personality of each participant, and knowing this is especially crucial for building the kind of trust involved in major monetary business transactions. Chaoka-­san, the TEC employee from the opening vignette, told me that after-­ hours sociality was impor­tant for building humanistic understanding as it softens the strict business relations. He explained that if he has been out drinking with his clients before, if something goes wrong in their business relations l­ater, the client is more likely to be understanding as they know each other beyond strictly work relations. In this way, despite the move ­toward reduced corporate entertainment and the increased quantification of per­for­mance in the increasingly competitive Japa­nese corporate world of the 2000s, spending social time with clients across dif­fer­ent spaces can facilitate their understanding of each other and humanize the “corporate intimacy” involved in major monetary transactions. At the same time, while many customers said that the hostess club is used as a lubricant (junkatsuyu) for companies, the same space can potentially become oil over ­water if the hosting com­pany misjudges their clients. The customer Kaneda-­san, who was vice man­ag­er of a construction com­pany, warned me how diverse clients’ tastes can be and shared his own anecdote that showed in visceral detail the delicacy of hosting:

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Well, it is difficult to judge what kinds of spaces would make my clients relaxed. I once had a ­really impor­tant business meeting in Saitama. This was big money for us and I was so ner­vous about how I was g­ oing to entertain my client. All the ­people at my com­pany expected me to do a ­great job. ­After a nice long dinner my client said, “I have a place to take you,” but he seemed to have forgotten the location. ­After wandering around for a while, he fi­nally pointed out one building and said, “This may be the one.” We took an elevator and arrived on the seventh floor, but the place did not look nice to me, so I was confused. What was even more confusing, though, was that when we opened the door, ­there was a big, fat w ­ oman r­ unning t­oward us. She was ­really big. And I was so shocked thinking, “What am I ­doing to my client?” I said, “I am afraid that this is the wrong place.” So I offered a place that I knew instead. I quickly called the mama-­san at the club and told her how impor­tant the meeting is and asked her to keep the most talented hostesses for me. She made efforts to keep the most experienced and eloquent ones for me when we arrived. Unexpectedly, t­hese ­women, whom I thought very proper and smooth-­talking, did not do anything for [my client]. My client got completely bored and started falling asleep. I was speechless. I ­really thought I ruined the relationship. I consulted with Mama-­san and she switched the hostess to another one who was not eloquent but was very fat. I was still not sure how it would work, but surprisingly this sleepy man suddenly woke up and got excited and started chanting and singing along. Then I realized that the place he first took me to was not a ­mistake. . . . ​Anyhow, Mama-­san ­really saved me, my client had a good time, and our business deal was set.8 In talking about this story, Kaneda-­san was still thankful to the mama-­san. Thus, what is impor­tant in corporate entertainment is to get to know their business partner beyond formal business contexts. Kaneda-­san further explained, “It is easy just to give gifts or money to facilitate companionship with clients, but in business hosting, we can make it deliberately ‘social’ [shinkō].” Thus, it is during t­ hese structurally loose moments of after-­hours sociality when one can engage in “social work”—­catching a glimpse of clients’ and coworkers’ “humanness” (ningenmi) (Allison 1994, 14) that is often hidden in regular business or strictly formal contexts. One can see slight transformations in be­hav­ iors among Japa­nese men as they relax and loosen up, and as the night wears on, one might hear inner feelings (honne) and watch men grow sentimental or intoxicated with alcohol in the clubs. This practice of breaking down status differences, known as bureikō, creates an egalitarian atmosphere and enables working

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men and ­women to drink and carouse together with less inhibition. This in turn facilitates business relations between clients, as well as solidifies social relations. In such contexts, some bosses deliberately act like equals while o ­ thers pay the tab in advance and leave early so that their ju­niors can enjoy themselves fully without their boss around.9 In t­ hese ways, after-­work interactions facilitate humanistic intimacy among coworkers, between employees and bosses, and between customers and clients. This intimacy is refracted through the hostess club in par­tic­u­lar, where individuals are able to reveal vulnerabilities, complaints, desires, and other sides of themselves. Indeed, as a range of scholars have shown (Lebra 1976; see also Plath 1980; Rohlen 1974; Takeyama 2016), in Japan intimacies are not exclusively restricted to familial or sexually intimate relationships but instead are seen as vital sources of forming ­human relationships in many spheres of Japa­nese society. The realm of Japa­nese corporate relations—­both within companies and between companies—is one such sphere where intimacy in the form of long-­term trust and mutual understanding is facilitated by the interactions within hostess clubs, offering customers, their clients, and individual salarymen a diverse range of ways to interact, to bond, and to enjoy themselves.

The Choreography of Small Talk Ser­vice at the hostess club does not take purely monetary nor gastronomical forms of exchange. Allison (1994, 17) shows the distinctive nature of exchange in hostess clubs, where the use value of the club’s ser­vice is not fully materialized or realized as a tangible commodity. For high-­end businesses, including expensive restaurants or hostess clubs, their commodity is a promise of the use value rather than the use value itself. Echoing Allison’s (1994, 8) insight, customers emphasized that one of the most impor­tant ser­vices at a hostess club was that of talk. And yet most of this talk itself does not seem to be rich in content, at least u ­ ntil much l­ater in the eve­ ning when customers share something more serious and personal. Originally, I was not sure why male customers deliberately talked about something obviously unimportant or obscene while they came on an impor­tant business mission. Kawagishi-­san, a CEO of a business consulting com­pany, once explained to me the logic ­behind this be­hav­ior: “Usually we finish the impor­tant conversation over dinner. A ­ fter that, we need some fun with w ­ omen without talking about business.” When I pressed him about what he meant by his remark “without talking about business,” he answered, “Yes, without business, just for plea­sure. That is it. But yes, it is still connected with the business to some extent.” In hostess clubs, verbal interactions on a variety of topics that can be considered taboo in other contexts are therefore encouraged. This is b ­ ecause in this space

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the usual inhibitions and judgments regarding certain topics and be­hav­iors are suspended; however, other topics could be inappropriate. Mama-­sans and hostesses told me that t­ here are “three ­don’ts” (three s’s) of club conversation: do not talk about politics (seiji), religion (shūkyō), or professional baseball (glossed as supōtsu). According to customers, businesspeople who are trying to connect with ­others (i.e., clients) should avoid any topics that may potentially express differences in ideology, ingrained thinking, and points of view. Small talk, especially about food, weather, regional differences, physical appearances, and sexualized talk, as well as social and economic issues, are regarded as harmless and thus are common in the club and are usually but not always initiated by men. Such small talk is perceived to be the least offensive (sashisawari no nai) and the most benign by most customers and hostesses. As my in­for­mants explained, such talk is safe as “they cannot talk about real personal ­matters due to individuals’ circumstances [sorezore no jijō], and we [customers] do not know hostesses that well.” Among hostesses, some are good at talking about social issues. O ­ thers deliberately provoke men by talking about something personal or sexual, while ­others never engage in such talk. Moreover, depending on the hostesses, men decide w ­ hether they w ­ ill talk about a par­tic­u­lar topic, often seeking to find something that ­will be comfortable or at least safe for both parties. In this way, superficial topics can be the safest way to facilitate easy conversation. One customer in his late thirties at Class A, Murata-­san, explained to me one eve­ ning about hostess club conversations: “I think we are all so dif­fer­ent. ­Because of this, we are trying to find ways to connect with ­people by talking about something silly. We can find some kind of tie between you and the other by talking about silly ­things. Food, weather, blood types, or even sexualized talk or less offensive talk are superficial, so they are useful topics, as we are very private in real­ity.”

Rethinking Corporate/Salarymen Masculinity through Hostess Clubs The construction of trust and mutual management of interdependence in Japa­nese hostess clubs is best understood in contrast with the gender dynamics of corporate and leisure contexts in other socie­ties. In the business contexts of the United States, for example, any display of seeming weakness or vulnerability, including complaining and consulting, drunkenness and sleepiness, may appear as disingenuous or lacking in professionalism and thus may undermine the fundamental character of the person as a social adult (Gagné 2010a, 42). Moreover, even in leisure spaces American men try to maintain a hegemonic masculinity (see Ericksen 2011). Similarly, in the context of corporate entertainment in China, Zheng (2009) shows how masculinity through competitiveness and sexual conquest becomes a

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marker of social trust and moral strength when po­liti­cal cadre and business elites come to drink, sing, and buy sex in karaoke bars in Dalian. Zheng reveals how elite men pursue sexual consumption in order to “assess each other’s moral qualities and business competence” and thereby facilitate mutual trust (Zheng 2006, 175; 2009). In this context, any sign of emotional vulnerability, ­toward each other as well as t­ oward hostesses, is a sign of weakness and potential unreliability. Likewise, in K ­ orea, collective consumption of sexual ser­vices by male cohorts is an impor­ tant mea­sure of group solidarity and trust (Cheng 2000, 44; see also Lie 1995). ­These ethnographic studies reveal how the gendered ser­v ices of hostess clubs in many socie­ties are often marked by the overper­for­mance of a domineering and dominating form of masculine consumption. Despite vari­ous differences in individual intentions, collective goals, and social contexts, competitive, sexual consummation is key for the construction and articulation of trust among men. In this way, the goals of being ser­v iced by ­women (sexually or other­wise) in American, Chinese, and Korean contexts is directly linked to acknowledging and enhancing one’s masculinity vis-­à-­v is other men and ­women, be it in competition or in solidarity. Physical weakness, emotional expressiveness, and other forms of vulnerability become barriers to trust with no place in the competitive masculinity of the corporate world. In her revealing comparison of the differences between American and Japa­ nese expressions and expectations of masculinity, Allison (1994, 178) shows that while American men try to achieve total control over ­women and express a masculinity that entails sexual domination and consummation, Japa­nese businessmen expect to lose control of themselves and rely on hostesses to make them feel like men. Moreover, as in the case of Ninomiya-­san at TEC Corporation’s end-­ of-­year party, I encountered many instances when men became so drunk or sleepy that they could not even participate in corporate entertainment. Lebra (1976, 116) calls this display of vulnerability “social nudity,” noting that other­wise socially respected men can be “stripped of all face or social mask” and engage in “boisterousness, crying, indulgent postures, falling asleep in front of ­others” and display other be­hav­iors that violate conventional norms—­actions that she notes would be inconceivable in similar foreign contexts. In response, other men and hostesses dialectically recognize this kind of be­hav­ior and even act protectively ­toward such men, revealing a kind of care that goes beyond gender. At hostess clubs in Japan, showing one’s ­human sides, including vulnerability or powerlessness in front of other men or showing empathy or emotional attachment to hostesses, does not necessarily lead to distrust; nor does it undermine the perception of the person, as it might in other business contexts. Indeed, recognizing each other as h ­ umans through social nudity (rather than wearing a masculine costume) is very impor­tant in building trust. Suspended from the rules of

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propriety of other social contexts, in clubs t­ hese men (and w ­ omen) can express themselves in socially inappropriate or po­liti­cally incorrect ways. This is even more impor­tant given the recent media discourses on vari­ous kinds of harassment in Japan that lead male employees to be extra careful about what they say to ju­niors or female employees in order to avoid claims of power harassment, age harassment, or sexual harassment. Thus, the club becomes an insulated space for release in which other­wise taboo conversations or be­hav­iors do not carry over into other spheres but remain suspended from moral judgments as part of the dream world of after-­hours sociality. In this sense, the club is not about creating a space for performing hegemonic masculinity but a space of social inhibition and suspending dominant ideologies. According to my in­for­mants, this social nudity is often interpreted positively by the customers themselves as a dialectical pro­cess of trust. It is understood socially, in that the person accepts the other to the extent that he can show his vulnerable and embarrassing sides, and therefore the other can dialectically recognize that he himself is gaining the other’s trust. In the end, as many in­for­mants explained, the purpose of corporate entertainment is to enhance participants’ communication and companionship. This is ­because, as Kaneda-­san explained, “Fundamentally, business cannot be a one-­time deal but has to be prolonged, long-­term deals. As such, it requires good communication/companionship beyond business.” Thus, t­ here is an idea that it is good to have better ­human relationships among t­hose who do business together, “­because business has so many ups and downs in real­ity and sometimes ­there are claims or unavoidable cancelations. In such situations, if companies are close and know each other well, ­things ­will go smoothly: that is why corporate outings are impor­tant!”

Coming with Friends or Individually Sakamoto-­san, a customer in his thirties, explained: We tend to think about place, status, and price, and the functions of therapeutic healing [iyashi] and longing [akogare] in choosing a place. If you want all ­these, you choose the most expensive, the hostess club. If you do not care about status, you go to a cabaret club. If you d ­ on’t care about any of ­these, you just go to a snack bar or izakaya. If you just want sex, you go to the sex industry [fūzoku]. If customers come to a hostess club as part of corporate outings or with clients, their goals are clearly social and economic and bound up with long-­term corporate relations. If customers come privately, however, their intentions are

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more personal. Such individual customers are mostly top executives, com­pany man­ag­ers, or men who save money for a special night out. Other individual customers include ­owners of small-­or medium-­sized companies, in­de­pen­dent entrepreneurs, and in­de­pen­dent professionals, including financial analysts, l­ awyers, tax accountants, and doctors and dentists, who can spend money on their own plea­sure. T ­ hese customers often come to see their favorite hostess, to visit the mama-­san if they are close friends, or simply to distract themselves from their loneliness. The ­actual relationships between hostesses and male customers are often ambiguous, but both hostesses and customers are aware that they are usually structured within and ­limited to the context of the club. Allison (1994, 8) notes that “while sexual intimacy may be implied, both their comments and their actions remain guarded and indirect.” For instance, Saki-­san, a young, upbeat hostess, was the most popu­lar among customers and was frequently invited out for dinner (known as “accompanying”). When I asked what happened if the customer wanted her to stay longer outside the club, she explained, “They know our business rule. They know it is my duty [to return to the club].” She added that while the mama-­san and some hostesses are invited to corporate golf outings and corporate parties, as well as to personal weddings, birthday parties, and concerts, Saki-­san never saw her customers outside of her work relations within the club. She explained this boundary by saying, “Both parties think that it would prob­ ably result in some complicated issues.” Nonetheless, such limits may not be clear to outsiders unfamiliar with the space. One night, a male client from Hong Kong was brought to a club by Japa­ nese customers. From the moment he entered the club, it was clear that he felt he had entered a male paradise where he was ­free to do anything. He began trying to aggressively touch the hostesses and urging them to drink more and more. At first the hostesses and other customers tolerated his be­hav­ior, but soon his antics escalated beyond what was acceptable, and the entire group was kicked out at the mama-­san’s ­orders. As the relieved looks on the hostesses’ f­ aces and the approving looks from the other customers revealed, the man had clearly crossed the line of accepted be­hav­ior that was understood by other customers in the club. As I came to learn more about the space, I realized that ­there was a range of tacit but explicit rules that served to maintain the space as a managed, safe space for both customers and hostesses. Along t­ hese lines, the mama-­san and experienced hostesses often told me that the key for hostesses of individual patrons is “to be supportive and wanted by male customers, yet not to the extent that unprofessional interactions or situations could result.”

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Space of Dreams: Quasi-­Romance (Giji Ren’ai) in High-­End Hostess Clubs For individual customers, the hostess club is a place of dreams, which is mostly unrealistic (hi-­genjitsutekina sekai). One day at Club Sumire, a customer asked about a hostess named Yōko-­san who used to work ­there. The mama-­san started talking about how g­ reat a hostess Yōko-­san was, but soon her talk veered t­ oward expounding on her weaknesses—­that “she looked so domestic and gloomy when she was preparing sake or washing dishes.” This led her into an impromptu lecture on what the nature of this night business (mizu-­shōbai) meant to her: ­ ere we sell “dreams” [yume] to customers. How can this regular ­bottle H of whisky cost so much? We deal with the customers for expensive drinks. Why can we sell such drinks with such added value? Men like to pay that added value without feeling ripped off, with the feeling that this place, ser­v ice, ­women, and conversation deserve this price and that “I had a ­great time ­here.” Then we need to offer the best service—­aesthetically sensible and attentive. We need to look brilliant [kagayaku], as this is not a home where we can look sloppy and domestic. While Club Sumire is a small club and the mama-­san often acts motherly to many customers, including female customers and hostesses, she was clear that this is a place that is the opposite of a domestic space. The trappings of fantasy play into this ambience of a tangible yet unreal world that marks hostess clubs in Japan. In general, for ­those seeking intimate encounters in commercial leisure spaces, one of the key attractions of the gendered interactions in t­ hese spaces is “quasi-­romance” (giji ren’ai)10—­what is usually seen as romantic and sexual enticement but which is not quite real romance or sexual consummation. During my fieldwork, I was often asked by American male customers why Japa­nese men are willing to pay for such quasi-­romance that did not lead to ­actual romance or any sexual ser­vices. However, listening to Japa­nese customers, it became clear that such romance is attractive precisely b ­ ecause the distance from everyday life makes this quasi-­romance more appealing for some customers. One young salaryman customer at Class A in his early thirties, Yamamoto-­san, embarrassingly explained, “It is a sort of quasi-­romantic relationship. So it is a sort of place of ‘romantic chance’ where young men can talk to w ­ omen, as they have no place to meet with ­women other­wise.” Indeed, Yamamoto-­san was just such a young man—­single and looking for a girlfriend. He told me that his com­ pany is very small, consisting of only a few members, and the only ­women who worked at his com­pany w ­ ere older married ­women. His com­pany did not provide the opportunity for corporate entertainment, e­ ither, so he went with his friends

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to hostess clubs or cabaret clubs. According to him, men know that this space is artificially constructed and that real relationships are unlikely. Nonetheless, he hoped that by getting to know them individually, it might lead to something ­else in the ­future. Among the married individual customers I met at Club Ai, several complained about their wives, but only a few of them had girlfriends outside marriages, and none of them seemed to be seriously considering a divorce or looking for pos­si­ ble marriage with their girlfriends. For t­ hese men, the notion of “quasi-­ness” is the key attraction of such intimacy as they are not ­really interested in developing a real or socially legitimated relationship, with all of its mundane entanglements. Sakamoto-­san, another customer in his early thirties who only visited the club a few times, showed his ambiguous yet longing-­filled feelings regarding participation in the hostess club: “Men know that hostess clubs are an unrealistic space. In other words, hostesses are like a non-­fruit-­bearing flower [adabana]. This flower is seen as beautiful and gorgeous, but it ­will never produce fruit and does not have any substance in real­ity. But maybe ­because of that, it is beautiful. So I do not have money to pursue it frequently, but I long for it.”

Parasexuality and Akogare in Fantasy Spaces The par­tic­ul­ar quasi-­romantic sexuality in hostess clubs resonate with a kind of “parasexuality” (Bailey 1990) that is prominent in other leisure spaces I observed (Gagné 2014). Parasexual practices in hostess clubs are managed, sensual interactions that are “deployed but contained, carefully channeled rather than fully discharged; in vulgar terms it might be represented as ‘every­thing but’ ” (Bailey 1990, 148). As Bailey (1990, 149) explains in reference to the development of the Victorian barmaid in ­England: Management [of sexuality] . . . ​is taken h ­ ere to denote not only systematic direction, but also the proper utilisation of resources. In the pub, the ­music hall and the popu­lar theatre, unlike the home, the courts and legislature, sexuality was a natu­ral resource rather than a natu­ral ­enemy. Thus while parasexuality was certainly a form of control, it started from a point of acknowl­edgment and accommodation rather than denial and punishment—in this sense it might be said to reverse Foucault’s couplet of regulation as production. What is crucial for managed intimacies is that the bound­aries of intimacies are known and shared by customers as well as hostesses, and such management of intimacies attracts customers. To borrow Bailey’s (1990, 167) words, this “demo­cratized, heterosocial world of sex and sociability” is born out of the clubs’

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role as a space where managed intimacies articulate the bound­aries of what is real and what is fantasy and unreal. And this elusive but tacitly understood boundary is what makes this business successful and leads many men to want to experience it as a dream or longing (akogare). Along t­hese lines, the mama-­sans and experienced hostesses often told me that to attract customers, ­there was a clear rule: “By providing aesthetic ser­v ice, Ginza hostesses need to be wanted by customers, and Ginza hostesses do not sleep with customers.” This is both for ethical and marketing reasons, as one hostess told me that “once a hostess has a real relationship with a man, he would never come back to the club.” In ­these ways, spaces like hostess clubs can enable sensual and sexualized fantasy, which are suspended within an everyday life—­corporation and home—­that is commonly marked as nonsexual and nonromantic (Gagné 2014, 14). The heterosexual spaces of hostess clubs in Japan can be seen as suspensions of one’s work and ­family status for both men and ­women in a pseudonymous and sensually charged context. In short, this spatially and temporally bounded context is marked by both freedom and the possibility of licit sexualized interaction and mutually understood and managed limits of intimacy. Nonetheless, it is this stark sense of what is real and unreal or what is acceptable and unacceptable that successfully enables the business of the hostess club. As the young customer Sakamoto-­san speculated, some men, while they know that their relationship ­will not become real, may simply enjoy the pro­cess of making efforts (ganbaru) for the ­woman they like. This pro­cess of making efforts ­toward what most realize is an unrealizable goal is itself a crucial aspect of akogare, or “longing,” that is a staple of Japa­nese fantasy spaces. The feeling of akogare—­a sense of longing or desire directed t­ oward ­either an object of affection or an object of admiration—­can, as Nakamura and Matsuo (2003, 74) explain, become a vehicle that carries individuals temporarily away from their everyday roles and life. For individual customers, in the romantic realm of the hostess club one can entertain the fantasy that something could happen, and for most this is enough to give them a space of excitement and escape from their everyday lives.

Conclusion I myself do not deserve to drink at a club, as this is for ­those who can use com­pany expenses. I am a cheap salaryman, so I should be g­ oing to izakaya. But izakaya are too loud for me. So I tried to find a place individually owned/managed and to become a regular. I think this is common for many salarymen with modest incomes. So for me, it is a treat and special occasion to come to a Ginza club. Unlike other places, Ginza

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is dif­fer­ent; clubs h ­ ere have a nice atmosphere and a sense of status. I feel that I can forget all of my fatigue from the day by coming h ­ ere. It may depend on individual preference, but men like to feel relaxed by having a pleasant time drinking and talking with hostesses and other customers. (Mabe-­san, sixty-­year-­old salaryman) On March 28, 2016, I visited Club Ai for a birthday party for the mama-­san. While the business of leisure was affected by the Lehman shock and the March 11, 2011, disaster, the club was full of customers to celebrate the mama-­san’s birthday. As the night went on, many customers and hostesses left. Eventually ­there ­were two groups of men in suits and one man in casual clothes, Hata-­san, drinking alone in the club. On her way to escort one group to the exit, Mama-­san asked me to serve Hata-­san, thinking that I knew him as he was a long-­term customer and the other hostesses ­were busy washing glasses. Though I had seen him before, I had never gotten to know Hata-­san. At first it was very awkward when I suddenly sat down in front of him, but as we began talking about such recent social issues as the aging population and el­derly care, he took the lead in our conversation. Hata-­san was sixty-­three-­years old and was a long-­term customer and retired businessman. His wife had passed away five years e­ arlier, so upon his retirement he became a full-­time caretaker for his wife’s sick ­mother, who was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Hata-­san currently lived with his ­daughter, who also helped him to take care of his mother-­in-­law, but he told her to spend as much time as pos­si­ble out of the ­house. He told me how special to­night was as he had just sent his mother-­in-­law for an overnight trip with other el­derly members from a hospital. To­night, he explained, he could drink without worrying about his mother-­ in-­law. On days like ­these, about once a month, Hata-­san’s mother-­in-­law would leave the ­house, and Hata-­san came to Club Ai to feel relaxed without thinking about his vari­ous difficulties. He nostalgically remembered the “good old days” when he used to come with his friends and colleagues a­ fter work, and the com­pany gave him a chance to drink. Now, he told me, he had no drinking opportunity or parties. He explained, “Taking care of a ‘patient-­mother’ all the time sometimes drives one sick, so I come ­here to feel more myself [jibun rashiku] and sane.” For Hata-­san, the hostess club was thus a place for more than just romantic intimacy with ­women or corporate sociality with colleagues/clients—it was a place that enabled him to regain a sense of intimacy with himself as a person, apart from his everyday roles as worker, ­father, and caregiver. Listening to hostesses, corporate customers, and individual customers like Hata-­san reveals the multiple levels of intimacies and complexities of men’s desires as well as responsibilities. Despite the ste­reo­types of hostess clubs perpetuating the image of salarymen doxa

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or salarymen masculinity or as a modern cap­it­ al­ist crystallization of commodity fetishism and commodified intimacy, through the coconstruction of humanistic relations among coworkers and clients or between men and hostesses, hostess clubs are one of the few places where men are released from the dominant gender ideology that binds them to work and ­family. ­Here, rather than being a salaryman, a man can be simply a ­human through displaying naked emotions and desires that are often hidden u ­ nder the demands of gender ideologies in their corporate and domestic lives, and he can be temporarily freed from his exclusively economic roles as an employee or husband (Gagné 2014). Corporate customers can be suspended from the dominant ideology of work. On the other hand, individual customers can be men who can reveal private desires through the suspension of the power­ful ideology of the male breadwinner, albeit with the help of female ­labor. While t­ hese customers, and married customers in par­tic­u­lar, may be criticized for spending time outside the home at hostess clubs pursuing individual needs and desires, this does not mean that home and ­family are not impor­tant to them. When I asked customers what was most impor­tant in their lives, almost all men answered without hesitation: “My ­family.” Indeed, talking to customers, I could see that some feel heavy responsibilities and obligations for their ­family, and this suspension offered in the clubs can enable them to self-­consciously play with and gain plea­sure from this gap between their everyday roles and obligations and their “leisurely self” in spaces like hostess clubs. In the end, after-­work spaces facilitate a spatial and temporal respite for male customers. Customers can be released from the usual inhibitions in the other spheres of their lives, thus enabling them to use this space creatively to serve diverse motivations and desires without transgressing the dominant ideologies. Crucially, the recognition and attentive care from hostesses and mama-­sans enables men to indulge in a dif­fer­ent sense of self and desire that in fact rejuvenates them by enabling them to feel like a ­human rather than cultivating an in­de­pen­dent and aggressive masculinity that is projected against ­women. And ultimately, the satisfaction and comfort of this experience become redirected ­toward their everyday lives outside of the clubs, as a way to gain energy and to work hard with renewed vigor. At the same time, as it is only a respite, it can also reinforce the maintenance and meaning of the institutions of work and home. In this way, Japa­ nese after-­work drinking spaces inhabit a space neither for nor against broader social norms but rather a space suspended from masculine expectations stemming from the professionalization of men’s roles as husbands, f­ athers, and workers. Despite the vari­ous social and economic changes in twenty-­first-­century Japan, commercial leisure spaces remain intertwined with a range of social institutions and relationships. As such, close ethnographic scrutiny of the vari­ous effects and

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affects of participating in ­these spaces for both hostesses and customers reveals their continued importance and even intensified meaning in working men’s (as well as w ­ omen’s) lives and in broader Japa­nese society ­under global capitalism. More importantly, like other leisure spaces in Japan, as a social space situated within private social relationships and broader economic relations, after-­work leisure spaces act as a buffer between dominant ideologies and remain resilient social institutions. Moreover, what underlies the continued success of both the business of leisure and the leisure of business is the mutual understanding of managed intimacies that is sustained by long-­term trust relationships and which enables t­ hese spaces to thrive even ­after the postbubble recession.

4 WORKING HARD AT HAVING FUN THROUGH HOBBIES AND COMMUNITY

While it is well known that Japa­nese employees work long hours during the week, how do ­these workers spend the precious time they have away from work on weekends? This chapter w ­ ill shift the focus from after-­work hours to off-­work hours. By following working men’s lives beyond the workplace, I was able to participate in vari­ous weekend actives, including weekly volunteer cleaning in Tokyo Bay and marathon club activities. While the postbubble economic recession has affected the high-­cost leisure industry and recent structural reforms have further undermined corporate leisure expenses, such as on h ­ otels and tours, new kinds of leisure—­“daily leisure” (nichijōgata rejaa), which does not involve high costs and can be easily engaged in (see also JPC 2009)—­have emerged and gained prominence. Informal club activities and lessons have always been popu­lar among youth and homemakers (Imamura 1987), but ­these activities have also prompted a host of new practices among Japa­nese men. In this chapter I introduce the vibrant space of a marathon club, the Bayside Half Marathon Club, whose active membership consisted of around fifty to sixty ­people who met regularly on weekends as well as ­after work. As the vicissitudes of the club’s management, membership, and activities show, participation in the club was full of tensions, politics, and enjoyment. Intriguingly, the kinds of issues that arose in the club in terms of Japanese-­style highly managed leadership and provision for members versus laissez-­faire-­style self-­directed leadership also resonated with the kinds of tensions echoing in corporate hallways across Japan.

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Bayside Half Marathon Club Club Motto 1. Completing the ­whole distance [kansō] is a gold medal. 2. The spirit [kokoro] of trying to complete the ­whole distance is a gold medal. 3. The ­will [iyoku] to complete the ­whole distance is a gold medal. 4. The spirit [kokoro] of celebrating the completion together is a gold medal. 5. The spirit [kokoro] of expressing gratitude for the supporters on the road is a gold medal. The Bayside Half Marathon Club (hereafter, Bayside Half) was an in­de­pen­ dent group officially founded in 1999 and based in a bayside suburb on the eastern edge of Tokyo, which I call Bayside City. It was the brainchild of a man who wanted to create a group for enjoying leisure r­ unning together. The club president—­a man in his sixties named Kagawa Takeshi, called Kagawa-­leader by the members—­promoted the club ­under the motto “Completing the ­whole distance is a gold medal!” (“Kansō koso ga kin medaru!”). Thus, the main objective was to complete a half marathon. While many members had experience in ­running, Bayside Half did not have designated coaches, which was a major concern to Kagawa-­leader, who feared that someone might get injured r­ unning without proper training. Still, for members, the club’s motto was more power­ful than ­actual ­running technique: the motto and the values embedded within w ­ ere what brought ­people to this club. As an employee of a major IT com­pany, Kagawa-­leader used to run on his own. However, he once got very sick ­running a marathon alone. Without anyone coming to his aid, he barely made it across the finish line. Furthermore, he watched the last runner in the race reach the finish line without anyone cheering for him. He felt “­there was something fundamentally wrong and sad about this scene.” As he reflected, he came up with the idea that he would form a group where p ­ eople could enjoy ­running at their own pace and cheer and help each other ­until the last member crossed the finish line. In other words, making it to the finish line or ­running the full distance no ­matter how slow you are was the goal for this club. With this original goal, Kagawa-­leader, together with a female acquaintance, Masuda-­san, launched the club in 1999. At the beginning, the club consisted of only several members, and Kagawa-­ leader was a passionate and earnest leader from the start. According to the early members, many of them w ­ ere drawn to the Bayside Half’s par­tic­u­lar philosophy—­ “Regardless of the speed of ­running, we deepen our companionship and value teamwork by participating in marathons all over Japan.” Soon information about

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the club spread by word of mouth, and eventually it became a medium-­sized institution with a management committee that consisted of the president, the vice president, the trea­surer, and the auditor. T ­ here ­were occasionally scheduled meetings for the management committee, and the vice president also assigned the supporting committee. All the members ­were responsible for participating in and organ­izing events and marathon races, and they w ­ ere expected to divide the duties and to participate and cooperate well. Bayside Half, a noncorporate r­ unning club, had its own flags, tents, and uniforms and informal training gear as well. Along with the slogan “Completing the ­whole distance is a gold medal,” members often told me that this group was one that runs “cozily, happily, and ­comfortably.” As this club was fundamentally an informal leisure club where p ­ eople joined volitionally, the club members became increasingly relaxed and loose, which created some tension as to how much the club had to be strictly managed. In 2007, ­there was already a significant degree of tension among the members, particularly the older male members and Kagawa-­leader regarding members’ seriousness and commitment to the club. As a result, the club bylaws w ­ ere eventually amended by Kagawa-­leader to explic­itly state the qualification of runners “who have the desire to practice ­running continuously, not ­those whose chief desire is joining social activities.” Accordingly, the major source of tension was not created along age or gender lines, but rather it depended on w ­ hether the degree of motivation was primarily ­running socially or socially ­running, and it was ­toward ­these socially motivated runners that Kagawa-­leader’s bylaws ­were particularly directed. Generally, female members ­were excused from heavy club responsibilities and duties. Nonetheless, Masuda-­san and Tsuda-­san, both married and full-­time female workers, w ­ ere active in their roles within the supporting committee during 2007. Another young, single working ­woman in her late twenties, Arai-­san, was the trea­surer. Many management members ­were se­nior married men in their fifties and sixties or w ­ omen who w ­ ere ­either single or married but with grown-up ­children. As the club approached its second de­cade, Kagawa-­leader was trying to encourage younger club members to join the management committee.

Diversity in Age, Residence, and Occupations The desire to participate in this kind of club drew individuals with a range of personal stories. The members ­were diverse in their ages (from nineteen years old to seventy-­two years old), occupations (homemaker, a teacher, pet groomer, sushi chef, self-­defense force worker, employees, and CEOs), and residences (including the Bayside area, Yokohama, Tokyo’s upscale Yamanote neighborhood, and the old neighborhood of Shitamachi, as well as the United States). The club was f­amily

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FIGURE 4.1.  Gymnasium and park where Bayside Half held its weekly training. Source: Photo­graph by author.

friendly, and several members brought ­family including small ­children to weekly training, and races. All of the members shared one ­thing in common, however: a desire to participate and find meaning in this off-­work space of communal r­ unning. While many members w ­ ere Bayside City residents, some members w ­ ere former residents who had since moved to other places but retained their marathon club connection. The Fujitas, for instance, a young ­couple who had recently married, ­really liked Bayside City and thus commuted from the Yokohama area ­every week. They ­were active members in the club and often planned marathon practices in the Tokyo and Kanagawa areas. Masuda-­san, one of the active supporting committee members, used to live in Bayside City but had moved to central Tokyo a few years prior and still pursued her committee work in addition to training. Tsuda-­san, the other ­woman who was active in the supporting committee, ran a Japa­nese noodle shop in western Tokyo. She used to live in Bayside City but now lived above her shop. Nakayama-­san, a seventy-­two-­year-­old man who was still working as a ­music producer, also used to live in Bayside City to be close to his disabled son’s doctor but recently moved back to an upscale district in western Tokyo where he was originally from. Despite his age, he was very athletic and sometimes would even run back to Ginza from Bayside City. Other members had built Bayside Half into their other­wise chaotic and mobile lives. The club trea­surer, Arai-­san, had recently moved to the Chiba area as

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she wanted to fi­nally live away from her parents. She was a native of Bayside City but now used the weekend to visit her ­family while joining in the training. Tatsumi-­ san, a wealthy business owner who ran a business between the United States and Japan, had a ­house in Los Angeles and a condo in Bayside City, and his wife lived in the high-­end Roppongi Hills. Tatsumi-­san did not like the Roppongi home, a sterile modern condo, so he purposely stayed in Bayside City. As a man in his early fifties, dressing exclusively in designer brands and always carry­ing a Louis Vuitton bag, Tatsumi-­san added color to the club. Iida-­san was another member whose international affiliation did not undermine his local embeddedness. He was an expatriate who had relocated to Los Angeles, although his (adult) c­ hildren ­were still in Japan. He had a home in Bayside City, and whenever he came to visit Japan, he always made sure to join Bayside Half and their events. His ­daughter and her husband also became members. Iida-­ san told me that his primary motivation was health as he had gained so much weight since he had left Japan. Bayside Half has a ­sister club in California where Iida-­san first heard about the group, and in 2006 some of the club members flew to the United States to meet the local California members and to run together on the West Coast. Other members joined the club as part of a broader range of personal hobbies of self-­development, as well as for health reasons. Tanaka-­san was a business bachelor (someone who lived apart from his ­family due to a job assignment in a dif­ fer­ent area) who had just turned sixty (see chapter 7). He had resided in Bayside City for three years ­after living in several places across Japan. As a business bachelor, he spent his ­free time ­running, biking, and hiking in the mountains. ­There ­were also several young male members in their late teens and twenties who told me that they joined to enrich their private life. When I asked members about their reasons for joining, they usually told me that they “liked the club for its motto of valuing companionship and leisure ­running.” Several of them joined with f­amily—­father and d ­ aughter, ­father and son, and husband and wife. Most of the older men and ­women, and some younger single men and ­women, joined individually. But they all had some sort of support from f­ amily members, especially given the ­great amount of time they spent participating in club activities. Bayside Half was also a space where families could grow closer together, as well as where some new families could begin. Some of the married men had found their wives at the club’s events. Ichikawa-­san, a young member who had recently become a salaryman, told me that one of his secret reasons for joining was to find a girlfriend, since he had few opportunities to meet w ­ omen. In other cases, some older members often talked about the young single members and tried to play matchmaker to find a suitable mate for them. While many older

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members joined alone or with spouses, recently several young ­family members started bringing their wives and c­ hildren, and joining as c­ ouples became a new popu­lar phenomenon. In 2007, the wives of Sakamoto-­san, Nakano-­san, and Terada-­san, all ­women in their early thirties who used to come to the club events only to cheer on their husbands, officially joined. Reasons for their participation ­were diverse. For Sakamoto-­san, she always wanted to “move her body,” and she was envious as her husband was always exercising with the club. For Nakano-­san, she realized how central Bayside Half had become to her husband, so she wanted to be a part of what her husband spent so much of his time on. For Terada-­san, she felt that she was increasingly out of shape, and her husband kept pressuring her, warning, “In the f­uture you w ­ ill be in big trou­ ble!” For her, joining the club was primarily a way to become healthy while motivating herself to work out with o ­ thers.

Unofficial Rules of Companionship One of the unofficial rules of this club, which I gradually discovered over the course of my fieldwork, was that “every­body, especially men, use nicknames in the club.” Another more intriguing rule was “we do not talk about the specifics of one’s work.” Every­one, except for Kagawa-­leader and Iida-­san, had nicknames and used them in the club, and some members told me that they did not know each other’s real names. Moreover, while many female members knew each other’s jobs, male members ­were reluctant to talk about their work in the club. Indeed, ­after spending a year with them, I hardly knew most men’s occupations and com­pany names, ­unless I specifically asked them privately. In this way, despite the fact that Bayside Half was managed like a corporate institution, it was deliberately acorporate in this regard. This was not always a steadfast rule, however, particularly if someone was the head of a com­pany or a chef, in which case every­ body was aware and would try to use their business. Another exception was Terada-­san, who was very proud of his com­pany and passion for U.S. culture and would tell every­body that he worked for KFC. Interestingly, this vagueness about their occupations seemed to foster their camaraderie even more, as interacting on a weekly basis as fellow runners—­what they ­were ­doing together now rather than sharing where they came from and what they did or what they do—­was what enabled them to reconstruct themselves without any baggage.

Weekly Training in the Tokyo Bay Athletic Park ­ very Saturday at eight ­o’clock in the morning, we met at the large city athletic E park in Bayside City. Members gathered around seven forty, put their bags on the

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FIGURE 4.2.  Bayside Half members gather for a weekend barbecue. Source: Photo­graph by author.

public benches ­under the roof of the park building, and exchanged greetings and updates. Shortly ­after gathering, a person in charge of the weekly training schedule would call every­body down to the lawn where we would do warm-up exercises. The first exercise was a regular, easy warm-up jog, and every­one would follow the instructions in an orderly manner. Then we would follow up with stretching and muscle-­enhancement training, which consisted of many micro muscle movements including push-­ups, sit-­ups, stretches, quick steps, and so on. This second warm-up was stricter, and o ­ rders w ­ ere given in a military fashion by Kagawa-­ leader calling, “Sit-­ups, twenty times!” While it was not easy, every­body would rigidly follow the instructions, and I often found myself as one of the few who ­were not able to complete them. ­After the warm-­ups, the vice president would call us to attention for the morning call (chōrei) (which is also common in companies). As we made a small circle, a few members of the group would take turns reporting club news and warnings, such as the financial report, weather changes, and dehydration prob­lems. Then, if t­ here ­were any new members, Kagawa-­leader would have them give a self-­ introduction. A ­ fter the morning call, we ­were released to get ourselves ready for the slow run, one of the most impor­tant and favorite activities for members, who could talk with each other while they had a light one-­kilometer jog.

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­After the slow run, we would split into three groups based on pace, according to club rec­ords, and designate one person in each group as a pace runner. The groups ranged from fast to slow, where the first group consisted of young men who ran seriously and strove for new personal rec­ords, and the third group was the slowest group, where members enjoyed talking and laughing during the run. This last group was made up of mainly young and old ­women and some se­nior men who preferred to run slowly and leisurely. ­After the first group finished, they usually waited at the finish line to cheer the last group, or some ambitious individuals would even rejoin the last group. ­After the ­running training, we would cool down with light exercises, such as stretching. Fi­nally Kagawa-­leader would gather us again for the closing meeting. ­Here he would review what we did that day and ask about any news. Then we would have an official closing address, and we would be dismissed.

­After Official Training Our official training usually ended around eleven ­o’clock. Every­body would first go back to the benches where we had left our belongings. Then we would informally converse with each other while we changed. During this period, t­ here ­were a lot of conversations among members, as well as food and souvenir exchanges. During the hot summer, for example, some female members brought peeled grapefruits or fresh watermelons, and every­body would dive into them gratefully ­after the exhausting training. Some ­couples brought souvenirs from personal and business trips. Sometimes former members would bring extra drinks for us. One young man, Kudō-­san, was in the Japa­nese Self-­Defense Force (JSDF) and was popu­lar due to the rarity of his occupation, and he proudly distributed special JSDF canned food, which most of us had never seen. ­After the official practice and after-­workout chatting and snacking, the club would generally break into smaller groups for more individualized activities. For example, half of the members would leave for a long run—­a six-­to ten-­kilometer run alongside Tokyo Bay. Another activity for some of the female members was to swim in the pool inside the park’s gymnasium or play tennis on the courts t­ here. I had no idea how p ­ eople could keep exercising that long, but many ­women in their forties, fifties, and sixties joined them. As I spent more time with the club, I learned that many informal groups within Bayside Half would meet up l­ater based on common interests or desires, and this type of group socializing was often privately or­ga­nized. Furthermore, as with the hashigo pro­cess of corporate entertainment, t­hese get-­togethers ­after the official activities w ­ ere also impor­tant for solidifying members informally, giving them a chance to see dif­fer­ent sides of each other and build camaraderie in a similar way as com­pany events, though t­hese par­tic­u­lar bonds may not be ori-

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ented ­toward corporate relations. Indeed, some members who overslept for the morning training would just come to see each other ­after the training to socialize with members or to check out the coming events for that week.

Official Marathon Events: Eating, Bathing, and R ­ unning Bayside Half has many officially scheduled marathons throughout the year in addition to other events, such as official r­ unning lectures and training seminars, and such informal practices as day runs or spontaneous runs, when one member suddenly e-­mails other members to invite them to go for a run in the m ­ iddle of the day. Such spontaneous meetings w ­ ere popu­lar among older men and often scheduled via social networking exchanges. Every year, t­here are roughly sixteen marathon races and r­ unning events officially scheduled for Bayside Half members (see t­able 4.1). Japa­nese marathons are festive affairs complete with food, drink, cheering, and costumes—in many ways reminiscent of neighborhood festivals (matsuri). Many of the marathons in Japan have event-­related or regional themes. Additionally, participation usually comes with two or three other activities—­going to a public bath and dining and drinking together. For example, many members met around the Imperial Palace

­TABLE 4.1.  Bayside Half Events in 2009 DATE

EVENT

1/1/2009

The First Sunrise Run

1/18/2009

Chiba Marine Marathon

2/1/2009

Tokyo Bay Marathon

3/8/2009

Habu Fresh Marathon

3/22/2009

Tokyo Marathon

3/29/2009

Sakura Rising Sun Healthy Marathon

4/4/2009

Cherry Blossom Run

4/5/2009

Yoshikawa Catfish Home Marathon

5/10/2009

Ekiden Carnival Tokyo

6/28/2009

Tomisato Watermelon Road Race

7/11–12/2009

Summer Camp and Obuse Marathon

8/22/2009

­Running Training

10/4/2009

Shiroi Pear Marathon

10/25/2009

Teganuma Eco Marathon

11/29/2009

Kōto Seaside Marathon

12/6/2009

Kazo Flying Carp Marathon

Source: Compiled by author.

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in central Tokyo on Thursday eve­nings ­after work to run together, followed by a trip to a nearby bath­house and a Tokyo beer garden l­ater. Many of Bayside Half ’s official events came with this kind of bathing and dining package; the members w ­ ere involved in planning and selecting each location, and they often had a special map of bath­houses across Japan. Another impor­tant theme of Bayside Half was their cheering, known as ōen—­ supporting the runners and appreciating each other’s cheering in return. While cheering has “ ‘civilized’ sports by employing [the] ethos of calming desire” (Sugimoto 2007, 104), it also makes any sporting event deliberately social and egalitarian by transforming competitions into inclusive and collective participation. Marathon races are very popu­lar in Japan, and many ­people come to cheer the runners on from the side of the road, often offering special foods and drinks as runners pass. For instance, during the Obuse Marathon, besides the official foods the city provided, ­there ­were local foods from individual ­house­holds who had set them outside on ­tables along the road, including local plums, cucumbers, and regional wine. As supporters cheered for our members and nonmembers in other marathons, Bayside Half members provided choco­lates, candies, sweet potatoes, and small pieces of bread to runners in bite-­size pieces. For the safety of the runners, Bayside Half assigned several members to be pace runners in major marathons, having them dress up in costumes to run. ­These ­were usually experienced runners who ran slowly with the costumes. Kagawa-­ leader was particularly fond of the practice of dressing up, as he told me that ­these costumed runners may entertain and inspire the p ­ eople cheering on the side of the road. In this way cheering and costumed runners further add to the festival-­ like atmosphere of marathons. As a rule, Bayside Half members ­were expected to participate in ­these scheduled marathons throughout Japan. Sometimes when t­ here ­were not many members signed up for an event, Kagawa-­leader and o ­ thers would pressure p ­ eople to join. They usually chartered a bus to go to the marathon sites, and while most of the marathons ­were day-­trips, they usually required a considerable drive, and members would reserve a ­hotel to stay overnight. Lastly, any event and each practice could not officially end without a report from the leader or the person in charge of the week’s training. T ­ hese reports came with a brief reflection (hansei) and some sort of ­future vision, which was often distributed to all the members via group e-­mail. And in return, if the event was successful, many other e-­mails would follow, thanking the or­ga­nizer for the successful trip and events. From t­ hese activities and frequent correspondence, Bayside Half gave the impression that they communicated very well.

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Social Events beyond the Finish Line: Selective Camaraderie Beyond such officially scheduled marathons and the weekly Saturday training, ­there ­were many informal activities. For example, t­ here ­were voluntary Sunday runs, four-­hour long runs, local and seasonal events (including fireworks festivals, cherry blossom lunches, and year-­end parties), barbecue parties, and farewell gatherings, and each event came with subsequent parties (uchiage)—­some of which continued through a­ fter parties (niji-­kai) and after-­after parties (sanji-­ kai), resembling the hashigo pro­cess of corporate social drinking. For members, all of the events ­were functionally and symbolically categorized, and their exclusivity was maintained among subgroups. On any given day, t­ here ­were several e-­mails circulating throughout the group and within subgroups regarding dif­fer­ent events. In other words, one should not mix t­ hese events but categorize and manage them in a functionally and socially appropriate manner—­ official and unofficial, and voluntary and exclusive—as the differences in the nature of t­ hese events had symbolic significance to many participants, indexing their dedication and belonging to the vari­ous layers and circles of intraclub social dynamics. This management was also impor­tant to prevent the feeling of unity in the ­whole group from being undermined by the vari­ous kinds of subgroup sociality. While many events w ­ ere voluntary, almost all of the events w ­ ere arranged exclusively in private communications, as members felt the pressure of inviting all or none if o ­ thers knew about the events. As much as Bayside Half valued the companionship of all members, many members told me that due to the size of the club and individual tastes, this exclusiveness of postmarathon social relationships was indispensable. For outsiders and new members this was extremely complicated, but insiders seemed to ­handle this more easily. Intraclub selectivity began in the pro­cess of negotiating who qualified as “inside members.” Arai-­san, a long-­term member, confessed to me that she did not like the exclusive nature of this kind of se­lection as she would feel excluded if she herself ­were not invited. She told me that in the past, the club was small, and all the events ­were inclusive. But as the club got bigger and Kagawa-­leader did not like to make the r­ unning club into a party club, social events came to be more exclusive. As I was new to the club, I was often invited to such subgroup activities as an afterthought, ­after the formal invitations ­were sent out. When an or­ga­nizer came to me, he or she often expressed the invitation in an apol­o­getic manner, saying, “Well, this is actually confidential, as we cannot invite every­one, but I am planning to do X.” In some instances my blindness to the shadow play of exclusive gatherings

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got me in trou­ble; during one of our weekly training sessions, I thanked one member for his hospitality in hosting a weekend dinner at his ­house. He blushed and cautioned me not to mention it since some members ­were not invited. Lastly, unlike well-­managed corporate events, ­these informally and volitionally or­ga­nized events I participated in ­were not always successful, and they sometimes resulted in tensions and debates about what went wrong. At the same time, ­there are continuities fueled by alcohol and hashigo, which can serve as trust-­ building lubrication for h ­ uman relationships, but which also can act as oil over ­water among some individuals (see chapter 3). Bayside Half ’s events w ­ ere no dif­ fer­ent, where alcohol and consecutive meetings w ­ ere intended to bring out dif­ fer­ent sides of members in an atmosphere of recreational companionship. However, unlike corporate social gatherings or hostess clubs where intimacy is facilitated but well managed, pure recreational activities such as Bayside Half can frequently get out of control or pour fuel on the fire of simmering tensions among members. Yet, despite ­these tensions and conflicts, ­people nonetheless enjoy the companionship in this club, and they come back to or­ga­nize and participate in the events over and over throughout the year.

Gendered Camaraderie Female Members According to female members, in the past, ­women ­were charged less than men to participate in the club’s social activities as they do not eat and drink as much as men do. Recently, however, the idea of gender equality took root in the club, and now w ­ omen w ­ ere charged as much as men. Sometimes young female members complained about how much they had to pay given the l­ imited amount they ate and drank. Nonetheless, no w ­ omen tried to make their own social gatherings, except for one female member, Ishida-­san. Ishida-­san was a single ­woman in her fifties. She was a professional pet groomer in Bayside City. She was very athletic and spirited, and she was also a gourmet—­ she loved to dine at expensive places. She was youthful in her be­hav­ior, and she loved to follow what was popu­lar and trendy. Her voice was also very distinctively energetic, high-­ pitched, and with a volume that carried far. Her gregariousness—­and some would say inattentiveness to social decorum—­often caught Kagawa-­leader’s attention. As the founder and leader, Kagawa-­leader was worried that, without his management, Bayside Half could turn into a party club. Starting from when he formulated his original philosophy and club motto, he strove to make the group a semiserious organ­ization that cared about

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r­ unning and the ethics of ­running, as well as companionship. As the club got bigger and grew to include some who enjoyed drinking and dining more than ­running, he would occasionally give “warnings” individually. Like club fees, targets of his warnings ­were also indiscriminate of gender and age. I heard that some older men ­were also warned by him with remarks like, “This party [konshin-­kai] was ­great, although we ­later received complaints from outsiders that we ­were too loud. Please refrain from making loud noise.” It goes without saying, then, that Kagawa-­leader was also wary of any individuals who ­were potentially “dangerous”—­that is, “overly social.” Unsurprisingly, Kagawa-­leader did not seem to have a high opinion of Ishida-­ san. However, Ishida-­san was always lively and did not r­ eally care about Kagawa-­ leader’s reception of her. Even in the m ­ iddle of training, she was in her own world. As many ­people pointed out, she did not read what was g­ oing on around her very well. Occasionally Ishida-­san received e-­mails from Kagawa-­leader warning her, “Please keep your invitations and social activity modest.” More than Ishida-­san herself, other members worried about the tension between Kagawa-­leader and Ishida-­san. While the club is well run and members genuinely enjoyed being a part of it, the closeness of members could also trigger some eruptions. Masuda-­san was a ­woman in her sixties who generally got along with Ishida-­san. While they w ­ ere both active members who worked out together inside and outside the club, they also developed some interpersonal tensions that occasionally came out, especially ­after Masuda-­san had a bit to drink, although Ishida-­san was never mean to Masuda-­san. At one social event, before I arrived at the restaurant, I got a message from Arai-­san imploring, “Please come soon. Masuda-­san is getting drunk—­she is becoming mean!” When I arrived, Masuda-­san was already pretty drunk. As usual, in such a state, she would try to find a ­woman around her age or a bit younger to criticize. She looked at Ishida-­san and said loudly, “Ishida-­san, what ­were you ­doing? You do not watch and listen to the coach [sensei] at all.” While Ishida-­san did not respond, Masuda-­san continued criticizing her in front of the o ­ thers. “­Really, you are just only looking at yourself. So selfish! I do look at both sensei and myself. And I can do it just fine.” In t­ hese kinds of situations, someone (usually male members) jumped in and tried to create a diversionary conversation. This night, though, such diversions did not stop Masuda-­san, and the female members grew increasingly concerned. However, a­ fter a moment, Ishida-­san playfully said back to her, “Well, I tried to be mindful as you told me, but then I failed even more,” and successfully shut Masuda-­san up. While such playful tensions w ­ ere often intragender, sometimes alcohol could also fuel intergender tensions. Mutō-­san, a w ­ oman from Osaka, and her husband

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­ ere colorful characters and active members of the club. At karaoke, Mutō-­san w would consistently dominate the microphone. She would jump into anyone’s songs and sing with or over them. “That is just her character,” other members told me. Unlike Mutō-­san, her husband was always nice to o ­ thers. Still, the c­ ouple’s relationship was also unique. When they w ­ ere sober, they got along. When they drank, Mutō-­san loved to flirt with other young male members, and her husband was left alone. He would then come over to the section where many young ­women ­were gathered. Looking drunk and vulnerable, he could not r­ eally communicate with ­others in such situations, but then he would quietly ask the same question ­every time, something like, “Nana-­chan, are you also g­ oing to change? Please, please do not turn into someone like my wife, even ­after you marry.” In Bayside Half, as elsewhere, ­these kinds of scenes occur only with the par­tic­ u­lar combination of alcohol and close sociality. ­Going through dif­fer­ent leisure spaces, I eventually came to see ­there is not much difference between the interactions in marathon club gatherings and hostess clubs, pointing to more pervasive patterns of h ­ uman relations and sociality that form the backdrop of much of an individual’s life in any institution, corporate or leisure, familial or formal.

Male Members Generally, Bayside Half men got along very well. Older men often went out for chiropractic treatments or massages, to the gym for a workout, or to a bath­house ­after Saturday training. The most obvious tensions among men in the club w ­ ere when young, competitive members got drunk or between Kagawa-­leader and par­ tic­ul­ ar male members regarding his management. Thus, despite the general conviviality, incidents like the following story did occur, though they ­were still rare. One day a­ fter the Saturday training, Nakao-­san, a man in his early thirties, invited me to a party at his h ­ ouse with several other members. At the party, Furuta-­ san and Sakamoto-­san, two of the fastest runners in the club in their early thirties and who w ­ ere also friends, ended up drinking quite a lot early on. At first they ­were jokingly hugging and caressing each other’s shoulders and arms playfully, but all of the sudden they became a bit violent, cursing and getting serious. Soon all of us realized that they w ­ ere in the m ­ iddle of a physical fight. T ­ here was a fine line between jocular physical intimacy and a violent fight between the two of them, and before any of us knew it, they had crossed that line, laying into each other with curses and blows. We ­were all surprised at this side of them, and ­after Terada-­san and Nakao-­san jumped in, the fight fi­nally ­stopped. Furuta-­san and Sakamoto-­san w ­ ere both very athletic and competitive over their rec­ords in the club. They ­were the first-­and second-­fastest young runners

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in the club, yet they w ­ ere also very dif­fer­ent. Sakamoto-­san was a high school gradu­ate and used to be a “bad boy” (yankii), and Furuta-­san was a college gradu­ ate and was always seen as a serious man. Also, Sakamoto-­san was already the ­father of two c­ hildren; Furuta-­san had recently married Naomi-­san, whom he met in the club. While both ­were good athletes, Furuta-­san won many marathons and was selected as the city runner to go to Orlando, Florida. Po­liti­cally, Furuta-­ san was also very close to Kagawa-­leader, and he had already taken on a lot of responsibility in the club, while Sakamoto-­san was not close to Kagawa-­leader and instead took on a lot of responsibilities for the informal social nights. Regardless, as much as Furuta-­san was so serious and restrained, when he got drunk, he acted completely the opposite—­loose and aggressive—to every­one. In fact, he gave very conflicting images when he was sober and when he was drunk. The incident that night was another example of how drastically Furuta-­san’s be­ hav­ior could change. ­After the altercation, Furuta-­san’s wife took him home, and the party finished up quickly. The remaining members then got together at a f­ amily restaurant for a debriefing session to reflect on the fight, and many commented about Furuta-­ san’s notorious drinking be­hav­ior. Despite how much Furuta-­san’s be­hav­ior would change, members rarely thought of it as contradictory or unusual. Most of the members seriously thought that it was alcohol that made Furuta-­san lose control and act that way. In the debriefing session, when Masuda-­san asked what I felt, I suggested that Furuta-­san was quite aware of what he was d ­ oing and that he was just releasing what he thinks he is inhibiting normally. My interpretation seemed quite odd to them. It was clear that even Terada-­ san, who drank a lot and did not become like Furuta-­san, thought that it was alcohol that made men behave that way. Indeed, Furuta-­san’s drunken be­hav­ior seemed to follow par­tic­ul­ar rules: he would never behave violently or intimately ­toward ­women like he did with men; he would never insult his wife or older men and ­women; and whenever he saw his wife, even if he was drunk, he would change his be­hav­ior temporarily and would kneel down to apologize to her. Indeed, Furuta-­san’s drunken be­hav­ior became more and more of an issue in the club. Often older men expressed their worries about him, but no one ­really made him realize that he could have some control over what he did. Interestingly, ­later I became the person Furuta-­san reached out to. Right before he left for Orlando, Furuta-­san himself told me that he worried about his trip to the United States as he was afraid that he might be seen as “strange” when he got drunk. I responded, “Perhaps your radical behavioral change may confuse Americans as they do not publicly show their drunkenness. Plus they are likely to say t­ hings regardless of alcohol.” Though my words w ­ ere rather casual and overly generalized, I ­later found out that they had struck a deep chord in his mind.

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While every­body remained worried about Furuta-­san ­going to the United States, he and his wife ­were taken by the city mayor to Orlando, where they spent two weeks with a host f­ amily. ­After returning to Japan, Furuta-­san came back to the club looking refreshed and thanked each member again and again. L ­ ater, on our way back from a social gathering, Furuta-­san asked me if he could talk to me privately. ­After parting from the rest of the group, we went to a bar and had a few drinks. I noticed that he was not drunk at all, or at least he did not behave like his usual drunken self. Then he told me something in­ter­est­ing: It is not that the way I am when I am drunk has changed, no, but recently, when I was in the U.S. and had drinks with Americans, I realized that even when I am not drunk, I can be more natu­ral [shizen], who I am. Then, when I was drinking in the U.S., I never got drunk! So I learned that in order to fix myself when I was drunk, I need to pay attention to myself when I am not drunk, such as thinking about how much stress or constraints I have. I think I realized that when I was in the U.S. Since this incident, t­ here ­were no rumors or discussions about Furuta-­san’s drinking be­hav­ior, which also eased his wife Naomi-­san’s worries.

The Politics of Sociality in Japa­n ese Leisure Spaces Internal Politics The politics of sociality took many dif­fer­ent forms. Unofficial tensions between members like Furuta-­san and Sakamoto-­san w ­ ere only some of the cross-­cutting frictions that occasionally erupted within the club. On other occasions the fault lines grew between the leadership and the regular members, as in one incident when well-­known coaches came to the club. Bayside Half held biannual official ­running workshops where Kagawa-­leader invited a famous trainer or coach, and members learned the proper form and way of ­running. During t­ hese official lectures, Kagawa-­leader was always excited and carried a video camera with him. During one such lecture, more than thirty-­five ­people joined. The lecture lasted about one and a half hours, followed by the ­actual practice based on the lecture. Kagawa-­leader was visibly thrilled to have two coaches Satomi-­coach (male) and Koike-­coach (female), from the national NPO Nippon Runners at Bayside Half. ­After the lecture, we w ­ ere asked to go outside to do the strength-­enhancement exercises that we had learned about in the lecture, while Kagawa-­leader would run

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the form-­checking video camera. Some of the strength-­enhancement exercises consisted of high-­intensity interval training on a small hill. According to Satomi-­ coach, it was better to have fast, short runs on the hill to strengthen your ankles and knees for short-­track racing, which was impor­tant for long-­distance ­running as well. The coaches divided us into two teams and had us compete several times. By the time this strength-­enhancement exercise was over, every­body was out of breath and exhausted. ­After the training, all of the members w ­ ere dismissed to go home to take a shower. Then we ­were told to meet up again at a restaurant for a social gathering with the coaches. At the first meeting (ichiji-­kai), we gathered at an izakaya in a large shopping mall. By the time I showed up, every­one was talking and laughing and drinking, and eventually Satomi-­coach got tipsy. The members ­were full of energy and lively conversation ­after the r­ unning lecture and training. At the end of the dining party, Terada-­san made a speech and closed the first party with the official ritual clapping, sanbon-­jime. ­After the first party, every­body left the restaurant in a good mood. Soon ­after we departed, I received a message about the a­ fter party. It was to be held in a coffee lounge in the Sheraton ­Hotel. When I arrived, though, ­there ­were only Satomi-­ coach, Koike-­coach, Kazama-­san, Masuda-­san, and Arai-­san while Kagawa-­leader was arranging the karaoke room for ­after the coffee break. Then Furuta-­san arrived. When I asked him where every­body went, Furuta-­san pulled me into the seat and reminded me of our role as hosts, saying, “Why ­don’t you sit with them first? Our job is to entertain the coaches.” Kagawa-­leader soon joined us, and a­ fter one drink, Kagawa-­leader suggested that we go to a karaoke room as it was now ready. Since I knew I was not a board member, I was g­ oing to pay for my drink and leave, but Kagawa-­leader insisted that I come to karaoke. Kagawa-­leader paid for every­thing out of his own pocket and then invited us to go for karaoke. At the karaoke room, Kagawa-­leader initiated singing a few songs to get ­people involved. Although some of us had strange feelings about what had just happened to the rest of the members, soon every­one seemed to be enjoying themselves, including the coaches. In t­ hese kinds of situations, karaoke truly is the ­great leveler. Whoever you are—­teacher, leader, student, or other­wise—­you can be a “member” by singing and chanting. Every­one was having fun and passing the microphone from person to person. The two coaches w ­ ere completely relaxed and having fun, and Kagawa-­leader seemed so happy to entertain them. Then by the time we realized how late it was, it was almost time for the last train. As we quickly rushed to the station, we made a small official closing and sent the coaches off. Both Satomi-­coach and Koike-­coach ­were completely drunk, and t­ hese two experienced runners stumbled happily into the station. Afterward, pleased with how

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the night went, Kagawa-­leader thanked us many times for our help and left. As soon as he left, we went to the next step of our own hashigo, the fourth meeting. It was around midnight when we made it to the ­family restaurant below the station. Furuta-­san’s face looked calmer and relaxed. Without Kagawa-­leader, we reflected and discussed why the separation of the group had occurred. It turned out that Furuta-­san had been extremely pressured by Kagawa-­leader, as well as the rest of the members, while hosting the two guest coaches, so fi­nally this was the moment for Furuta-­san to relax. According to Furuta-­san, Kagawa-­leader had a strong ego, and he was picky in terms of who he thought should represent the club. In presenting ourselves to the two coaches, Kagawa-­leader wanted to have “good decent ­people” to represent the club for a smaller and quieter after-­party gathering, so he wanted to have only the board members pre­sent. Furuta-­san explained that Kagawa-­leader saw it as problematic that some male members might get too drunk and start saying something rude. Conflicted, Furuta-­san did not know how to convey this to the rest of the group. He was caught between the boss’s intention and the rest of the members’ desire to join. Furuta-­san apologized for making us all confused and said it was his fault not to openly convey this. Unlike the usual ­after parties where every­body was happily drunk and grew quiet, simply feeling relaxed, this meeting ended up as a formal reflection meeting. Nonetheless, it gave us a unifying sense of closure in the end. Furuta-­san kept saying “how much he loved us” and repeated that “love is most impor­tant for him.” It was around two o ­ ’clock in the morning when we left the restaurant for home. On my way home, I found a message from one of the older male members, which had been sent around eleven ­o’clock that eve­ning; he related that other members w ­ ere angry at being excluded. He said, “Where are you? We are having a ­great ­after party without ‘him.’ ” Over the next ­couple of days, I found that no one talked about the incident in public. Basically, we apologized for the confusion, but we never explained to the rest of the members what happened that day. When I talked to Arai-­san, she just said, “I want to talk about it, but I cannot since we do not usually talk about that.” Fundamentally, the r­ unning lecture and training w ­ ere a special event where we had guest coaches come to teach us about r­ unning. However, what we learned through the lecture event went beyond ­running and continued to have meaning long ­after for the members.

Ideological Clashes While Kagawa-­leader was clearly a strong leader who cared about the members’ safety and commanded the re­spect and obedience of the members, his leadership was not f­ree of tensions. T ­ oward the end of my fieldwork, an ideological clash

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took shape that focused on two opposing perspectives on how to manage club training, which was connected to deeper fissures in attitudes ­toward how a voluntary “leisure club” like Bayside Half should be managed. As his hosting of the two coaches made abundantly clear, Kagawa-­leader greatly admired the NPO Nippon Runners. As far as I could tell, none of the other members ­were ­really big fans of the NPO. ­After one ­running lecture by the NPO in October, Kagawa-­leader implemented the new strength-­enhancement exercise they had presented by cutting out time for relaxed, ­free ­running. Kagawa-­leader believed that the strength-­enhancement exercise was critical ­because it would minimize the chances of injury. Due to the ­limited time available for adding new exercises, he prepared a tripod on the hill area and then called us over while we ­were still in the m ­ iddle of our f­ ree ­running. Although we usually had about thirty minutes to run so that we could go at our own pace, Kagawa-­leader asked us to wrap up ­earlier and to come back ­after fifteen to twenty minutes to do the strength-­ enhancement exercise. This made some of us conscious of how fast we ­were ­running around the long r­ unning course, as sometimes one might find oneself far from the practice hill when Kagawa-­leader called us to gather for the exercise. Over the next month, we practiced this strength-­enhancement exercise, which Kagawa-­leader named somewhat ominously the “endless relay.” As Satomi-­coach had done, Kagawa-­leader divided us into two or three groups and had us run quickly up the hill for a short distance while he timed us. It was a repetition of quick runs in segments of two hundred meters five times, five hundred meters four times, or one hundred meters three times, which was supposed to enhance one’s muscles for long-­distance ­running. It was implemented like a relay by many ­people in one group, and every­body got competitive and did not want their group to finish last, so some ­people started ­running much faster than we expected. On noticing this, Kagawa-­leader and the other board members kept shouting, “This is not a competition!” One day in November, I was feeling sick, so I did not plan to join the ­actual training but instead tried to help their practice. Kagawa-­leader asked me to or­ga­ nize the endless relay. While I was preparing, I noticed Nakayama-­san went for another long run though he was supposed to come back in a few minutes. I then found a few female members had s­ topped ­running much e­ arlier in anticipation of the endless relay. They said they ­were not sure if they could make it back in time, so they gave up ­running another round and waited outside instead. When Kagawa-­leader called every­body to gather, I also noticed that the number of members had slightly decreased, and the older members Yamanaka-­san and Saito-­san ­were not participating but just stood to the side. Although many members ­were still participating, I noticed certain changes in the dynamics of the group. L ­ ater I asked Yamanaka-­san and Saito-­san why they ­didn’t participate, and they replied,

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“This is not ­really for me,” and “It ­will hurt my back.” However, it was clear that ­there ­were other misgivings beginning to emerge among the members. The diverse reactions among members ­were not ­limited to this endless relay but also signaled discontent regarding the club’s management by Kagawa-­leader more generally. For example, during the Kanuma Marathon, Bayside Half members took the bus to the venue. Many of the club members had a lot of fun in the bus, singing karaoke and eating and drinking. As some of the members in the back of the bus became quite loud during the trip, the next day Kagawa-­leader sent a warning e-­mail to every­one, stating, “It went overboard and we should have been a bit careful.” Members interpreted this variously, though. Some told me that indeed Fujita-­san had become ­really loud ­because he was so happy. ­Others explained to me that Yamanaka-­san sang so many songs by himself, so Kagawa-­ leader even grabbed the microphone and started singing. Moreover, for them, Kagawa-­leader sent such a warning e-­mail to warn himself vis-­à-­v is ­others (jibun ni kubi wo utta). For ­these members, Kagawa-­leader’s overearnest be­hav­ior was problematic but also impor­tant to control and maintain the club. For Murata-­san, a single man in his fifties, and Tanaka-­san, the business bachelor of sixty, Kagawa-­leader and Furuta-­san w ­ ere both problematic—­being egocentric and morally corrupt. According to them, Kagawa-­leader let Furuta-­san run once by violating the age requirement by m ­ istake in a marathon (as each age group has their own racing bracket). As the thirties age group was already full, Kagawa-­leader registered Furuta-­san as someone in his forties. Indeed, Furuta-­ san won the marathon by accident. When the reporter came to interview the number-­one runner, Furuta-­san ran away and Kagawa-­leader said, “The runner was not feeling well and already left.” Murata-­san and Tanaka-­san thought the be­hav­ior was morally suspicious and did not r­ eally want to see their leader behaving that way. Since that incident, their perspectives t­ oward Kagawa-­leader changed. For them, Kagawa-­leader had always had p ­ eople working ­under him, so he was “like a typical high-­level bureaucrat, [not a salaryman],” and thus “he cannot understand o ­ thers’ feelings as he himself has never suffered.” When I asked them if anyone ever confronted Kagawa-­leader, they said no, ­because Bayside Half is, fundamentally, “his club.” The tension over Kagawa-­leader’s authority and moral character came to the forefront in one major incident halfway through my fieldwork. It was at the farewell party for the business bachelor Tanaka-­san, who was leaving Tokyo for his home in Kyushu upon retirement, when the issues of Kagawa-­leader came up among the young members. On March 10, around fifteen members gathered at Tanaka-­san’s home for his farewell party. A ­ fter a pleasant dinner and casual conversation throughout the eve­ning, about half of the members left for home, and by around midnight, only eight ­people ­were left.

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The remaining members ­were the Mutōs, Furuta-­san and his wife, Terada-­san and his wife, Tanaka-­san and me, and Murata-­san, who was drunk and asleep in the bedroom. A conversation about the club began with a comment by Furuta-­ san, who asked if Terada-­san could join the next marathon. Terada-­san answered no, saying, “I still have bad back pain.” Furuta-­san paused and asked if it was ­because of the strength-­enhancement training. Terada-­san said, “I guess so.” Then Furuta-­san asked, “So you ­really want to end it?” Somehow all of us shifted our topic to the issue of the strength-­enhancement training. Terada-­san told us that he would tell Kagawa-­leader about it as it was not only Terada-­san but other older members as well who had been suffering from the same exercise. Terada-­san and Furuta-­san began talking about the politics of Kagawa-­leader’s leadership, but in a very ambiguous manner. All of the female members w ­ ere quiet. Suddenly, Mutō-­san (Mrs. Mutō), who could not stand just listening, said, “I see! I know that the endless relay is a bit of a prob­lem, but we cannot do anything about it. Plus, I won­der if it is worth our efforts. And in real­ity, if you do not like it, you ­won’t participate in it.” However, Terada-­san pointed out that he knew quite a few p ­ eople who had complained about the exercise as they had actually gotten injured. Furuta-­san, ever torn between his friendship with the leadership and his companionship with the other members, responded that we should continue to participate ­because it was promoted as a good exercise for us. The members ­were clearly split into two, and every­body stared at the floor. In truth, it was not a ­simple issue of w ­ hether the strength-­enhancement training was good or bad. But I remembered that when Kagawa-­leader had first implemented the exercise, it had not been as extreme and intense. Kagawa-­leader did in fact think that it was good for all of us to prevent injuries when ­running marathons. However, b ­ ecause it was a short and quick exercise with p ­ eople divided into teams and r­ unning next to each other, every­one had become serious and competitive. During the a­ ctual training, I saw the leader and other men who ­were in charge warn us to slow down ­because many members took it as a competition in which their teams would compete against each other. As a result, ­because members concerned with ­running faster for their team, the training became harder and harder, and some older members and even one young member, Terada-­san, hurt their backs or ankles. Other older members blamed themselves as they could not keep up with the training and quietly withdrew from the exercise. In the end, Kagawa-­leader’s plan led to a diversity of opinions and reactions. Every­body agreed that it had been introduced by Kagawa-­leader with a good intention but that the way it was mandated and implemented as a quick and short small-­group exercise made it feel a bit forceful and coercive. Terada-­san thought of this as an authoritarian approach, while Furuta-­san highly respected Kagawa-­ leader for his strong leadership. Mutō-­san did not like his style, but she conceded,

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“We cannot do anything about it [shōganai kara].” Two other w ­ omen in the group never said anything. Eventually Mutō-­san offered, “If we say anything to Kagawa-­ leader, he would simply say, ‘OK, then why d ­ on’t you manage the club instead of me.’ ” Then Furuta-­san responded, “You know, no m ­ atter what, no one can replace Kagawa-­leader.” At this point, the discussion shifted to the leadership more broadly—­whether someone could replace Kagawa-­leader. Furuta-­san got defensive and responded, “Indeed, we cannot do anything without him. . . . ​Last time, when we went to the marathon without him, we ­were completely disor­ga­nized [barabara]. And I honestly felt that I ­w ill never ever join marathons without Kagawa-­leader.” He said this in an assertive manner, and every­one suddenly shut up. It was true, though, as I had also noticed that members behaved differently depending on ­whether Kagawa-­leader was pre­sent. But to complicate the notion of a “good leader,” Terada-­san jumped in to say, “Well, if the leader is ­really good, then the leader should train every­one to be better and to manage themselves even without him. If every­one relies on him so much, I won­der about the quality of the leader.” Furuta-­san looked stunned and said, “Well, Terada-­san, please propose your suggestion for that training by yourself, as I cannot possibly say that to Kagawa-­ leader.” Always positive, Terada-­san simply accepted this task with the pledge that he would try his best. ­Later I asked Furuta-­san in person why he could not say his thoughts to Kagawa-­leader despite being much closer to him than o ­ thers, and he answered, “For me . . . ​Kagawa-­leader is like a ­father. So my emotion is involved. It has to be Terada-­san who can say such t­ hings.” ­Later, as I worried about Terada-­san talking to Kagawa-­leader alone, I asked Terada-­san if he would be okay, but in response to my concern, Terada-­san replied, “Do not worry. Fujita-­san, Kazamasan, and I have been discussing this for a while, and he is willing to confront him with me.” Around one o ­ ’clock, Murata-­san suddenly came out of the bedroom. He was surprised to see p ­ eople still in the living room. Then the conversation changed to more mundane topics, and every­body started chatting and drinking again. Soon we all stood up and cleaned the room. Thanking Tanaka-­ san for having us over that eve­ning, we left around three ­o’clock in the morning.

Challenging Authority The following day I received an e-­mail from Terada-­san stating, “Though I was drunk at the party last night, I do remember what we talked about clearly! I am now making the proposal for Kagawa-­leader. I won­der if you could take a look at this and give some comments on it.” Indeed, Terada-­san started making a rigor-

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FIGURE 4.3.  One page from Terada-­san’s proposal to Kagawa-­leader. Source: Adapted from Terada-­san’s Power­Point by author.

ous Power­Point proposal with the help of the younger members Fujita-­san and Kazawa-­san (see a slide with his proposed change in figure 4.3). Terada-­san was a young man in his midthirties, and he had joined the club with his wife, Kazuko-­san. They w ­ ere very active members, but what r­ eally marked him was his in­de­pen­dent and strongly logical thinking. He said openly that while many ­people discouraged him from proposing to Kagawa-­leader ­because of Kagawa-­leader’s personality, he believed that with his spirit and his nuanced argument, he could convey what the members ­were thinking. This was a hallmark of his optimistic thinking. The other two con­sul­tants in this proj­ect, Fujita-­san and Kazama-­san, ­were members who took some responsibility in the club. Fujita-­ san told me that when he came back to the training a­ fter a three-­week business trip, he felt that many members looked tortured during the endless relay, and he felt sorry for them. He confided to me that this training was OK for someone like him who does not care about being slow, but for t­hose who care about being a burden on ­others by being slow, this exercise was not good at all. In the end, Terada-­san made a proposal to Kagawa-­leader to reconsider the current strength-­enhancement training. He told me that he would not force reconciliation; he would just propose. But then he also explained that while he could

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simply e-­mail him and explain, he would rather try to meet him in person and make a pre­sen­ta­tion on his proposition so that Kagawa-­leader could recognize Terada-­san’s energy and seriousness. To make a more direct impact, Terada-­san also cited some quotations from the NPO Nippon Runners, who Kagawa-­leader admired and respected. Terada-­san offered two propositions: (1) As every­body was dif­fer­ent, how about offering a training menu based on the individual’s r­ unning ability, goals, and conditions? (2) When they did the endless relay, why not give a full explanation of the purpose and effects to the members? Next, he supported his proposals with anecdotes from members. He explained that some members had injured themselves during the strength-­enhancement training, and some members did not know the effects of the exercise. In addition, recent training in the club had become increasingly advanced. While the advanced runners could adjust themselves, the beginners needed to have training suited to their level, but some of the new exercises could simply drive them to work harder as they do not want to impinge on o ­ thers. Then, drawing from a meta­phor of lunchtime dining options, which all Japa­nese ­were familiar with, Terada-­san proposed changing from the current “Japanese-­style daily-­lunch-­set” (higawari teishoku) style of training, where ­people ­were served what­ever the daily special was, to a “cafeteria à la carte style,” where individuals could choose what­ever they wanted to try depending on their needs. In the final section, Terada-­san cited a quotation from Satomi-­coach: “Every­one’s age, ­running ability, and goals are all dif­fer­ent. This is what makes up Nippon Runners. But what is common among all of us is the desire [kimochi] to continue enjoying ­running and having fun.” Despite Terada-­san’s efforts, t­ here emerged an ongoing e-­mail negotiation among Terada-­san, Fujita-­san, and Kazama-­san to mellow the tone of the proposal before they officially presented it in front of Kagawa-­leader. ­After the first pre­sen­ta­tion to Kagawa-­leader, Fujita-­san and Kazama-­san ­were very impressed by Terada-­san’s pre­sen­ta­tion despite the l­ittle time he had had to make it. However, shortly a­ fter the pre­sen­ta­tion, they also found out that Kagawa-­leader was thinking of retiring from his position as leader. This news made Fujita-­san feel guilty for this proposal and even regretful, wondering: I hope his retirement was not b ­ ecause of our proposal. But then Kagawa-­ leader asked me to be an or­ga­nizer of the strength-­enhancement training in the ­future and to go to the session with the Nippon Runners to learn more about it. When I think of the members who looked tortured, I do not think this training is good, but now knowing that Kagawa-­leader did not even question this training and asked me to be in charge of it in the ­future, I am not sure if our proposal was a good ­thing ­after all.

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Fujita-­san then asked Terada-­san if he had known that Kagawa-­leader was thinking about retirement before the pre­sen­ta­tion. In response to Fujita-­san’s and Kazama-­san’s concerns, Terada-­san dismissed their worries and clarified that they ­couldn’t say anything about w ­ hether the proposal was good or not at this point and that he thought that Kagawa-­leader’s retirement had nothing to do with their proposal. Indeed, Terada-­san problematized the lack of communication on the part of Kagawa-­leader, saying he “selfishly” de­cided to retire and “selfishly” de­cided who would take over, without getting any permission from the person he had chosen. In the end, the new management members listened to Terada-­san’s proposal and recognized the need to revise the current strength-­enhancement training. The new management considered Terada-­san’s “cafeteria-­style” proposal, but then a new concern emerged. If they diversified the menu into cafeteria style, then “­there would be more ­people who must sacrifice themselves [jiko gisei no hito ga fueru].” At first, I was not sure what they meant by the increase of “self-­sacrifice,” but I ­later found out that they w ­ ere concerned that if they diversified the menu and pursued cafeteria style, it would require more ­people to instruct and supervise each separate exercise option to prevent injuries. So, while in the past Kagawa-­ leader or another or­ga­nizer was the only one who sacrificed his own training to supervise o ­ thers, they would now need more ­people who would not participate in the exercise but would instead take charge of the dif­fer­ent training exercises. This became the agenda for the club’s top members for several months and in turn led to additional challenges among the members of Bayside Half. On the surface, the debate over the Japanese-­style daily-­lunch set of training promoted by Kagawa-­leader and the cafeteria style proposed by Terada-­san seemed to be about how to find the most effective way of managing training. However, more fundamentally the clash between the two perspectives revealed dif­fer­ ent ideological approaches ­toward management and responsibility in the club. I originally felt that this boiled down to two choices: Should members follow the decisions and directions of the top authority regardless of their individual conditions, or should they take responsibility for their own training and choose for themselves what to do each session? However, as I came to learn ­later, the latter choice was not a m ­ atter of self-­serving individual responsibility; rather, the latter presupposed that more members w ­ ere required to instruct and supervise o ­ thers. Thus, while the former involved sacrificing autonomy and potentially producing overworked members, the latter involved more individuals needing to sacrifice themselves for ­others, while potentially resulting in more sacrifice on the part of individuals. Indeed, this debate reflected the broader debates over management and responsibility that w ­ ere unfolding in Japa­nese corporations as well, further revealing the resonances of ­these debates across corporate and private life—­not just for salarymen but for many individuals in postbubble Japan.

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The Meaning of Participation Given ­these structural tensions and prob­lems, why do ­people in Bayside Half still try to pursue their hobby as a member? Is t­ here anyone who would take actions against such restrictions and pursue a more carefree hobby in­de­pen­dently? For ­those unfamiliar with such clubs, the coordination and strict management may seem antithetical to leisure hobbies. As revealed above, members w ­ ere often critical, and in fact, one board member who was involved in the above story, Kazama-­ san, quit the club in the spring of 2008. Kazama-­san was a very quiet but thoughtful man in his fifties. Overall, his presence was often hidden ­behind Kagawa-­leader during the training. One day in the spring, Kazama-­san and I took the train to go home together a­ fter a social gathering. Soon we started asking each other about our reasons for joining Bayside Half. According to Kazama-­san, he had joined the club around 1998 ­because ­there ­were no other clubs like it back then. Bayside Half was a pioneer club in the late 1990s. I asked him why he maintained his membership for so long a­ fter many other clubs emerged in the area; Kazama-­san looked at me as if the question was strange and quietly said, “The place I first joined, I do not quit. If you start something like joining a certain club, you do not want to change it. You feel attached to the ­people and club. This is natu­ral.” Then I asked him why he made the decision to leave, as he had been such an active member of the club. He told me that it was getting to be too much of a burden and pressure for him to participate. ­After a pause, he continued, “Indeed, technically I do not r­ eally have to quit. But for me, I felt that I had to quit, as I thought that was the only option for me.” As he was a board member of the club, he had a lot of responsibilities. Just thinking about all he had to do (like preparing for the morning call) meant that he could not relax the night before. He wished that he could do marathons without being so stressed. As an or­ga­nizer, he had to respond to Kagawa-­leader’s expectations and increasingly felt the burden of his role. He thought that this radical way of quitting was the only option at the time. While he had made many friends through the club, he had to leave in the end. He told me that now he regretted it, but the decision also coincided with his ­career’s advancement and life course, ­because his workload was also getting harder as his position r­ ose higher. He told me that up u ­ ntil the level of chief (kakarichō), ­things ­were relatively easy. But ­after becoming a director (buchō), he needed to fulfill many more responsibilities, which was stressful. Then he de­cided to spend more energy on his work and decrease the amount of pressure from Bayside Half. While Kazama-­san did not r­ eally like the way Kagawa-­leader ran the club, he also told me that he felt ambivalent: “In order for the club to function, ­there needed to be the reinforcement of a very charismatic individual.” ­After quitting

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Bayside Half, Kazama-­san joined another club. According to him, this club was very loosely or­ga­nized and had less pressure. T ­ hose who liked to run just came to the training to run together; ­there was no morning call and no structured training. Kazama-­san’s quitting the club was taken very sadly by other members. Strangely, in the past, Kazama-­san had never joined the informal exclusive events. But since he quit, he started participating in the social events. Reflecting on this change a few years ­later, I found myself remembering what many club members told me over the course of my fieldwork: “We ­humans need to have a space where ­people can relate to each other deeply and make some social meaning as well as personal meaning.” However, as Kazama-­san’s story suggests, one cannot have too many serious spaces and responsibility in one’s life. During the course of my fieldwork, Kazama-­san was the only member I knew who quit the club. The rest of the members ­were still consistently participating. Given the rarity of Kazama-­ san’s bold but quiet action, then, it might be more constructive to ask why the members of Bayside Half continue participating in this marathon ­running rather than r­ unning away from it entirely. Participating in marathons is a big deal for members, as well as the local ­people who host marathons. While a marathon is fundamentally an individual act, it does fulfill par­tic­u­lar collective needs and desires as well. During marathons, one can see one’s group more objectively in the larger competition, and one can also develop an appreciation for the other members by ­going to dif­fer­ent locations, getting prepared for the club members’ run, ­going through ­actual hardship and enduring the marathons, feeling some sense of accomplishment together with fellow members, and appreciating their support. A ­ fter the official marathon is over, this camaraderie can develop even further through dining and bathing together, traveling home together, and celebrating and reflecting during the a­ fter party. The energetic spirit deconstructs any formality and anonymity and gives members a sense of unity through ­simple participation. When members run in a marathon, they run past many individuals cheering. ­People in my club never both­ered to know who was number one during the race, although they celebrated whenever a member won. ­Those who finished early stayed u ­ ntil the last runner finished, w ­ hether that runner was a club member or not. Even a new member like myself was cheered throughout the journey by the locals, organizers, security persons, and club members—­and sometimes even anonymous fellow runners. At the beginning many members ­were very ner­vous and did not talk to any strangers. But by the time they reached the finish line, ­after all the cheering from the ­people on the road and the other members, they felt a sense of accomplishment and s­ topped caring about the small t­hings that they would normally care about. Several p ­ eople in Bayside Half w ­ ere also mountain climbers and they drew

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analogies between marathon events and mountain climbing. They often expressed how they feel like they can get “back to the basics” by climbing a mountain and spending the night in a mountain h ­ ouse with a bunch of strangers. It is pure and ­simple, but b ­ ecause of this simplicity, unlike the complexity of modern daily life, it creates satisfying feelings. Moreover, with the ­limited amount of food and ­water available in the mountain, you help each other out, including strangers. They can be open to each other, feeling the simplicity of nature and ­humans. In many ways, mountain climbing was, like a marathon, fundamentally an individual act, but in practice it is not done individually. During the marathon, you get dirty and feel exhausted from ­running alone, but you are never r­ eally alone with the rest of the p ­ eople around you who are more or less feeling the same way. And by the time you make it to the finish line, other members are waiting for your return, and you are celebrated for your completion. In the pro­cess, I witnessed many members open up to each other regardless of age, gender, occupation, and, of course, r­ unning ability. The constant theme throughout the marathon endeavor is trying hard (ganbaru). In the Bayside City Marathon, a massive number of spectators ­were chanting at the starting line, and ­there ­were ­people all throughout the course giving drinks and snacks or cheering. ­There was even a group of kids ­doing taiko drumming around the last corner, one kilo­meter away from the finish line, which many p ­ eople told me gave them a boost during this last difficult leg. Through t­ hese cheers and encouragement, ­people could gain energy and feel some sense of togetherness, however temporary, with the ­others around them and with the beat of the drums bringing them home. ­After finishing my own grueling Bayside City half marathon, some members and I went to a spot two kilo­meters away from the finish line and started cheering for the runners. It was around the point where many security p ­ eople ­were also shouting words of encouragement, saying, “­You’re almost done! This is the last! The last! Hang in t­ here! [Ganbare! Ganbare!]” Just as the word ganbare implies, marathon ­running is not only a physical phenomenon but also an energetic and spiritual orientation that is intertwined with the physical dimension. To quote Rohlen (1974, 209), what this “seishin (spirit) focus” does is create “the possibility of bringing work and personhood into a coherent ­whole.” Ganbaru, or what could be called “ganbarism”–­the most egalitarian ethos in Japan–­has both capacity and possibility; it is not ­limited by any sort of conventional ideological category of age, gender, occupation, or ­running ability, as anyone can put in effort and work hard. ­After the marathon event ended, we had a small meeting that we closed with the usual ritual clapping. In the meeting, the leader mentioned, “Now we ­will be washing up and l­ater we ­will have another meeting for the a­ fter party, so please

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join us!” A ­ fter all marathon events, ­there w ­ ere also showers of e-­mail exchanges to thank each other, including the or­ga­nizer, the runners, and the supporters.

Conclusion During the farewell party that was given for me by the members, several older men presented me with a flowered lei necklace (symbolizing a gold medal) and hung it around my neck. While I never received a medal in marathons, this medal was much more special as ­these older members ­were wearing them during the dinner. It was also around the time that Kagawa-­leader appointed two new leaders who would take over the club. Interestingly, the new leaders took Kagawa-­ leader’s concern for the members’ training and safety as well as the members’ concerns to a new level by improving the strength-­enhancement training. Although such groups are leisure activities, regular participation in weekend training, marathon races, and additional social events ­were crucial. Judging from the amount of activities I ended up g­ oing to for the club, I believe that t­ here ­were far more social events than I was even aware of. The rigidity of structural constraints as well as the burden on the leader should not be taken lightly. While t­ here ­were some tensions between the leader and the members, Kagawa-­leader also made the events run smoothly and protected the members. His enforcement of the endless relay had been questioned ­because of the structure of the training and how the members responded to it. Equally, the proposal of cafeteria-­style training also produced the new concern of creating more self-­sacrificial members. It is not that t­ here ­were no clashes over the management of the club; yet the forces of t­ hese clashes ­were motivated by consideration for other members. In the end, many members chose to stay inside the protective, though somewhat overbearing, shell of Kagawa-­leader’s management. ­Under this structure, ­there was a tremendous amount of care, responsibility, and burden on the organizers and leaders, as ­these leaders had to take care of participants and manage them, particularly b ­ ecause it was not just leaders but members who would also complain if the club was disor­ga­nized. Moreover, despite the fact that the rigidity of one’s weekend hobby could be constraining to some, t­ here ­were consistent themes that bound members together—­enjoyment, working hard, and training oneself and o ­ thers. As a result, a leisure club like Bayside Half is deeply embedded in Japa­nese society in that the social dynamics and ideologies resonate with t­hose found in other leisure spaces as well as corporate spaces. One may won­der if the highly institutionalized leisure space like the marathon club is a microcosm of corporate Japan. While t­ here are certainly resonances in the ways that participants work hard

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t­ oward their goals, as well as in some of the ideological clashes over management and responsibility, ­there are also crucial differences between the world of work and the world of leisure. Among many other ­things, leisure spaces are where members deconstruct and declass their differences, not by erasing or flattening t­ hese differences but by transcending them through spiritual (seishin) dimensions to work hard for their individual goals (see Saito-­san’s story in chapter 5). In this sense, members of Bayside Half delicately balanced ele­ments of spirit and physicality, individual and collective, and hobby and work. Moreover, in an era where one’s social identity is no longer as deeply tied to the workplace as in prebubble Japan, ­these leisure spaces offer new possibilities for self-­discovery, self-­improvement, and socially embedded self-­cultivation.

Part 3

MULTIPLICITIES OF MEN

5 ESCAPING THE CORPORATE SHACKLES

In thinking about the a­ ctual impacts of macro-­level socioeconomic structural changes, it is hard to observe neoliberalism anthropologically. This is precisely ­because in real life any form of ideology is embedded in multiple other ideologies, as well as vari­ous cultural idioms and social pro­cesses available in society. Thus, in addition to participant observation at work and leisure, I collected the life stories of individual men to complement their lived experiences with how they reflected on and talked about the way they lived. Writing a narrative history is fundamentally subjective and self-­constructive, and eliciting such narratives is an intersubjective pro­cess. Moreover, asking about someone’s life and private ­matters required balancing cultural weights of intrusiveness, annoyance, and boldness, particularly for professional men in Japan. Therefore, I had to rely on substantial amounts of time simply participating with them inside/outside their com­pany and inside/outside their leisure activities, all of which enabled me to gather consistent information about individuals across multiple spaces and to gain a deep understanding of their lives over the course of a de­cade. ­After weekly meetings and sequentially longer meetings over meals and drinks, one in­for­mant called me up to confess that he had been telling me more or less the good sides of stories (his own hagiography, one might say), although from my perspective the stories he provided had equally positive and negative sides. He told me that while reflecting now, it was easy to remember good ­things and to forget negative ­things. In contrast, another in­for­mant tended to focus on the

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negative events that, for him, changed the structure of his f­ amily life or corporate life entirely. This other in­for­mant used the chance to tell his life story as a pro­ cess to or­ga­nize his past and pre­sent life, and he expressed his appreciation for giving him such an opportunity before his retirement.

Tracing Anthropological Silhouettes The stories in part III aim to offer what Zeitlyn (2008) calls “anthropological silhouettes.” I aim to inscribe in the reader’s mind a silhouette—­less complete than a biography but more holistic as a phenomenology of interaction—­that is at the same time “honest about its incompleteness, yet striving for faithfulness around the edges where relatively dispassionate accuracy is pos­si­ble” (Zeitlyn 2008, 158–59). As Chernoff (2003, 93) also reminds us, an individual does not tell the story of her or his life, but she or he would tell stories from her or his life. The following chapters aim to offer silhouettes that reflect the comprehensive structures and dynamics of individuals, institutions (companies and families), and ideologies operating in con­temporary Japan.1 Just as the con­temporary perception of salarymen is a dynamic historical construct with a tremendous range of individual differences as shown in chapters 1 and 2, salarymanhood itself is not a static identity. Throughout the course of an individual’s life, one might slip into and out of salarymanhood even as the concept of white-­collar corporate life is reworked by individuals in their par­tic­u­lar life course. As an assumed dominant or mainstream category, particularly among and for Japa­nese men, many of my in­for­mants’ lives are stories of succeeding through, struggling with, or reacting against the social and economic expectations incumbent with the discourse of salarymen in Japan. Of course, the concept of the Salaryman as a dominant category u ­ nder the dominant ideology of companyism is only discursively analyzable ­because of its perceived distinction vis-­à-­v is nonsalarymen in con­temporary Japan. Thus, as the contrasting luminescence of a spotlight is necessary to reveal the shaded contours of a silhouette, the glaring disjuncture of nonsalarymen help us to grasp the key characteristics and organ­izing idioms of ­those who are classified as salarymen. To this end, I begin my profiles of men with the anecdotes of t­ hose who turned away from salarymanhood. Saitō-­san and Shimizu-­san are two such men who deliberately chose a path away from the so-­called social mainstream, yet their stories also reveal the dynamic and often ambivalent relationship with the salaryman lifestyle that they avoided.

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Saitō Atsushi: Finding Ways to Reconnect with “Ordinar y” Life and “Ordinary” Men I met Saitō-­san at the very beginning of my fieldwork in 2006. Nonetheless, he remained an enigmatic figure: though we met e­ very week at Bayside Half training and outside on Saturday and Sunday social events with club members, I had no idea about who he was in terms of occupation. I de­cided to include Saitō-­san in this section b ­ ecause of his marked be­hav­iors and attitude during our interview that left me uncertain about what he does. It was only ­later that I discovered from ­others that he was not ­really a corporate employee; that is, he was not actually a salaryman. Saitō-­san was a very big man (roughly six foot three), with an imposing figure that marked him from other men. He also had a distinctive hairstyle known as a punch-­perm, a kind of tightly permed hair worn by men. In the context of Bayside Half, Saitō-­san was very active. He neither led any formal training; nor did he offer his home for marathon gatherings; however, he was always an active participant and supported the events b ­ ehind the scenes. Just like for many other members, the marathon club seemed to be a central “third place” (Oldenburg 1998) for him apart from his primary and secondary institutions of f­ amily and work. Saitō-­san was married to a w ­ oman who worked as a caregiver, and the c­ ouple never had a c­ hildren. His wife used to be an active member of the club as well. However, ever since the summer of 2005 when they took a trip to Bayside Half ’s ­sister group in Los Angeles, Saitō-­san’s wife ­stopped participating. According to one member, his wife had been very protective about Saitō-­san during the trip, occasionally scolding o ­ thers to be quiet during the long drive, claiming that they would disturb Saitō-­san’s driving. Despite the year I spent with Saitō-­san in and beyond the club activities, this is the only background information I gathered. ­Toward the end of my fieldwork, Saitō-­san came to know that I was meeting with individual members, particularly salarymen members, for my research. One day in August, he asked me if he could have an interview with me. While it was unusual for anthropologists to be asked to have an interview from one’s in­for­ mants, I accepted this as a good opportunity and de­cided to meet with him. From the beginning of our initial arrangements for the meeting, however, I had a sense of disconnection with Saitō-­san, although I did not think twice about it before the interview. First of all, almost all of my meetings w ­ ere conducted at certain sites, such as the Bayside City Park or at cafés, homes, restaurants, or bars. Saitō-­ san per­sis­tently insisted that he did not want to have a meeting at such open spaces. Instead, he offered two locations: in his car in a parking lot or in a private karaoke room at a ­hotel. While it never occurred to me to meet a person in such a closed or potentially loud space, I asked him about the reason for his choice,

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but he responded simply that he did not want to be interviewed other­wise. I accepted his suggestion and de­cided to meet him in the karaoke room of a major ­hotel at one thirty in the after­noon one Sunday. Around one fifteen, when I was in the ­middle of purchasing a gift for him at a nearby department store, Saitō-­san called me up. He was frustrated as I was not at the ­hotel yet. He threatened, “I ­will go home.” I asked him to wait just a l­ittle longer as I was on my way. He kept sending me the messages, “I ­will go home soon. Bye!” ­until I actually showed up at the ­hotel around one twenty-­five. When I saw him in the ­hotel lobby, he also looked a bit dif­fer­ent from the way he usually was in marathon events. He had very baggy clothes and distinctive dark sunglasses on as he stood in the ­middle of the ­hotel lobby. When we went into the small dimmed karaoke room, Saitō-­san sat back in a relaxed manner taking up much space on the large sofa with his sunglasses still on. When the waitress came in to take our order, Saitō-­san also surprised me by how rough and rude he was to her. As we began to talk, I felt that his mannerisms seemed to be ste­reo­typically male-­chauvinistic ­toward me as well. I had noticed that he was rough in his language when he dealt with ser­v ice ­people in social occasions, but I did not assume that Saitō-­san would behave in this manner that day.

Without Articulating While many anthropologists have realized that their in­for­mants do not always tell their story like biographies or discuss the topics of concern for the researcher (Zeitlyn 2008), my meeting with Saitō-­san was extremely difficult for other reasons. From the start he spent much energy and time hiding information and blurring the implications of his answers with vague comments and frequent backpedaling. It was not just his words, e­ ither, but his mannerisms that made me feel ­there was something dif­fer­ent about him. At one point in the m ­ iddle of the meeting, he suddenly ­rose up to go to the bathroom. While I waited inside the room, I grew a bit concerned about ­whether he would come back. Soon the door opened violently. Saitō-­san burst in swinging his arms with wide gestures, movements that ­were very dif­fer­ent from the way he was at Bayside Half activities. Indeed, his mannerisms suddenly reminded me of the warning that my hostess in­for­mants gave me regarding the distinction between “suited salarymen” and “suited yakuza” (the Japa­nese or­ga­nized crime group). ­Until this meeting, he had always been a large but quiet man, but his presence outside of the marathon club context was completely dif­fer­ent and somewhat frightening. From the beginning of our interview, he did not like to talk about himself in terms of occupation: what he did or where he worked. It was not as if he was un-

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aware of the kinds of questions that I would ask; almost all of the members of Bayside Half knew my research interests, and a few members, including Saitō-­ san himself, had even asked me to give them my prospectus translated into Japa­ nese. However, in response to my questions, he consistently used expressions such as “I cannot say anything about it” (soreha ienai), “somewhere over t­here” (acchi), “ordinary” (futsū), “every­thing” (subete), and “just like every­one e­ lse” (minnato onajidayo), without g­ oing into the substance of the information. But faced with Saitō-­san’s frustrating evasiveness, I also came to gradually understand how much my other salarymen in­for­mants gave me contextual specificities, including painful and embarrassing experiences. In contrast, Saitō-­san offered nothing but vague replies and evasive hedges. While other members of the club guessed that Saitō-­san’s age was somewhere between forty and fifty, Saitō-­san was not open to me about his age. As we talked, he made a bored face, looked away often, and never initiated talking about himself, instead asking me, “So tell me about what you have discovered about salarymen.” When I asked why he wanted to have me interview him, he told me that he was curious as to what sort of ­things I was asking other salarymen. Saitō-­san was very clear when he felt that he could answer questions that w ­ ere not directly related to his work or when he seemed to deem a question safe for some other reason. Soon he started rubbing his stomach, and I asked him if he was OK. He responded that he was actually a very sensitive and delicate man, and my questions “pierced his stomach.”

Saitō-­san as a Mysterious Man Saitō-­san was born in the downtown district of Shinjuku, Tokyo, “about forty years ago.” ­Later his ­family moved to the east side of Tokyo, where his parents made trophies. ­After graduating from high school, he did “this and that” (choro choro shiteta) without getting a stable job. Soon he got a job through personal connections without g­ oing through regular job interviews, at a place which he described as a “patient com­pany” (gamansuru kaisha). He moved out of his parents’ home to an apartment with his girlfriend from the same high school. Around twenty years ago, he married this girlfriend and moved to southeastern Tokyo. Saitō-­san did not tell me ­either the name of the com­pany or even what industry his com­pany was a part of, not to mention the location of the com­pany and the par­tic­ul­ar job that he did. ­After a pause, he gave me the reason for not liking to tell me such information, explaining, “I d ­ on’t ­really tell t­ hese ­things to o ­ thers. You can write anything as you like [tekitō ni kaiteyo].” Nonetheless, Saitō-­san was clear that that the place he worked for does “every­thing” or “many t­ hings” (nandemo yaru) in Japan.

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Without giving any specificities, he explained that his com­pany was very successful when he first entered in the mid-1980s. Around the b ­ ubble period, he worked about ten hours a day, and ­there was a lot of work-­related dining and drinking. Saitō-­san reasoned that their success at the time was due to the b ­ ubble economy, and, “just like many companies in Japan, my com­pany was riding the wave of the ­bubble, and every­thing was fun and exciting.” Saitō-­san would go out drinking at night ­until around three in the morning regardless of work the next day and his wife waiting at home. In fact, unlike other salarymen in­for­mants, he never mentioned his ­family or wife, and his wife came up in the conversation only when I specifically asked. He mentioned that he worked at dif­fer­ent branches throughout Tokyo and fi­nally settled in Taitō Ward. In describing ­these experiences, Saitō-­san never used terms that many of my other in­for­mants used, such as departments, divisions, job tasks, or boss or subordinates, instead using the terms “upper” (ue), “lower” (shita), and “power” (chikara). Unlike the majority of employees in Japan, Saitō-­san drove to his workplace. He told me, “I do not like trains or riding with ­others.” According to Saitō-­san, his com­pany operated based on a “merit/power system,” which he described as “­those with power ­will win” (chikara no arumono ga katsu), “just like other ordinary companies.” At the same time, Saitō-­san was the only in­for­mant who used the term “power” (chikara) instead of “results” (seika) or “competency” (nōryoku), which ­were the common terms among employees in the 2010s. Unlike many other companies in Japan, his com­pany was strongly and immediately affected by the bursting of the economic b ­ ubble in the early 1990s. Despite the severe damage that his com­pany suffered, Saitō-­san said that his com­pany did not lay p ­ eople off as his com­pany was “a com­pany that would put up with many difficulties [gamansuru kaisha].” But according to Saitō-­san, the bursting of the ­bubble affected the atmosphere of the com­pany, and individual workers felt that t­ here was no f­ uture for them and quit by themselves. While Saitō-­san had no idea what happened to ­those who quit, he felt sure that he could quit if he wanted to as well but added that he had no definite plan or desire to do so now, as he told me that his work had become very easy and he had gotten used to it.

Saitō-­san and the Bayside Half Marathon Club Saitō-­san joined Bayside Half in 1999 at his wife’s suggestion. Saitō-­san was not a resident of Bayside City, but both he and his wife liked the city and went to the university-­affiliated gym in the city. At the gym one day, Saitō-­san was invited to join Bayside Half by one of the members who did aerobics with him, and Saitō-­ san became an increasingly active member.

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During our meeting, Saitō-­san asked me to ask him about Bayside Half instead of his work or personal life, so I asked what he talked about with other members in the social gatherings. He confidently answered, “We talk about the club and what ­running we do. It is all about our hobbies!” ­Later, as we talked about mutual marathon club friends, Saitō-­san suddenly suggested that I should have asked Kanamori-­san for an interview b ­ ecause he was close to both Saitō-­san and me. As I knew that Kanamori-­san was busy in the pro­cess of transferring from one American com­pany to another com­pany due to a layoff, I purposely did not ask him. Saitō-­san did not know the recent news of Kanamori-­ san’s job situation, but he told me that “Kanamori-­san is amazing b ­ ecause he had no passion for his work/company despite having a man­ag­er [headhunter] who sends him around to dif­fer­ent foreign companies.” Talking about Kanamori-­ san, Saitō-­san reflected: I am not like Kanamori-­san, but I know I have to change. The kind of thinking I have is very old-­fashioned. I think I was fully brainwashed by my com­pany. Many Japa­nese men think it is ­because of ­family that their work is impor­tant. For me, ­because of my workplace, ­there is ­family. I want to change this. I think I was brainwashed, and I have been unable to think of my ­family more than my work. Saitō-­san asked me if working for U.S. companies made h ­ umans more like Kanamori-­san—­that is, less passionate about work—­and even suggested that “Kanamori-­san is a person who does not expect anything from his com­pany [kaisha ni nanimo motometenai] and is indeed a greedless person [yoku no nai ningen].” While Saitō-­san seemed to be a bit puzzled by Kanamori-­san’s qualities, he also added that “this could be appropriate ­under this era [jidai tekini wa kore ga tadashiinokamo].” Saitō-­san described that “consciousness of belongingness or loyalty was at least based on a sense of ‘return’ from the com­pany to the individual.” But at the same time, he also told me that every­body in his com­pany is fundamentally an “­enemy,” so he goes to Bayside Half for real friendship. As our meeting progressed, however, despite Saitō-­san’s intention to avoid disclosing any impor­tant information to me, he did reveal what seems to be the most sensitive information in terms of his thoughts about his relationship with his workplace, regardless of what­ever workplace it actually was. Indeed, while many Japa­nese salarymen have the potential to become passionate com­pany men—­passionately working for their ­family or their com­pany—no one ever used the term “brainwashing” except for Saitō-­san (and Shimizu-­san in the following section). Saitō-­san was very definite and clear only regarding problematizing his alleged sense of loyalty.

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Postmeeting My meeting with Saitō-­san ended abruptly as we had to leave the karaoke room ­after our three-­hour reservation expired. A ­ fter we left and we said good-­bye, I noticed that I was quite shaken, and my eyes filled with tears. I had not been aware that I was scared by his attitude and roughness during our meeting in such a closed space. The meeting left me with a mixed sense of fear and failure, especially as it came at the end of my fieldwork. Sitting on the bus on the way home, I thought about the small informal farewell party for me that had been scheduled for the next day at a Bayside Half member’s sushi restaurant in Tokyo. As I felt awful about the day’s meeting, I was about to cancel this farewell party, even though several members of the club planned this before the official club farewell party. However, I received messages from two members on the same day, which made me reconsider Saitō-­san’s be­hav­ior and think about the day’s meeting completely differently, as I had never expected that he was not r­ eally a salaryman. On the night of the same day, one of the Bayside Half members, Arai-­san, called me up to confirm my date of departure and the date of the last official farewell that Bayside Half would give. During our conversation, I ventured to ask her if she knew anything about what Saitō-­san did for a job. Arai-­san indeed had no idea, claiming that Saitō-­san never talked about his work. But she told me that several female members ­were wondering about his hairstyle, a tightly permed short hairstyle which ste­reo­typically symbolized a member of the yakuza. Arai-­ san then told me that once an older member of the club suggested the possibility that Saitō-­san was in fact yakuza. Arai-­san told me that whenever someone made reference to something about work, Saitō-­san deliberately changed the topic. So even ­after spending a few weeks together traveling with him during a marathon club excursion, she had no idea what his occupation was. ­Later that same day, I received a message about the informal farewell party from Nakamura-­san, an experienced member and one of my close in­for­mants. As I did not want to sound prying by asking about members’ jobs, I asked him if he knew where every­body would be commuting from to come to the restaurant. Nakamura-­san said that he knew where every­one would come from except for Saitō-­san. Then when I inquired about what Saitō-­san does, Nakamura-­san suddenly paused and modestly speculated: “I r­ eally have no idea, and my hunch could be completely wrong, but I do not get the sense that he is a corporate person [tsutome-­nin de wa nasasou].” The next day, I purposely went to the sushi restaurant much ­earlier than the appointed time so that I could talk to another member, Yamanaka-­san. Yamanaka-­ san had been a sushi chef and also an active member of Bayside Half. I sat at the ­counter and started talking to him as he was making sushi. When I abruptly asked

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if he knew what other members do for work and where they ­will commute from that night, the usually cheerful and constantly joking Yamanaka-­san’s facial color suddenly changed, and he paused. He had some vague idea of what every­one did for work except for Saitō-­san. Yamanaka-­san looked serious and told me, “You know what, no one knows. But I think . . . ​he is that [yakuza] [are dato omou].” Pushing further, I asked him why no one ever asked Saitō-­san about his work, but Yamanaka-­san looked confused. Perhaps the club’s idea of enjoying r­ unning socially also enabled the members to interact without thinking twice about not knowing specific information about each other regardless of the frequency of meeting. While Yamanaka-­san was pointing with his fin­gers to reference the kind of hairstyle Saitō-­san sported, the door of the restaurant opened loudly and roughly. Though it was still ­earlier than the appointed time, Saitō-­san had arrived, and Yamanaka-­san and I changed the topic. Despite the fact that I had sent thank-­you e-­mails to Saitō-­san the night before, I was not yet completely comfortable to sit next to him in the restaurant. I took the seat next to Nakamura-­san. Yamanaka-­san was always working in front of us, and the meeting ended up being a pleasant one as I also tried to focus the topics of conversation on Bayside Half. Nonetheless, I did not join the ­after party, instead wishing every­one a good night as I would see some of them again at the formal farewell in a week. Before I left, Saitō-­san came up close to me and whispered an apology into my ear for what had happened the day before. A few days l­ ater, I was talking to a fellow anthropologist about what happened in my last interview. This anthropologist did not look surprised by the story. He instead speculated that Saitō-­san wanted to have me interview him despite knowing the content of the interview ­because he wanted to be seen by me and other members of the club as an “ordinary man.” Indeed, by the end of our interview, Saitō-­san simply reinforced how dif­fer­ent he was from other men I met. Saitō-­ san kept using the term “ordinary” (futsū) in reference to job content and work circumstances and mentioned that he “needs to change” as he has “a strong sense of loyalty to his com­pany.” ­Behind ­these words ­there was a distinct sense that Saitō-­san wanted to be what he conceived of as “an ordinary person,” while my other salarymen in­for­mants had taught me that t­ here is no such ­thing as ordinary job content or workplace, let alone an ordinary person.

Shimizu Naoya: Being a ­Free Man Shimizu-­san was a very energetic and witty man in his forties when I met him in 2007. He had multiple sides, describing himself si­mul­ta­neously as an acu­ punc­ture doctor, a fanatic rock ‘n’ roll fan, a Latin dancer, a vegetarian, a leftist

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anarchist, and a freelance writer. But one t­ hing he would definitely reject was the label of “salaryman.” Through the introduction of an anthropology professor, I got to know him in one of his Latin dance events, where he taught the basics of Latin dance movements in the Roppongi District of Tokyo. As Latin dance has been increasingly popu­lar among young Japa­nese ­women, it also gained popularity among Japa­ nese men, including salarymen and professionals. Shimizu-­san conducted dance events several times a month at clubs in Tokyo, which had become a primary source of income for him. When I met him, he was a single man who claimed that he was not interested in marriage but very much on the lookout for a romantic partner. He was very explicit about his values for his life and ideal relationship: sexual romance as well as conversation and intellectual stimulation. Shimizu-­san was a very social person, always ­doing something with his friends or girlfriends, but he also told me that he was a misanthrope ­because he feels that ­people are fundamentally unreliable. In addition, as much as he claimed to be seeking deep personal romantic relationships, he was also an open supporter of polygamy.

Moving to a Conservative Society Shimizu-­san was born to a salaryman ­father and a ­house­wife ­mother in Osaka in the 1960s. He claimed he was already conscious of himself as a “marginalized” child in kindergarten, and since this young age, for the rest of his life he gradually realized how hard it was to get along with the “majority.” His ­father was a salaryman at a major Japa­nese food com­pany. For Shimizu-­san, his life as a child was susceptible to his f­ ather’s job rotations, and he came to criticize his f­ ather for accepting the com­pany’s ­orders, including many transfers. His m ­ other had also told him about many negative aspects of their marriage, so, Shimizu-­san claimed, he became uninterested in the institution of marriage, strongly believing that love and romance would be undermined by marriage. Shimizu-­san had stark memories of when he entered elementary school and the entrance ceremony on the first day. While sitting in clean formal attire, he promised himself that he would never have his child go through the same pro­ cess as he felt that it was just too horrible. Soon, at the age of eight, the Shimizu ­family moved to Tochigi Prefecture b ­ ecause of his f­ ather’s job, and Shimizu-­san’s increasing sense of “unfairness” and “oppression” became more concrete. As a small boy coming from Osaka, Shimizu-­san felt that Tochigi was a “horrible” place, being too closed and conservative for his liking. As a young boy, Shimizu-­san always favored girls more than boys, and he used what was considered feminine “girl speech” at the time, both practices that made him susceptible

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to bullying. Shimizu-­san clearly remembered the gender discrimination he saw in Tochigi. For instance, the ju­nior boys could call the se­nior girls by their last names without any honorifics, while se­nior or ju­nior girls always had to call the boys by their first names with honorifics. To make ­matters worse, Shimizu-­san’s ­father’s com­pany was large and managed many com­pany apartments where the f­ amily lived with other com­pany families, including ­others that had moved from Osaka. Among ­these families, ­there was a girl that he knew from Osaka whom he went to school with and naturally got closer to. Soon scandalous rumors spread throughout the town among neighborhood adults as well as schoolmates, making his days even more difficult. As a ­little boy, Shimizu-­san r­ eally felt that the town he had moved to was a scary place with many kinds of discrimination. In elementary school, Shimizu-­san’s nickname was “weirdo” (hentai); however, he was proud of his nickname as he always thought that the rest of the ­people ­were in real­ity the “true weirdos.” Moreover, coming from a major city with rigorous schools, he simply excelled in many subject m ­ atters without studying. He thought that he was the smartest kid in school and that he was smarter than his teachers, and ­because of this, he was bullied even more. Even though he did his homework and went to school diligently, sometimes he was scolded by his teachers for not completing his homework, though it was ­because his notebook had been stolen. Most of his friends w ­ ere girls and other newcomers to the town like himself. Shimizu-­san reflected on how his childhood was miserable due to the location and ­people of the countryside. For him, what was more problematic was Tochigi’s close proximity to Tokyo, which he felt accentuates Tochigi’s inferiority complex and conservatism. He recalled how a g­ reat number of ­people in the Japa­nese colonialist Kwantung Army (members of which w ­ ere charged with war crimes in Manchuria ­after World War II) ­were natives of Tochigi and how easy it was for Tochigi ­people to be brainwashed. “Brainwashing” (sennō), “exploitation” (sakushu), “oppression” (appaku), and “wage slave” (chingin dorei) ­were all terms repetitively used by Shimizu-­san. It was around fourth grade that Shimizu-­san learned the term “liberal demo­ cratic” in history class, and he was fascinated by it. Shimizu-­san soon became interested in politics, but by fifth grade he was already disappointed by the a­ ctual party of “liberal demo­crats” (the LDP). By then he was g­ oing to an En­glish cram school for supplementary education, and he met a nice teacher who was about to run in an election as a Japan Communist Party candidate. Since that time, he became a supporter of the Communist Party. It was also around this time that Shimizu-­san started discussing politics with his f­ ather and occasionally fought with him over po­liti­cal issues. According to Shimizu-­san, his f­ ather was also fed up with the LDP in theory, but he still voted for the LDP in practice. Shimizu-­san

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reasoned that this was due to “the com­pany’s pressure” and that his ­father was very much controlled by his com­pany as he was already a man­ag­er supervising employees. “Tochigi was very conservative, so almost all of the ­people voted for the LDP and ­human relations in the countryside ­were so clear and openly maintained,” he explained. Thus, in contrast to an urban center like Tokyo, in such a tiny place like his town, ­those who voted for anyone but LDP candidates would be revealed. All of this aggravated Shimizu-­san’s sense of unfairness and increased his desire to leave the town for what he felt was the liberal city of Tokyo. At ju­nior high school, Shimizu-­san was elected as vice student leader and worked hard with the student leader, who was female. He boasted that he tried to brainwash ­others by saying what­ever he felt like saying, and he recalled how much he liked being second in charge as he could do and say anything he wanted without having much responsibility. In the end, as much as he was seen as a strange boy, Shimizu-­san claims that he was very popu­lar among students. In reflecting on this period in his life, however, he complained that he was lonely without any romantic girlfriends or close male friends. This reinforced his memory of his Tochigi experience as a kind of “psychological oppression.” ­After Shimizu-­san left Tochigi to study for college, his ­father was transferred to Aomori Prefecture, which was followed by a transfer to Nagoya. Fi­nally, the Shimizus settled in Tsuchiura, Ibaragi Prefecture, where his ­father worked ­until retirement. Shimizu-­san said that a­ fter retirement his ­father and m ­ other enjoyed spending time playing golf and pursuing hobbies.

Leaving the Narrow Countryside for the Wider World When Shimizu-­san moved to Tokyo for college, his ­father purchased a condominium for his ­family, thinking that it might be con­ve­nient to have a place to stay in the center of Tokyo. Shimizu-­san had been living alone in the condominium ever since. Shimizu-­san spent three years as a rōnin, a liminal status between high school student and college student, studying for the entrance exam for Waseda University, where he aimed to study science and engineering. Fi­nally, ­after three years of unsuccessful attempts, he failed a fourth time to gain ac­cep­tance at his first choice of Waseda University’s science and engineering department. However, he was accepted to Waseda University’s lit­er­at­ ure department, so he de­cided to go. He took courses in vari­ous subjects and even audited science classes. But as his passion was to major in science and engineering, and ­because the university system was so inflexible, he de­cided to quit the university. Before he officially quit, Shimizu-­san applied for the Ship for Southeast Asian Youth Program (SSEAYP), as he was increasingly interested in the issues of Southeast Asia, explaining that he had been disturbed by the fact that Japan had ex-

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ploited Southeast Asia so badly. According to Shimizu-­san, in the 1970s when Tanaka Kakuei, the prime minister of Japan at the time, visited Southeast Asia, he faced anti-­Japanese protests. As a result, a­ fter his return he established the SSEAYP as a way to increase intercultural understanding. As a spirited young man, Shimizu-­san wanted to listen to what Southeast Asians ­really thought of Japan. He was accepted, and he grabbed a bag and hopped on board at the age of twenty-­ two. He joined thirty-­five members from six countries, including Japan, Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Thailand, to travel together to each country for about two months to facilitate mutual friendship. Shimizu-­san explained that it cost more than two million yen per person around that time, all of which was paid for by the government, and he smugly declared, “I felt so proud, as I fi­nally regained tax money from the Japa­nese government!” The trip on the ship was amazing and changed Shimizu-­san’s perspectives in many ways. Shimizu-­san remained good friends ever since with many p ­ eople who ­were on the ship. One of his Japa­nese friends became a university professor in Japan and specialized in Indonesia. He also had recently traveled to Thailand to visit his old friends t­ here. It was also on this ship that he first met a man who he ­really (platonically) “fell for.” It was a new experience for him as he had not been able to find any man that he admired in Tochigi, and he developed a strong need and passion for true friendship and love.

A Short Stint as a Salaryman Upon his return to Japan, Shimizu-­san was even more determined to quit university. He believed that t­ here was no need to study humanities at college as he could study himself by reading. He was generally very critical of Japa­nese education and education in general. He thought education was “brainwashing” as “it was essentially the method Japan used when it implemented the Western education system ­under the Meiji Restoration.” He also despised all of the teachers he had had during his school life. Despite the fact that Shimizu-­san was always skeptical and critical of salarymen—­ insisting on calling them “wage slaves” (chingin dorei)—he needed extra money ­after university, so he entered a research institute that focused on electric power as a salaryman in 1986. It was like an irony of fate, he recalled, as his job l­ater became working as a research supporter for nuclear-­powered propulsion, despite being very much against nuclear power on a philosophical level. Shimizu-­ san even joined protest movements against nuclear power at night. He felt as if he was living a double life as a dif­fer­ent man during the day and at night. He took this irony as a strategy, and justified his work saying that he would be a spy to get to know confidential information and learn “what the proponents ­were

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trying to do.” But at the same time, Shimizu-­san could not stand his conflicting positions and felt that his brain was getting “messed up.” L ­ ater, he even learned that his boss was also against nuclear power but that he was d ­ oing this job to make a living, despite desiring to be an artist. For the disillusioned young Shimizu-­san, this brief salaryman experience simply reinforced his idea of salarymen as wage slaves. ­After nine months, he de­cided to quit.

Shimizu-­san as a Teacher and a Student In 1986, Shimizu-­san quit the research institute and began to support himself by teaching at a cram school (juku). This cram school was not geared ­toward competitive university entrance exams and thus allowed more freedom for teachers. This suited Shimizu-­san’s own attitudes t­ oward education, as he was antischool and a big supporter of “new schools,” which operated differently from regular schools. He accepted the job as a cram-­school teacher b ­ ecause he felt that he could conduct his class as if it ­were a new school, regardless of his students’ and their parents’ lack of ac­cep­tance as such. At the cram school, Shimizu-­san’s syllabi w ­ ere eclectic and far-­ranging. He told me that he taught the value and meanings of rock ‘n’ roll in En­glish class as well as sex education, noting that his students w ­ ere more interested in such subject ­matter than traditional topics. Shimizu-­san said that when he de­cided to have an extra session on sex education, he saw far more students come to class than usual, including t­ hose who belonged to dif­fer­ent competitive cram schools. One ­thing Shimizu-­san actively did in his teaching was to try to cultivate students’ po­liti­cal consciousness. For Shimizu-­san, ­there w ­ ere two impor­tant ­things that he thought ­were missing in Japan: po­liti­cal and critical consciousness. Thus, he felt it was his duty to talk about politics in his classes. ­After working as a teacher for ten years, though, he felt sick of it and de­cided to quit. Shimizu-­san’s goal around this period was to study acu­punc­ture while he saved money and eventually traveled to the United States to explain the physiological mechanism of acu­punc­ture to Westerners. He developed an interest in the idea of sōtaihō—­a method of balancing health through natu­ral bodily movement—­ and started g­ oing to workshops, where he met a master of acu­punc­ture. Many of the participants w ­ ere also leftists and worked for NGOs, NPOs, or as freelance journalists. Being influenced by the idea of acu­punc­ture, with the support of his parents he started g­ oing to school to study acu­punc­ture in 1986 and graduated in 1989. Ever since, he frequently traveled to China to learn new, updated practices. Shimizu-­san enjoyed studying ­under his famous master in Shanghai and seeing his master treating incurable sicknesses in c­ hildren in local villages.

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Being a Real Minority in Japan? Shimizu-­san, despite his busy schedule, would meet with me both outside and inside the dance clubs. He also enjoyed having some sort of discussion on social and po­liti­cal ­matters as he told me that he never r­ eally had the chance. Being brought up in the relatively conservative town, Shimizu-­san had developed a sense of oppression, while also developing a keen sense of romanticism and freedom. As a child, Shimizu-­san would openly state his opinions about politics and society to his m ­ other at home, even though his ­mother seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. Nonetheless, she was often worried and warned him, “Well, you can talk about that to me, but you cannot do that outside, OK? If you do, every­one ­will think of you as dangerous [kiken jinbutsu].” Indeed, Shimizu-­san’s ­mother continued to worry about him being attacked by right-­wing activists. Shimizu-­san’s out­spoken nature came from a variety of experiences, including exposure to non-­Japanese cultural forms. As a child, Shimizu-­san was influenced and empowered by Eu­ro­pean and American m ­ usic and movies. He also developed interests in hippie movements, organic food movements, civil rights movements, antiracism issues, and the anti–­Vietnam War movement. He was always curious about what was happening at the global level, which he said often made him look like a “weirdo” to other students in Japan. Even in his midforties, as much as Shimizu-­san seemed to be well embedded in his social and work circles, he often talked about leaving Japan ­because he was still searching for his ideal place. In addition to his enmity t­ oward salarymen, Shimizu-­san also did not like Japan or the idea of the nation-­state, which he thought was simply a product of childish territoriality and tug-­of-­wars between the yakuza and vari­ous or­ga­nized crime groups. He thought that he was a misfit in Japan b ­ ecause he had his own opinions and was not afraid to state them. He told me how one can be a minority in Japan simply if one had one’s own ideas. Shimizu-­san often talked about Eu­ rope idealistically, citing France in par­tic­u­lar as a truly f­ ree country b ­ ecause p ­ eople publicly talk about “freedom and the nation.” As much as Tochigi disappointed him, Shimizu-­san was also disappointed by Tokyo. When he came to Tokyo ­after high school, he expected a liberal and vibrant cultural milieu, but to his dismay “­there ­were no student movements any longer.” Shimizu-­san blamed the unargumentative or even antiargumentative attitude of Japa­nese citizens on the United States and on Japa­nese education and nostalgically reflected that “Japan used to have vibrant ­labor ­union moments and student movements.” For him, it was particularly difficult to meet similarly critically minded w ­ omen in Japan. He complained that “up u ­ ntil the 1970s t­ here w ­ ere Japa­nese ­people who critically engaged with difficult topics, but since the 1970s every­thing related to t­ hese critical issues became seen as uncool [dasai] and too

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serious [majime kusai].” He blamed the United States and major Japa­nese corporations like the advertising firm Dentsu for supporting this trend. During one of our conversations, when I mentioned some historicization of Japa­nese ­labor ­union movements and student movements, he admitted that he was aware of the dif­fer­ent nature of such movements in Japan. Shimizu-­san told me that indeed Japa­nese student movements ­were “ridicu­lous” for their own sectarianism as many of them ended up fighting with other student groups rather than with the government. The fact that not only was he unable to openly share his views with ­others but even such protest movements w ­ ere never truly antigovernment intensified Shimizu-­san’s feelings of skepticism t­ oward the nation and Japa­nese society at large. As a child, Shimizu-­san used to believe that he was a prodigy, and he naively thought that if he explained anything to ­others with effort, from ­music to politics, they would understand it. But as he got older, he realized that no ­matter how much he tried to explain t­ hings most p ­ eople would not get it. Shimizu-­san said that he was particularly against the notion of “common sense” (jōshiki) and the idea and practice of marriage. For instance, Shimizu-­san said he could only think of marriage if it was to a foreign ­woman who needed ­legal privileges. When I asked him about the social recognition, he denied the existence of such an idea of “social” and told me that he did not care about social ideas or society (shakai). “I do not believe in society,” he stressed, yet he did value certain concepts like a deserted island [mujintō]. He often dreamed about g­ oing to a deserted island. But he also told me that he would have to prepare so many strategies in order to prevent o ­ thers from coming onto the island, as he thought that t­ hose he hated would try to invade the island.

Tangoing with Work and L ­ abor As a boy, Shimizu-­san read a lot of science fiction. He believed that by the year 2000, every­thing would become mechanized and all ­labor would be performed by robots, freeing all ­humans from ­labor and enabling them to enjoy their lives. To his dismay, as he got older, he realized that ­there ­were still many ­humans subjected to l­ abor around the world. One critical theme for Shimizu-­san’s life was to make a distinction between work (shigoto) and ­labor (rōdō). Shimizu-­san defined work as some sort of activity that satisfies a “spiritual value,” regardless of money. In contrast, he defined ­labor as slave-­like activities that are pursued for money without spiritual consent and satisfaction. From a young age, he said, he always had the feeling that he was “searching for his true self” (jibun sagashi) and that he was trying to find a pos­si­ble life of work instead of ­labor. As he realized that his other jobs could not secure a comfortable life, he started holding dance events to make money in 2004. Shimizu-­san had been a big fan of

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­ usic since childhood, and he used to spend his time making m m ­ usic and listening to rock ‘n’ roll. In 2000, he studied Latin dance and started ­going to dance clubs. As he recalled, he was often very disappointed by the quality of dance and the quality of m ­ usic at the clubs in Tokyo. For him, Japa­nese DJs had no sophistication, and they just randomly played ­music. Shimizu-­san was also disappointed by the general audience as well, whom he felt did not even care about the quality of ­music and took what­ever they ­were offered. For him, “mastering” something was impor­tant in life, and he wanted to be a master of a hobby, as he keenly felt a lack of “hobby culture” in Japan. Shimizu-­san recognized that now most of his income came from holding dance events. When I asked why he or­ga­nized and ran events as an outsider, rather than managing a dance school or owning a dance club himself, he explained that he “does events purely to enjoy himself while making money.” ­Because he was ­doing what he liked, he did not want to make his work become l­abor. As long as it was a temporary event, Shimizu-­san could enjoy his hobby without undermining his sense of work. The participants in Shimizu-­san’s dance events ­were diverse in their ages, occupations, and genders. T ­ here ­were many young female workers and young and old salarymen. ­There was a noticeable lack of older Japa­nese ­women, however. As an or­ga­nizer, Shimizu-­san had no sense of his work as providing some extra space or ser­v ice for customers; rather, he felt that he was giving himself a space for his own hobby. He also told me that one of his motivations in holding dance events was to create a “salon-­like” space. By “salon” he referred to his own notion of a “Parisian-­style” open social space, meaning that it was not a regular event that was routinized where ­people did not communicate but rather a space where ­people with diverse backgrounds could come together and actually talk. “In this space, old and strange men or salarymen can talk to and dance with young girls and the regulars actually become friends,” Shimizu-­san proudly explained. Shimizu-­san thought that the somewhat “feudalistic” nature of Japa­nese hobby spaces in the past (e.g., being age graded or gender segregated) prevented Japa­ nese hobbies from flourishing, so he sought to reengineer Japa­nese hobby spaces by creating a salon as an alternative third place. And this was impor­tant not only for the participants but for Shimizu-­san as well, as it created a sense of work for him. He was aware that he could make it more like l­abor by advertising rigorously or inviting a lot of beginners, but he purposely played down his advertisements as he did not want to undermine his own sense of enjoyment.

Rethinking Salarymen As much as Shimizu-­san used to fight with his f­ ather, he now got along with his parents. He proudly told me that he successfully influenced them, and they now

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voted for the Communist Party. He used to swear against his ­father for simply being a salaryman, accused him of working hard for f­ amily rather than for personal motivation, and criticized him for not voting with his own conscience in elections. However, now having a secure place in Tokyo thanks to his salaryman ­father’s ­labor and being able to live without worrying about rent while practicing his acu­punc­ture and dancing, he explained that he had come to ambivalently appreciate his ­father’s efforts. Reflecting, Shimizu-­san remarked that he used to have a lot of anx­i­eties. According to him, it was both abstract anxiety and concrete anxiety about becoming homeless. He had been searching for what he r­ eally wanted to do. D ­ oing some part-­time jobs over and over, he used to won­der if he should become a salaryman. But a­ fter being a salaryman for nine months, he realized that he could not live that way, claiming that Japan did not offer a space where he could grow without inhibition or oppression. This sense grew clearer as he got older. Nonetheless, while his strong distaste for salarymen remained the same, he also recognized the growing changes ­under the long postbubble economic downturn and the following economic restructuring. He perceived a decreasing degree of loyalty to one’s com­pany and a decline in companies’ loyalty to their employees, as well as changing meanings of work. Shimizu-­san was also critical of the merit-­ based evaluation system from his own research on Fujitsu’s case. He told me that he could learn so much about Fujitsu by reading employees’ own criticisms on their websites (jisha hihan saito). Shimizu-­san told me that Japa­nese corporations have lost culturally valuable practices, and he likewise noted that he is critical of young ­people in Japan who do not have any sense of re­spect for the older generation, lamenting the decline of the notion of se­niority. Shimizu-­san could feel the increased sense of instability in his own life and in society at large, which he felt may change the Japa­nese conception of the New ­Middle Class. This accentuated his sense of distaste for Japan even more and motivated him to continue looking for an ideal place outside of the country. He believed that increasing class differences would create increasing “social anxiety, jealousy, and envy” among Japa­nese, which would lead to increased crime and add new anx­i­eties that did not exist before. Sometimes his strong distaste for salarymen surprised me given his sensitivity to the issues of minorities on the global level. He himself realized this and told me once jokingly, “I am more generous to any discrimination issues except for the one about wage slaves [salarymen].” As much as he called salarymen wage slaves, he had no sympathy for them—­perhaps they did not seem to fall into his category of oppressed slaves but rather w ­ ere self-­ selected slaves responsible for their own condition. Nevertheless, one of our final conversations also made me won­der about his ambivalent evaluation of Japan, Japa­nese corporations, and salarymen.

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One day we met at an organic vegetarian café that was run as a nonprofit organ­ ization (NPO) in Tokyo in the mid­afternoon. As we settled into our conversation, we both noticed the lack of good ser­v ice. The café itself was American hippie style in décor and ambience, and it was not as clean as other cafes in Tokyo. Despite ordering a lot of food and drinks, we w ­ ere eventually pushed to the edge of the room without any formal apology due to some special journalistic coverage being conducted ­there that day. Shimizu-­san was a frequent patron of this café ­because it provided organic and vegetarian meals, but he also told me about the prob­lems he noticed with this kind of NPO ser­v ice: Well, this kind of place does not have good training for employees. This is a shame and a prob­lem in Japan as usually t­ hose who join NGOs or NPOs should have higher consciousness and better ser­v ice spirit. In Japan, it is companies who train and offer better and full ser­v ice. In the end, ­those who are somewhat strange or t­ hose who are simply searching for themselves [jibun sagashi wo suru hito] tend to come to NGOs or NPOs in Japan. This is a prob­lem! Unlike Amer­i­ca where ­people who have a determined consciousness or volunteer spirit w ­ ill come and pursue their work at NGOs or NPOs, Japa­nese NGOs or NPOs ­will attract ­those who have no idea what they want to do and who they ­really are, which is a g­ reat trou­ble [meiwaku] for us. . . . ​Indeed, if the kind of ­people who are successful in Japa­nese corporations came to Japa­nese NGOs or NPOs, I think that t­ here would be successful NGOs and NPOs in Japan as well.

Reflections: Viewing Salarymen from the Outside Shimizu-­san’s narration of his life’s trajectory, which unfolded in a long series of nonlinear stories over the course of our interactions, was always consistent in his commitment to frame his life and goals against what he felt was dominant and constraining, be it a conservative small-­town mentality, the salaryman lifestyle, or Japa­nese society at large. Indeed, as a self-­claimed minority who was out­spoken and critical, Shimizu-­san’s self-­perception could exist only ­because of the social majority that both provided his income (as the son of a salaryman ­father and as an event or­ga­nizer to largely salarymen clients) and provided him the mainstream backdrop against which he could construct his own ideal self-­image. For Saitō-­san, his own apparent desire to be seen as an ordinary man came precisely ­because of his disconnection from that world. Contrary to Shimizu-­san,

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however, Saitō-­san did not express a strong distaste for salarymen and what he perceived to be mainstream society. Rather, Saitō-­san’s unquestioning longing for the kind of life that he perceived such salarymen ­were enjoying made him yearn for that kind of life. Participating in Bayside Half brought him closer to a dif­fer­ent world from his own, and as our sole interview hinted at, ­these new social contacts w ­ ere giving him a chance to reflect on his own conflicted emotions and loyalty. As nonsalarymen in­for­mants, Saitō-­san and Shimizu-­san did not help me directly understand what salarymen are; rather, the glaring disjuncture of their lives from what might be considered mainstream forms of employment or social relationships did reveal much about what salarymen are not. Still, this distance from the mainstream left them very much on opposite sides vis-­à-­v is their perspective of the salaryman norm, with Saitō-­san’s ideal of the Salaryman life as a sort of comfortable normalcy and Shimizu-­san’s idea of the Salaryman life as a slave-­like state of brainwashed conformity. They also engaged with dominant gender ideologies differently; despite Saitō-­san’s nonmainstream job, he was nonetheless a breadwinner for his f­ amily, while Shimizu-­san’s inherited home and wealth enabled him to reject this role altogether. At the same time, both passionately exerted themselves in their par­tic­u­lar hobbies. In the end, both of their conceptions seem to revolve around the Salaryman lifestyle as a realm of social middleness, where both the “average” and “common knowledge” reign supreme. The major difference between them, however, was in their respective valuations of ­whether such a middleness was desirable for their own lives. For Saitō-­san’s idealistic longing, this middleness seemed to be an unattainable desire, for which he was literally ­running for e­ very weekend; for Shimizu-­san’s idealistic re­sis­tance, this middleness seemed to be a perceived soul-­crushing mediocrity, which he was locked in a dialectical tango with ­every day.

6 NAVIGATING THE WAVES OF WORK AND LIFE

Saitō-­san and Shimizu-­san in chapter 5 exemplify individuals who escaped the “corporate shackles,” and their lifeways on the fringes of salarymanhood also sharpen the silhouettes of ­those who are seemingly at the center as Salarymen. However, listening to ­those at the center reveals how complex and contested the very category of center itself is. Matsuda-­san and Takagi-­san are perhaps good examples of this complexity through their coordinated navigation through the unpredictable waves of work and life. Their navigation was never smooth; both stories reveal how they w ­ ere never f­ree from difficulties and strug­gles. Yet their stories also highlight their creative interpretations and responses to the circumstances they encountered and how they thrived within the rather inclusive employment systems as well as corporate restructuring, along with the par­tic­u­lar individuals who influenced their corporate and personal life.

Matsuda Takeo: Pursuing his Life through a “­G rand Design” Over the course of our meetings in 2007, I learned Matsuda-­san’s favorite words and concepts, ones that he felt had guided his life ­until now and continued to guide him ­today. Among several he shared with me, one guiding concept was his “­grand design”—­a key word that he used to structure his lifeway and that he credits with having allowed him to successfully navigate his business, work, and social lives. Matsuda-­san was highly reflective and even philosophical, always 175

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thoughtfully rationalizing given situations by viewing them through the lens of his philosophy of life. As he talked, he would occasionally insert his favorite concepts into the conversation, such as “humanness” (ningensei), “personal quality/ character” ( jinkaku), “social order” (chitsujo), “sensitivity” (kansei), “climate/culture” (fūdo), and “sense of balance” (baransu kankaku). Moreover, the two recurring notions that motivated him ­were that “work is not about making money” and “humanness [ningensei] is what constitutes the greatest importance in our work and life.” Together, ­these motivating beliefs seemed to give him a sense of coherence and orientation in his life throughout the rapid changes of late twentieth-­century and early twenty-­first-­century Japan. In many ways, Matsuda-­ san’s life seems to follow the popu­lar image of postwar Japa­nese society’s rise from the ashes, from the poverty of a rural, old-­fashioned community to the affluence of a cutting-­edge metropolitan center. Within this story, however, Matsuda-­san was quick to point out the continuity and coherence that was under­ neath the surface changes in his life and in Japa­nese society as a w ­ hole. Matsuda-­san was born in 1945 in a mountain village in Saitama. As the youn­ gest son of four siblings, from birth he was expected to find his life outside his natal ­family in accordance with the idea of primogeniture (katoku wo tsugu, where the first son ­will take over the stem ­family [ie]). According to Matsuda-­san, a palpable sense of social order (chitsujo) permeated the mountain village, which ­children observed naturally in their everyday life. As a result, even ­children voluntarily developed awareness for their own roles by seeing their parents within the village’s self-­sufficient system. As he recalled, “life in the mountain village was all about self-­sufficiency.” As a child, he had the role of helping his parents in the farmlands on weekends. His parents worked ­every day, and ­there was no concept of holidays or Sundays in the village. His parents and grandparents could only recognize Sundays by the presence of kids at home and on the farm. Despite the fact that the Matsudas had food, they did not have one impor­tant grain, rice, in the mountain village. Matsuda-­san grew up without eating much rice u ­ ntil he was eigh­teen years old, when he left the mountain village for Tokyo. Matsuda-­san remembered the evacuation of ­people from Tokyo to the mountain village during World War II. Their lives ­were called a “bamboo-­shoot lifestyle” (takenoko seikatsu), where they had to rip their clothes off piece by piece to exchange for food to survive, like peeling the layers of bamboo shoots. Matsuda-­ san still vividly remembered how fash­ion­able and pretty the girls from Tokyo looked. For him, they seemed very dif­fer­ent from village girls. He remembered how he sometimes gave some vegetables he found in his ­house freely to his friends from Tokyo. In this rural village in the immediate postwar period, the urban refugees ­were the poor ones in desperate need of help.



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For Matsuda-­san, his childhood in the village taught him the primary values that would structure his life. Matsuda-­san’s favorite concept and practice was social order (chitsujo). He explained, “Chitsujo is impor­tant to maintain not ­because it is a set rule but b ­ ecause this is the consciousness to bring together ­human life. That is why I think such cultural practice is impor­tant.” He spoke highly of his parents and the environment of his upbringing. As a child he was never forced to do ­things by his parents, and he was willing to help his parents just as his b ­ rothers and s­ isters did. Indeed in 2004, TV reporters documented his village and his ­family, and he videotaped it and told me that the video became his ­family’s trea­sure. Matsuda-­san’s ­father was a member of the village assembly (sonkai giin), and his grand­father was a financial minister in the village. As a child he had seen impressive male figures, which had affected his aesthetics regarding manhood. His oldest ­brother succeeded the elder Matsuda’s role and became the deputy secretary in the village. T ­ hese three men over three generations w ­ ere involved in village politics and tried to maintain the clean environment of their village. For Matsuda-­san, “Our humanness [ningensei] is fundamentally constituted through such climate/culture [fūdo]. And every­thing fi­nally comes down to humanness in the end, and this is the final chapter of my life, my ‘­grand design.’ ”

Joining the Printing Com­pany in the “Passionate Salaryman Period” High school was an impor­tant time for Matsuda-­san to discover new interests and further develop the foundations of what would solidify his g­ rand design. During high school, he joined the newspaper club, which would l­ater connect with his first steps into the workforce. His favorite subject during school was con­temporary society, and he was interested in social, po­liti­cal, and economic issues. Being sensitive to social movements in the village, he developed a keen interest in newspapers and publishing. Upon graduating from high school, he applied to a major printing and publishing com­pany, P. Printing Corporation, and he was offered a position to the ­great enthusiasm and support of his parents and siblings. According to Matsuda-­san, at that time in the 1960s, t­here was a strong tie between school and com­pany. Once a student was accepted by a com­pany, the student was expected to take the offer and to work hard for the com­pany. That was the princi­ple of faith and trust (shingi) so that the school could continue to send students to the com­pany in the ­future without undermining the trust relationships.1 Maintaining trust relationships through shingi was impor­tant back then, he asserted, lamenting that even the term shingi itself “has become like a dead word now.”

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At the age of eigh­teen, Matsuda-­san moved to Tokyo to join P. Printing. Matsuda-­san told me that long-­term employment was tacitly understood and widely embraced back then; t­ here was even an expression that once one enters a com­pany, one ­will determine to make it one’s final home (haitta kaisha ni hone wo umeru). The first monthly salary he earned was 10,300 yen, which was relatively low at the time, and his dormitory rent was 3,000 yen. Nonetheless, every­ body worked overtime, so the ­actual salary ­people received was more than 15,000 yen plus bonuses. And ­every year, every­one’s salary increased. Initially, Matsuda-­san explained that his reason and motivation for work was to make a living in the midst of poverty and a bad housing situation. ­After brief training in lectures and in the field, he was assigned to work in the Production Department and his on-­the-­job-­training (OJT) began. Matsuda-­san believed that “the basis of all training is OJT.” He recalled how employees spent a significant number of hours together on the job site, and sometimes they even dined together, which enabled them to learn deeply about each other. He stayed in the com­pany’s singles dormitory in Saitama, where he shared his bedroom with another employee. He got up and had breakfast at the dormitory café, commuting to the center of Tokyo to work and returning at night. By the time he finished work, he was so tired that he would simply go home and sleep. Matsuda-­san described this period as the “passionate salaryman period” (sarariiman mōretsu jidai), when every­body was working hard, and machines would never stop working. According to Matsuda-­san, t­ here was a conceptual link between the success of individuals and the success of the com­pany and the country back then. ­There was a general sense of mutual support and effort between the individual and the corporate institutions where they worked, rather than ­there being contention or division between the two. Matsuda-­san emphasized the importance of corporate housing as a key symbol of this cooperative symbiosis. The housing conditions in Japan during that period w ­ ere very poor, so the com­pany provided what the country could not: secure ­houses and inexpensive dormitories for employees. On weekends, although young employees w ­ ere tired, they all participated in club activities that the com­ pany provided. As he had played baseball since high school, Matsuda-­san joined the baseball club when he entered the com­pany. When they ­were told, “Come to the field on Sunday morning at nine o ­ ’clock!” he remembered how excited he was to go to the grounds even without sufficient sleep. Looking back now, Matsuda-­san recalled how lucky he had been as the com­ pany provided him with many ­things. He remembered that the beer and meals ­after Sunday baseball w ­ ere supported by the com­pany and “how they tasted so good a­ fter the workout.” He nostalgically reflected on how much P. Printing had supported employees at work and beyond work and lamented that “P. Printing



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also ­stopped subsidizing baseball and other sports. Back then, though, the com­ pany did every­thing for us and we felt a sense of affluence.” Matsuda-­san’s recollections reveal the perception of many salarymen at the time that the com­pany’s success extended to the employees’ own affluence and that companies and individuals ­were working hard together to improve each other through mutual reliance and trust.

Work Is Not about Making Money As a young man, Matsuda-­san had thought that being a “social adult” (shakaijin, literally “a person in society”) meant being a man dressed in a suit and tie. In the Production Department where he was first assigned to work, however, he basically stayed in the factory throughout the day in his operations uniform. In 1968, Matsuda-­san was transferred to the Sales Department. It was indeed his dream to work in sales, and he had been writing down this dream in the annual declaration form to his boss. In the Sales Department, he would fi­nally stay in a suit and go out to obtain o ­ rders. Moreover, within the com­pany, the Sales Department was tacitly ranked highest and was the most respected in the com­pany ­because it was the market center where they received requests from customers. This transfer to the Sales Department was the turning point in Matsuda-­san’s life and helped him to continue to develop his ­grand design. According to him, his ­grand design was the conceptual design that guided his life in an impor­tant way. Specifically, his g­ rand design contained a number of key concepts in order of importance: (1) ­family, (2) work, (3) finance, (4) health, and (5) friends. While he added the last two sections as he got older, for Matsuda-­san in his twenties what was impor­tant was his conscious separation of work from finance (money). For Matsuda-­san, “work [shigoto] is not about making money.” This was the realization he gained a­ fter he went to the Sales Department, where he learned from diverse customers, and it was further reinforced l­ater ­after he became a man­ag­er who was responsible for training employees. According to Matsuda-­san, the printing industry was fundamentally an industry of “order entry” (juchū sangyō). Without receiving customers’ o ­ rders, t­ here was no business. Thus, being in the Sales Department and gaining the ­orders from customers was a big deal for the com­pany. Matsuda-­san emphasized his passion for his work as the combination of personal efforts and results for the com­pany. He explained that he felt that he would receive ­orders through his personal effort, which at the time meant for him that “Matsuda Takeo as representative of P. Printing Corporation would make the sales” (“P. Printing toiu kanban wo shotta Matsuda Takeo ga uru”). However, as he gradually gained more experience in sales, he realized that he was no longer an employee of his own com­pany;

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he was part of the many companies of his customers. He started thinking about how he could be useful and helpful for his customers’ companies. Ever since, he became passionate in thinking with and for customers regarding what customers ­really wanted, and he made efforts to put himself in their shoes. His awakening was that he was no longer just a man of P. Printing but rather a member of the broad network of his customers. For Matsuda-­san, what was most fortunate about being in sales was that he was able to interact with and learn from diverse customers in diverse industries, including general construction, food, public relations, and even foreign companies. Back in the 1960s, the printing com­pany did not do any sort of advertisement or public relations, but Matsuda-­san was d ­ oing it himself in order to help his customers.

Learning through ­Labor Having only a high school degree, Matsuda-­san was not f­ ree from a certain sense of inferiority in terms of education. He told me that t­ here was one ­thing that he was often asked by other members or clients that used to bother him: “Matsuda-­ san, which university did you come from?” He felt inadequate as many simply assumed that he must have graduated from a prestigious university. But as he gained enough experience by learning through OJT and working with other companies, this practical knowledge and experience became his backbone so that he did not feel inferior to college gradu­ates anymore. In answer to their questions about which university, he became able to respond confidently, “P. Printing University!” Over the course of his c­ areer, not only P. Printing itself but other companies became his teachers in both corporate practices and in life. In addition to his domestic clients, foreign companies became one of his greatest educators. Matsuda-­san still vividly remembered one notable event when he was fifteen minutes late for a meeting with a foreign com­pany. Upon his arrival, the Japa­nese American man­ag­er, Michael Suzuki, scolded him, saying, “Fifteen minutes late . . . ​­don’t you understand what this fifteen minutes means to us? That is why you printing companies are looked down on!” In this fashion, “keeping time,” “making appointments,” and “keeping a contract” w ­ ere all key lessons he learned from foreign companies in Japan. In response to Suzuki’s scolding, Matsuda-­san thanked him for awakening him, and he became determined to change such negative conceptions about printing companies. At times, fulfilling customers’ ­orders meant bonding with them far beyond a ­simple company-­client relationship. Some jobs, such as working to help with campaign advertisements and promotions, could involve a one-­or two-­month-­ long pro­cess that was entirely confidential. Whenever Matsuda-­san was involved,



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he invested himself fully in his customers’ com­pany and became complicit with them. He felt that he was working for his customers, and this realization helped shape his view that “work is not just making money.” As he explained, “Anyone who is placed ­under such intersubjective conditions would feel this way. We are not working for one com­pany or one t­ hing.” Matsuda-­san also made some m ­ istakes, of course, but he always learned from them. One instance that continued to stick out in his memory was of his failure with 3M’s Post-it, which was an epoch-­making innovation at the time. When he was first shown the sample, which was already old and half torn, he did not realize ­there was glue on the back side. He was wondering why such a piece of paper could be so expensive, so he lowered the production cost and made them as he saw fit. By the date of completion, he proudly brought the product to the customer. The customers thanked him but noticed that t­ here was no glue on the back side, saying, “Matsuda-­san, it does not stick to anything.” Matsuda-­san was so surprised as he had never heard of glue on the back side of a piece of paper. He broke out in a cold sweat and sincerely apologized, “I am very sorry. I did not know about the glue on the other side of the paper. I ­will go back now to remake the complete product.” Matsuda-­san learned the lesson that he could not be “a big fish in a ­little barrel” anymore—he was competing on a large scale and had to change his perspective accordingly. In talking about ­these kinds of stories, Matsuda-­san showed me his lingering appreciation for the fact that he had learned so much from his customers. From his perspective, as companies and employees worked together to improve each other, so too did companies and clients. For Matsuda-­san, the lessons he learned from his customers through his job ­were also lessons that connected to his life trajectory from childhood to adulthood. The incident with Michael Suzuki in par­tic­u­lar was a refreshing experience as it also resonated with his sense of order, which he had learned from his mountain village. Indeed, it helped to reinforce the consistency of his childhood socialization and corporate resocialization, perhaps even lending a more concrete shape to the ­grand design that he used to or­ga­nize and orient his lifeway.

Cherry Tea and Marriage as a Rite of Order Young Matsuda-­san’s life left no space or time to meet w ­ omen. But he was always interested in getting married at the right moment with the right person. Marriage was part of the larger order of life for Matsuda-­san. At the age of twenty-­seven, when he began to feel that he was becoming full-­fledged in his work, he could fi­nally think of marriage, and he started to think about arranged meetings with potential marriage partners (omiai). Through some relatives, he found a pos­si­ble candidate from Tokyo who met his criteria for a marriage partner: she had a

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comparable upbringing, standard of living, and key values that matched his own. Matsuda-­san confessed to me that ­there was also a calculative aspect in his choice: he did not want to a w ­ oman from the countryside, as he wanted to avoid having to commute twice a year to visit them back t­ here. Matsuda-­san examined every­thing he could about the potential omiai partner beforehand, except for her mutual feelings. In the end he accepted the offer to meet and visited her f­amily with the matchmaker in Tokyo. He was very shy in telling me the story as he had never told it to anyone before. In the ­actual meeting, what surprised him was not only the way the ­woman, Sachiko-­san, presented herself but also her ­mother. She was a very refined and polite m ­ other, and Matsuda-­san concluded, “With this ­mother, ­there should be no ­mistake!” Then ­after three deep breaths, he sipped his cherry tea (sakura-­cha), which symbolized that he accepted the first round of the arranged meeting. In 1973, he married Sachiko-­san at the Meiji Kinenkan, a venue that was always in his mind and part of his g­ rand design. Matsuda-­san recalled that back then ­there was a sense that becoming full-­ fledged required getting married, which also came with new responsibilities for work and home. In other words, getting married meant that a man would gain more responsibility at home so that he would also be more passionate about his work. In Matsuda-­san’s case, he was already a passionate worker, and ­after his own marriage, his work lifestyle did not change. With his wife’s understanding, he worked hard ­every day ­until ten at night, except for Fridays. Matsuda-­san made it a rule to call his wife ­every day around six in the eve­ning to tell her ­whether he could go home early or not so that she would not simply waste her time waiting for him at dinner. At that time, it was rare for men to call home to tell their schedule to their wives, but Matsuda-­san maintained this habit. Two years a­ fter marrying, his first son was born, followed by a d ­ aughter the next year. His weekends ­were centered on his ­children. The Matsudas ­were gradually able to enjoy their holidays, which Matsuda-­san explained was one of the indications of their sense of wealth (yutakasa). During holidays, Matsuda-­san was able to use many of the com­pany’s recreation facilities across the country. He took his ­family to popu­lar vacation spots in Zushi, Hayama, Hakone, Yugawara, and Karuizawa, among other places. He fully enjoyed using such facilities, and as his ­children particularly liked Karuizawa, they visited ­every year ­until the ­children became twenty years old. Despite the long working hours, Matsuda-­san did not neglect his ­family. He made it a rule to go home early on Friday to dine together with his c­ hildren, and he used his weekends partially to go to the com­pany to catch up with leftover work. Matsuda-­san told me that he was unusual compared with many ­fathers as he was close to his ­children and knew generally what his ­children ­were thinking. Reflecting on his parenting, he remarked that he always tried to be an impressive



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f­ ather through his actions and mannerisms. He explained that he wanted to show a positive image of himself as a ­father, as he had grown up thinking how impressive his own f­ather was. His c­ hildren ended up developing a strong attachment to him, and they never shut themselves in their rooms; instead, they w ­ ere always in the living room, studying and ­doing their assignments. While ­people who knew the Matsudas often said that their c­ hildren w ­ ere too close to their parents, for Matsuda-­san, the closeness of the f­amily was a good ­thing, as he had grown up that way with his parents in the mountain village.

The Detour (Yorimichi) Period When Matsuda-­san turned forty years old, he was promoted to a managerial position in the Sales Department. It was around this period that his wife, Sachiko-­ san, started working part-­time jobs ­after the early child-­rearing years ­were over. As she was interested in education, she started working for a university near their home. In their forties, both of them gained additional responsibilities away from home, and Matsuda-­san found himself drawn deeper into the interpersonal relationships both inside and out of his com­pany as a new man­ag­er who had to satisfy both clients and subordinates. As a man­ag­er, Matsuda-­san did not have to do the same amount of sales promotion as he did previously, and his official work hours w ­ ere reduced. Nonetheless, he now had to dedicate himself ­wholeheartedly to managing client relations, as well as training and managing ju­niors, which added new social responsibilities and time constraints. As Matsuda-­san took his new mission seriously, he would wake up around four ­o’clock in the morning to think through his plans for the day for his ju­niors and clients. This attitude extended to his home life. Matsuda-­ san would also think about the kinds of conversation topics he could offer to his ­family on his way home. Matsuda-­san called this period of holding a managerial position, his “detour [yorimichi] period,” when he could not go straight home ­after work. During this time, he had to take customers out for dining or entertainment, though he did not do it with the idea that he would gain more ­orders through such socializing. Nonetheless, it required him to adjust his life schedule around ­these unavoidable engagements. Matsuda-­san always believed that he had pursued his style of selling through his personality as a “living signboard” for his com­pany. As a man­ag­er, however, he could not do it by himself anymore; he needed to transmit this skill and train his subordinates to be able to do so instead. As he realized the difficulty of teaching one’s own sensitivity, Matsuda-­san took communication with his subordinates as the most impor­tant task. Sometimes, he confided, he wanted to take his subordinates out just to listen to and understand them. This was another point in

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our conversations where he wanted to convey to me that work was not about making money; his success, he explained, was not b ­ ecause he was good at selling his com­pany or brownnosing to his bosses but ­because he was thinking seriously about his customers’ companies and his subordinates. During one of our interviews, Matsuda-­san described the kind of salaryman that he did not want to become. He told me that ­there was a kind of salaryman who was always looking up (ue bakari miteiru) and watching the reactions from the top; he was determined not to become this kind of salaryman. According to Matsuda-­san, t­ hese salarymen w ­ ere the ones who w ­ ere constantly worried about what their bosses thought of them and what their bosses wanted them to do. T ­ hese ­people ­were often denigrated by ­others as they ­were simply brownnosing, and ­these same individuals w ­ ere often the ones who cared the least about colleagues or subordinates. Matsuda-­san thus gave extra care to his ju­niors, ­because he felt that training his ju­niors was more impor­tant than always looking upward. Being a man­ag­er, Matsuda-­san’s responsibility was doubled. One unavoidable and uncontrollable aspect of such a position was the responsibility he took on for the trou­bles of his subordinates, he explained. Compared with other companies, P. Printing had relatively lower rates of employee trou­bles, but still t­ here ­were prob­lems that he described as unavoidable among employees, such as monetary prob­lems, depression, and unhappy divorces. For Matsuda-­san, while he knew that it might sound very old-­fashioned, he always thought of his employees as ­family members—­though a dif­fer­ent kind of ­family from his real ­family. He basically conceptualized training his subordinates as “raising his own c­ hildren.” He knew that his subordinates would not think of him as a f­ ather, but he wanted to be a man who r­ eally cared about his subordinates and tried to see t­hings from the same level. Specifically, Matsuda-­san wanted his employees to have a comfortable life working together in the com­pany. For him, this was the responsibility and role of someone who supervises subordinates. Thus, when t­ here ­were trou­ bles, he felt regretful and would search himself to find any way that he could have given more support to his employees and prevented it. Moreover, while it was difficult to judge how much he should involve himself in the lives of his employees, he thought it would be irresponsible if he did not care about their lives. Just as he felt that his own work life and f­ amily life sustained each other, he hoped that his employees could manage and value their work and f­ amily lives equally well.

Bodily Re­sis­tance at Forty-­two: Wrestling with Male Menopause and Corporate Change While Matsuda-­san had never had any serious sickness, at the age of forty-­two he suddenly felt a loss of energy. While many se­nior male friends told him that they



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suddenly gained pains all over their body as a noticeable symptom of male menopause, for him it was the sense of tiredness he felt in the morning and during work. As a man who had always been so excited and passionate about his work, he had never felt this way before. Matsuda-­san called the symptom “the sickness that prevented me from feeling energy.” Matsuda-­san did not consult with his ­family b ­ ecause “I was fine at home and no one at home even recognized any change in me. It only became apparent at work.” He strug­gled to figure out the cause at the time, but looking back years l­ ater, he understood that it was the pressure and stress from his sense of responsibility as a man­ag­er, since he always wanted to respond to each situation with his full attention. Matsuda-­san’s increasing sense of responsibility was further exacerbated by the increasing digitalization in the printing industry. According to Matsuda-­san, prepress was becoming digitalized and was no longer part of their business, which decreased the volume of paper sales and brought increasing pressure to the com­ pany. As some parts of the printing business completely dis­appeared, P. Printing had to find other ways to keep their business, and Matsuda-­san strug­gled with this and took this mission seriously. In the end, they began to develop new products beyond paper, which allowed them to take on new kinds of ­orders. For example, they started creating films for liquid crystal displays, which was one of the fastest growing sectors in the printing industry. For Matsuda-­san, this also revealed the importance of being adaptable. Matsuda-­san felt the increasing need for young employees who could respond to the changing needs appropriately. As the printing industry changed, so too did P. Printing’s corporate culture. The changes ­were driven not only by the transformation of the industry but also by broader management changes across the corporate world in the 1990s (see chapter 2). P. Printing, following the lead of other major companies, implemented a new performance-­based merit system. As a man­ag­er during this period, Matsuda-­san told me about how this affected employee morale at P. Printing. As the com­pany recognized the prob­lems that w ­ ere emerging, he became involved in the management team that was tasked with rethinking the merit system. From his perspective in the Sales Department, Matsuda-­san felt that the new merit system was incongruous, ­because it only mea­sured profits or quantifiable targets of self-­actualization, such as achieving personal goals. In contrast, for Matsuda-­san, work was neither about making money nor about self-­actualization: Now that I think about it, work is not about self-­actualization, ­either. Work is about how well one can train o ­ thers. While quantifiable results make ­things explicit, other unquantifiable qualities, such as humanness [ningensei] and personal quality/character [jinkaku], are so impor­tant, especially in sales, where we make long-­term ­human relationships. We

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have a phrase, “at first glance/on the surface” [ikken], but something that looks good “at first glance/on the surface” is no good. Thus, it is very impor­tant for bosses to have the ability to discern the deeper humanness and personal quality/character of their subordinates. ­After much deliberation, P. Printing developed a revised merit system that included a new category of short-­term evaluations, which gave t­ hose who received poor marks another chance to improve (see the discussion of permutation tournaments in chapter 2). Matsuda-­san felt proud of P. Printing’s revised policy: Evaluation is always very difficult, especially for the evaluators. In a com­ pany, competition is necessary to judge differences. Based on some sort of competition, we decide winners or losers. Even with new merit system, we cannot judge every­thing through numbers. No ­matter how ­great a boss is or no ­matter how much merit is quantified ­under the new performance-­based merit systems, it is still a h ­ uman evaluation on another ­human being, and ­there is always a limit to such an evaluation. In addition to corporate changes, Matsuda-­san incorporated changes into his own lifestyle. For instance, he tried to change his lifestyle by exercising in order to find a way to break ­free from his perceived deadlock. He made a m ­ ental promise to accept that “I cannot do more than I can do” and that “what­ever I do is not wrong,” a frame of mind that he called positive thinking (purasu shikō). Moreover, ­after consulting with his wife about his desire to exercise, he began walking around his neighborhood and ­later joined the local tennis club. Matsuda-­san’s way of tackling the difficulties of his midforties’ enervation was a g­ reat success on a number of levels. His positive thinking and exercise helped him to recuperate his energy at work. Moreover, he gained new friends through tennis that extended beyond his workplace. As a result, he was able to distract himself from an exclusive focus on work and find enjoyment in other spheres of his life. Since this predicament at the age of forty-­two, Matsuda-­san had made it a rule to practice tennis e­ very Saturday and to go to work a­ fter the practice. ­After five years he graduated from the tennis school, but he continued practicing tennis with his consociates and even went to a competition at the age of fifty-­five. His tennis friends included salarymen, shop ­owners, ­house­wives, and young and old ­couples. Matsuda-­san’s son also recently joined the same club. The friendships in the club lasted more than twenty years. In response, Matsuda-­san added two new dimensions to his g­ rand design: health and friends. As Matsuda-­san began a weekly exercise routine, his wife also started g­ oing to the local gym. They now enjoyed working out together a few times a week, ­going to the bath­house together at the gym, and dining together in the eve­nings at home.



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A New ­Century, a New Opportunity: Retirement and Reemployment For some of the more successful salarymen of Matsuda-­san’s generation, the dawn of the twenty-­first ­century also heralded unexpected opportunities ­toward the end of their official ­careers. For Matsuda-­san, this took the form of a new job offer from outside of the com­pany. In 2003, one prestigious corporation, D. O. Publishing, requested an employee from P. Printing who was an experienced professional in publishing production and bookbinding. P. Printing seriously considered who would be the best person for this prestigious position, and Matsuda-­san was chosen. Upon hearing the request, Matsuda-­san answered with a spirited, “Yes!” as he felt honored to be selected for the position. All he needed to do was to ask his ­family w ­ hether they also agreed with him, and indeed, his wife and ­children fully supported him. While Matsuda-­san felt grateful to be selected, this also meant that he would leave P. Printing, where he had worked for more than forty years. Matsuda-­san was presented with two options: (1) ­going to D. O. Publishing as a temporary transfer (shukkō) while he maintained his official employment at P. Printing or (2) retiring from P. Printing and becoming officially employed by D. O. Publishing. In March 2003, Matsuda-­san took early retirement from P. Printing and moved to D. O. Publishing at the age of fifty-­eight as a new man­ag­er. He recalled that he was filled with excitement and anxiety about ­whether the way he had done ­things in P. Printing would be useful at D. O. Publishing. The original contract was for one year, and Matsuda-­san spent half the year figuring out what kind of com­pany D. O. Publishing was and what sort of employees D. O. Publishing had. Soon, Matsuda-­san realized that the ­actual production quality at D. O. Publishing was not as high as he had expected, so the knowledge and skills he possessed turned out to be useful for them. According to Matsuda-­san, D. O. Publishing was very dif­fer­ent from P. Printing. D. O. Publishing became a publicly traded com­pany that raised funds through vari­ous business ventures, unlike conventional printing companies that are not reliant on investments or stockholders. Matsuda-­san also noted that D. O. Publishing pursued vari­ous mergers and acquisitions, which affected their corporate culture. In 2003, D. O. Publishing transitioned into a holding com­pany by splitting its divisions into separate companies and then proceeded to buy out dozens of its subsidiaries throughout the 2000s and 2010s. Matsuda-­san felt that this affected employees’ feelings about the meaning of their job and their com­ pany, as t­ here was no single unifying culture or goals. For instance, he described how at first employees did not greet each other in the morning and would just sit at their desks individually, working on their own tasks. At P. Printing, regardless

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of one’s job task, age, or gender, every­one would first greet each other and gather for a morning call. Matsuda-­san speculated that the new atmosphere at D. O. Publishing was “a feature of a publishing com­pany where ­people with individual skills and achievement come and work nowadays.” Matsuda-­san also described the management at D. O. Publishing as very dry, explaining that they simply dismiss employees who do not perform well without trying to consult with or encourage them. Third, Matsuda-­san discovered that many employees suffered from ­mental illnesses, especially depression, which he felt was a result of poor ­human relations and communication in the com­pany. In the end, Matsuda-­san worked for D. O. Publishing for more than four years, which he called emotionally exhausting. Although his original contract was for one year, the com­pany expected him to renew, and he felt responsible for helping them, so he agreed. In 2006, Matsuda-­san was told that the next year would be his last at D. O. Publishing. On June 30, 2007, Matsuda-­san officially retired from D. O. Publication at the age of sixty-­two. Looking back, Matsuda-­san told me he felt a bit emotionally restrained at D. O. Publishing. For the first two years, he was always conscious that he was an outsider, but even a­ fter he realized that his knowledge and skills would be very useful for them, he lamented that “­there was no sense of coherence or unity in the com­pany.” For Matsuda-­san, “P. Printing works as an organ­ization [soshiki de ugoku], while D. O. Publishing works through individuals [kojin de ugoku].” He continued, “An organ­ization raises and trains employees but also protects employees. The organ­ization that fosters much stronger individuals would perhaps be D. O. Publishing, but the one that fosters both a strong com­pany and strong individuals would be P. Printing.”

­After Retirement ­ ntil recently, the dominant image of the salaryman began and ended with their U life in the com­pany. As the baby boomer generation passes retirement age and spends longer years in good health, the neatly packaged (though always misleading) image of salaryman as com­pany man begs for reexamination. Not all salarymen fall into the gutters as “wet fallen leaves” (nure ochiba) or lay around the ­house as “oversized garbage” (sodai gomi)—­two common pejoratives for postretirement salarymen who while away their retired life bereft of meaning and vitality. Matsuda-­san was precisely one example of a salaryman who continued to polish himself and find new meaning in l­ater life. ­After his retirement from D. O. Publishing in 2007, Matsuda-­san rejoined P. Printing. According to him, in May 2007 he became serious about his postretirement plans: his goal was to work as long as he was active and able. Having spent



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several years at a dif­fer­ent com­pany, Matsuda-­san realized his attachment to P. Printing, while he also knew that it would be impossible to go back to the place that he had already quit. When he was asked by his former colleagues at P. Printing to visit his old com­pany to announce his retirement from D. O. Publishing, he went to P. Printing and formally greeted them. In fact, more than just announcing his retirement, Matsuda-­san went to P. Printing with the goal of expressing his hopes sincerely and honestly. He announced, “I am about to retire from D. O. Publishing a­ fter four and a half years. It was a g­ reat experience for me. However, P. Printing is the com­pany I worked at for more than forty years and I feel attached to it. If t­ here is any situation for which I can be helpful for P. Printing, I would like to use my experience and help young employees as a con­sul­tant or assistant in some form.” He knew that it would not be pos­si­ble, but he wanted to express this sincere feeling during his visit to his old com­pany. To his surprise, he was asked to come help P. Printing ­after his retirement from D. O. Publishing. Even his friends ­were surprised that he was able to return, and he jokingly told me, “Maybe they ­were surprised by my audacity . . . ​but I was not ashamed of it, as I was sincerely attached to P. Printing, and it would be best for me if I can be helpful for them.” Matsuda-­san stressed that as long as he was alive, he wanted P. Printing to be successful. This sense of attachment was accentuated by the fact that he had also spent time at another com­pany (“on the other shore,” as he put it). This enabled him to see P. Printing more objectively. Back at P. Printing, he worked from nine in the morning to six at night, and while he had less responsibility, he was truly happy to be working at his old com­pany again. Matsuda-­san also told me about one more activity that he recently started during this new phase of his life. While he used to walk around his neighborhood, he started walking around the Imperial Palace e­ very Sunday morning in 2006. Matsuda-­san looked very confident describing his new hobby. What brought him to the center of Tokyo for his walking routine was a publisher who needed participants to document the walking practice for a magazine. T ­ here ­were many ­people who responded to the advertisement, and Matsuda-­san was chosen to participate. This was the initial trigger, but the special significance of the area for him was that he could walk through the “Japa­nese order” through the dif­fer­ent seasons. The surroundings of the Imperial Palace constitute a range of cultural and symbolic monuments, including the National Diet and vari­ous cultural facilities. Participants gathered around the Imperial Palace and started walking at eight thirty on Sunday mornings. One full round was about five kilo­meters, and it usually took him one full hour. ­After the magazine proj­ect, Matsuda-­san continued his walking ­every Sunday. His wife also joined his walking in 2007, and now both of them came, rain or shine, on Sunday mornings to walk. Ever the close

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c­ ouple, ­after the long walk they usually went shopping together and enjoyed the other opportunities presented to them in this heart of the Japa­nese order.

Reflecting on Past Years: Matsuda-­san’s Postwar Japan Matsuda-­san was a man who took his ­grand design seriously. But by the end of our meeting in 2010, he told me that as much as he believed in the importance of planning, he also believed in the idea of fate. “Our actions and lives are led by our fate,” he explained. “Perhaps having lived more than sixty years, I can think this way now.” He thanked me over and over and expressed how meaningful the interview pro­cess was for him, as talking to me gave him a chance to reflect on and or­ga­nize his past and his life. ­After being reemployed in a supporting role at his old com­pany, he also realized how fortunate it was for him to have been accepted and promoted by P. Printing. While he was a “winner” in his com­pany in the sense that he was successfully promoted to a managerial position, he also gained a tremendous amount of responsibility in return. For Matsuda-­san, a com­pany was like a baseball team. The coach has to know all the skills and qualities of individual players. Individual players are expected to be good at every­thing, including pitching, hitting, and ­running. Thus, the balance of such skills becomes impor­tant. A com­pany has to use both the balanced players and the ones who are good at one skill in par­tic­u­ lar, and it is the man­ag­er’s job to identify and cultivate each member. But he also added that “the ones with the best potential for promotion are ­those with the most balanced skills.” As we talked about the impact of recent economic and social trends on the printing industry, our conversation drifted to general standards of life for him and his generation. Just as he felt that the printing industry as a ­whole did not drastically change despite the many transformations within it, Matsuda-­san did not see much change in the consciousness of the New M ­ iddle Class in Japan. Instead, he felt that what changed was “the baseline of living standards.” For him, the baseline for his generation was very low at the beginning so that it was easier for his generation to collectively feel the improvement of life, which made them feel like a part of the growing m ­ iddle class. But nowadays the baseline of life was already quite high, he argued, so younger ­people might not feel much improvement in their lifetime. As he was always philosophical and thoughtful, Matsuda-­san said that he was often asked by his friends and colleagues, “­Aren’t you tired by thinking so much?” To such a question, Matsuda-­san answered, “This is genuinely the way I am, so it never tires me.” He lived his life by thinking through his life issues and events and



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assessing them alongside his ­grand design. Though ­family, work, and finance ­were the original ele­ments of this g­ rand design, it was not inflexible and unchanging; the circumstances of aging and reemployment in a colder and more competitive com­pany inspired him to add the new dimensions of health and friends. Matsuda-­ san told me that he started paying attention to the quality of relationships when he started working for D. O. Publishing. By seeing the superficiality of ­human relations and many depressed employees at D. O. Publishing, Matsuda-­san wondered about the quality of colleagues and employees and at the same time revalued the friends he gained through P. Printing and the tennis club. Matsuda-­san realized that his primary motivation in making so many diverse friends in the past had been in order to learn t­ hings from them. But now, he sincerely wanted to be with and get along with t­hose consociates for whom he r­ eally cared. Reflecting on this change of consciousness, he remarked that he enjoyed the “true” friendships he had with his long-­term companions from P. Printing and the tennis club, as well as a few good friends he had recently gained through D. O. Publishing.

­Future Dreams Matsuda-­san also told me about his tentative plan for the f­uture. He had been thinking seriously about how he spent his leisure time, and in addition to playing with his grandchildren and exercising with his wife, he was interested in studying history, which had always been his favorite subject. More specifically, he explained, he wanted to pass the national qualification exam on Edo history, and at the time of our interview in 2010, he was modestly studying for that year’s exam. This idea was influenced by his daughter-­in-­law, who was also very interested in history. As she had done throughout much of his life, his wife also supported this idea, again demonstrating the closeness of his ­family bonds. Matsuda-­san told me that, ideally, he wanted to be forever active (gen’eki) working, studying history, playing tennis, and walking.

Takagi Susumu: Navigating Like a Social Butterfly Takagi-­san was known as a social butterfly, a label he embraced. Unlike the ste­ reo­typical image of retired men who are more or less disembedded in social spaces, Takagi-­san was always on the go with his insatiable curiosity and positive attitude. As far as I can remember, whenever we met, he was always on his way to social events or coming back from some gatherings for work, his personal hobbies,

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or with his ­family or friends. He told me that ever since he was a child, he was curious to know what lives p ­ eople lived and had read many books on dif­fer­ent life stories all over the world. Despite moving frequently during his life, he essentially settled in two places: Tokyo and the New E ­ ngland region of the United States. He recalled that despite many dif­fer­ent ­people who participated in his journey along the way, t­ here was one figure who left a tremendous influence on his life, for better or for worse. This individual was his direct boss, whom Takagi-­san called the “Passionate Man­ag­er” (Mōretsu Kachō). ­Under the severe and sometimes intolerable passion of this power­ful figure in his life, Takagi-­san was able to flourish as both a salaryman and as an individual and was given the opportunity to pursue his international dreams—­the roots of which stretched back to the tumultuous soil of American-­influenced postwar Japan.

­Under the Influence of American Democracy Born in 1946, Takagi-­san was a Tokyo native. He grew up u ­ nder the influence of the American GHQ (the Allied occupation forces, hereafter, GHQ) and postwar demo­cratic movements. Just like ­others raised during that time, Takagi-­san grew up watching American TV shows (e.g., ­Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show), and as a young man he also developed an interest in Western movies and American ­music and started learning the guitar. Reflecting, he felt that such American cultural influences w ­ ere a kind of intentional demo­cratizing movement emanating from GHQ. Nonetheless, it motivated him to yearn for the United States and for the f­uture. The United States he envisioned was a dif­fer­ent place from Tokyo; it was a place where high school students drove to school and dated girls freely. His ­father, an engineer, also influenced young Takagi-­san by watching Hollywood movies and listening to American m ­ usic with him. His childhood interests guided him to the Tokyo University of Foreign Studies to major in En­glish and American studies. According to his own self-­evaluation, he was a very shy child. However, just like many other students, he joined an extracurricular activity, a university archery club, which trained him to be more social, open, and daring. A ­ fter competitions, the club would dine together, and sometimes the se­nior club members took the ju­nior members to strip clubs. It was also around this time when his younger s­ ister went to Los Angeles for a short home stay. Takagi-­san recalled that she came back home completely dif­fer­ent, an “iron ­woman,” as he put it, tanned with very long hair and a big presence. Realizing the potential for such cultural influence on one’s mannerisms and body, his dream to go to the United States grew even stronger.



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Meeting the Legendary Mōretsu Kachō In 1968, Takagi-­san joined a major IT com­pany, F. C. Corporation. During the job interview, he expressed his interest in working for the Department of Overseas Marketing. Upon ac­cep­tance, he was given a written oath to sign—­a pledge to work hard according to com­pany rules, with his parents as guarantors. Luckily, he was assigned to the Division of North American Marketing a­ fter a month of initial training. ­After just a short time at the com­pany, Takagi-­san’s dream of working in international marketing came true. However, his first boss in this division was very fierce and overbearing t­ oward his subordinates. Takagi-­san described his boss as the legendary Passionate Man­ag­er (Mōretsu Kachō), who was energetic and single-­minded in training his subordinates, and his workload was amazing. The term Mōretsu Kachō became the enduring moniker that Takagi-­san remembered him by. Once Mōretsu Kachō made a goal, he would see it through to the end with the utmost devotion. Mōretsu Kachō was also an educated man and had even spent a year at Yale University on a Fulbright scholarship. Mōretsu Kachō loved to be a leader in anything, Takagi-­san recalled; despite only spending one year at Yale, he enjoyed serving as the or­ga­nizer for the Japan Yale Association. From Takagi-­san’s perspective, his boss was always filled with energy and a strong spirit and never let anyone take a rest ­under his supervision. Takagi-­san worked Monday through Saturday from eight thirty in the morning ­until ten at night. On weekends, he was completely exhausted and just slept all day at his parent’s home, where he continued to live. Takagi-­san remembered complaining about his boss at home to his parents. His ­father listened to his complaints patiently, and Takagi-­san hoped to gain sympathy by talking about how unreasonable Mōretsu Kachō was. However, his ­father’s reaction was the opposite: “That is an impressive boss!” he had said. From his ­father’s perspective, it was getting rarer and rarer to find a boss who thought so seriously about training his subordinates and who could actually scold the subordinates passionately. From his own experience as a salaryman, Takagi-­san’s ­father told him how rare and special this Mōretsu Kachō was. Mōretsu Kachō did not limit his intervention to work issues for his subordinates e­ ither; he cared about his subordinates’ personal affairs as well. If a young salaryman stayed single, Mōretsu Kachō worried and would try to act as a matchmaker. Even for Takagi-­san, as he was single for a while, Mōretsu Kachō offered ­those ser­v ices. Takagi-­san turned him down though, as he knew that Mōretsu Kachō would forever act like a ­father to him and control his marital affairs. Not all of Mōretsu Kachō’s subordinates rejected his offers. When one young ju­nior who Takagi-­san worked with, Suda-­san, was about to get married, Mōretsu

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Kachō offered to become a go-­between (nakōdo) and performed this role in the wedding. ­After the marriage, Suda-­san frequently came late for work in the morning, and every­one became aware of it. One day, Mōretsu Kachō could not stand Suda-­san’s newlywed tardiness and scolded him loudly. Mōretsu Kachō said to him in front of the other employees, “You ­were late yesterday. You are late ­today, too. Tardiness, tardiness! What on earth are you thinking? I know you are a newlywed. But still you went a l­ ittle too far. I am your nakōdo, which basically means that I am like your parents!” Mōretsu Kachō dramatically shamed this young man in front of the entire office, which taught Takagi-­san an impor­tant lesson about how far to let his superiors involve themselves in his affairs. ­There ­were many humorous episodes about Mōretsu Kachō. According to Takagi-­san, Mōretsu Kachō sometimes made some good points, but other times, he was unreasonable. Once Takagi-­san was asked to write a letter to a visitor from the United States. When he finished his first draft, Mōretsu Kachō asked him to bring the draft letter. In looking at the letter, Mōretsu Kachō’s attention was drawn to a line where Takagi-­san wished happiness for the visitor’s ­family, including the visitor’s child. Upon noticing that the visitor had two sons, Mōretsu Kachō called Takagi-­san to his desk and corrected his inattentiveness, explaining, “This is a good letter, but you made a ­mistake h ­ ere. Mr. So-­and-­So has two sons. So it has to be childs instead of child.’ ” Mōretsu Kachō looked smug identifying this “­mistake,” as Takagi-­san was known for his En­glish skills. Takagi-­san almost burst into laughter when he heard the term childs, but he did not know how to point out Mōretsu Kachō’s ­mistake, so he simply said, “Kachō, excuse me, but the plural form of child is not childs but ­children.” Mōretsu Kachō’s face turned red, and he shouted back, “I . . . ​I knew that! Well, ­haven’t you recently become very precocious [namaikida]. You are. Well, do not ever talk about this to anyone. Got it?” As a third party listening to Takagi-­san’s tales, the figure of Mōretsu Kachō had the power to make outsiders like me laugh. But for insiders, this kind of be­ hav­ior was sometimes intolerable. Mōretsu Kachō would also check the desks of each employee and complained openly if one’s work desk was messy, as he felt that this reflected one’s attitude ­toward work. Takagi-­san was always afraid of Mōretsu Kachō’s anger, so he always kept his desk clean, to the extent that his desk was always the center of praise by his boss. Sometimes Mōretsu Kachō would secretly check inside the desk and openly announce the results as well. Many of Takagi-­san’s colleagues bonded by complaining about Mōretsu Kachō in after-­work drinking and secretly wished that he would not be promoted in the ­future. Mōretsu Kachō was still legendary even ­after retiring from such a large corporation, and the echoes of his continued endeavors reached the ears of his former employees. Even ­after he reached the age of eighty in 2008, he remained



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energetic. Mōretsu Kachō was hospitalized for a complicated heart surgery pro­ cedure in 2007, and while he had been told t­ here was ­little possibility for his surgery to be successful, he survived and recovered from the potentially fatal disease. At the O. B. (“Old Boy”) alumni association for former employees, many described Mōretsu Kachō with the phrase “Ill weeds are sure to thrive” (nikumarekko yoni habakaru), as being an officious person, he might be disliked by ­others but nonetheless could survive every­thing with his energy to fight anything, including such a dangerous heart disease. Indeed, Mōretsu Kachō left such an impact on Takagi-­san that our meetings never ended without at least a brief mention of him.

Following His Dream to the United States Even years ­after retiring, Takagi-­san was still friends with Mōretsu Kachō, and they had lively conversations whenever they met at the F. C. Corporation’s O. B. association events. As much as Takagi-­san often grew excited when talking about Mōretsu Kachō, though, he occasionally told me that he felt very ambivalent about his boss. Takagi-­san reflected that although he had been trained so strictly by his boss to the extent that he occasionally wanted to quit the com­pany, he said that so much of who he was now was thanks to Mōretsu Kachō, who had worked so hard to train his ju­niors to become full-­fledged social adults (shakaijin). Mōretsu Kachō’s dedication was not just for his own promotion; he also had a certain degree of “fatherly love” in training his ju­niors. This care for his subordinates was first made clear to Takagi-­san within five months ­after his entry to F. C. Corporation, in 1969. Mōretsu Kachō invited him to his office one day out of the blue and asked him to go to New York to receive on-­the-­job training, while also serving as the face of the com­pany for F. C. Corporation in New York. Subsequently, Mōretsu Kachō even taught Takagi-­san ­table manners before his departure to the United States. Thus, for Takagi-­san, Mōretsu Kachō was also his benefactor (onjin), who gave him a tremendous opportunity and a chance to pursue his dream. Takagi-­san’s story was a rare one among my in­for­mants and among his colleagues as well. It was almost unheard of for someone who just entered the com­ pany to leave the workplace to receive such overseas training. Takagi-­san was released to head off to New York without even mastering his job at the Tokyo office. While other colleagues secretly told Takagi-­san that Mōretsu Kachō saw potential in him, Takagi-­san remembered one notable incident that might have been a key reason for Mōretsu Kachō’s decision. When the Division of North American Marketing had guests from the United States, Mōretsu Kachō asked Takagi-­san to take them on a trip to the historical area of Nikko. Thanks to Takagi-­ san’s efforts during this trip, the guests enjoyed themselves tremendously and

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l­ater sent a very thoughtful thank-­you letter to F. C. Corporation. In the letter, they enthusiastically praised Takagi-­san’s hospitality. According to Takagi-­san, thanks to their letter an other­wise invisible young man’s name gained attention in F. C. Corporation. It was not only bosses but also members in the same division who spread the rumor that Takagi-­san was impressive and that he was very capable of ­handling Americans. In September 1969, five months ­after joining the com­pany, he was sent to the United States amid a warm send-­off at the airport from his colleagues. For two years in New York City, he received not only on-­the-­job training but also continuing education at a university, where he studied American history and business En­glish, all at the expense of F. C. Corporation. In Manhattan he was living alone and abroad for the first time. “Every­thing was new and exciting!” he recalled with a smile. He worked from nine in the morning ­until five in the eve­ ning, a­ fter which he went to take courses at the New School for Social Studies and New York University in the eve­nings. During his time in Manhattan, Takagi-­san fully enjoyed his work life and personal life. He made friends with students from all over the world by g­ oing to the night school. He also made close American friends, including one generous gay man, Miller, who was a former musician and had a crush on Takagi-­san ­after they met on the streets of Manhattan. Though never romantically involved, Miller took him to many in­ter­est­ing places in the city. On weekends, his F. C. se­niors, the Takimotos, took him out in the city, and they often played golf together.

Returning Home and Reunion with Mōretsu Kachō In 1971, to his colleagues’ cheers and warm welcome at the airport, Takagi-­san returned to Japan. His intense work life awaited him. He had the same Mōretsu Kachō waiting for him at the office, ready to discipline him. Takagi-­san recalled that Mōretsu Kachō put him to work gruelingly from the moment of his return. By the time he came home in the eve­nings, he was too tired even to eat dinner. ­Under this pressure, Takagi-­san started questioning his ability and began to feel out of place in F. C. Corporation. Meanwhile, since he did not want to confront Mōretsu Kachō directly, he waited for the right time to express his feelings in other ways. What he deeply felt around this time in his ­career was that he was not suited for his job or even for corporate life. Takagi-­san described himself as being “very slow on the uptake,” and he could not work as efficiently and hard as other competent employees. Being in the Department of Overseas Marketing, he was preoccupied by quantified goals, and this placed a tremendous emotional burden on him. As he was seriously distressed, he de­cided to consult with his se­nior, Ōkubo-­ san, who was a fellow gradu­ate of Tokyo University of Foreign Studies and had



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originally worked in the same Department of Overseas Marketing with him. Takagi-­san reflected on the constructive advice he received from his se­nior: Well, it is easy to make a quick assumption based on where you are and what you do in the com­pany. But the com­pany is like Mt. Fuji. Once you are on the top of Mt. Fuji, every­thing seems the same. But depending on where you came from, the east side or the west side, your views are completely dif­fer­ent. In other words, not being able to work well in one division does not necessarily mean that you are not suited for corporate life. According to Takagi-­san, Ōkubo-­san was also a person who could not work competitively in the Department of Overseas Marketing and was l­ater transferred to the Public Relations Department, where he found meaning in his work. Thus, Ōkubo-­san suggested that Takagi-­san might also be a person more suited for the Public Relations Department, where he could have more time and exert his ability fully at a slower pace. With his se­nior’s advice, Takagi-­san was increasingly attracted to the Public Relations Department, where, he believed, he would not be judged by quantified goals and could escape from slaving ­under the constant pressure of Mōretsu Kachō.

Strategies for Pos­si­ble Change Once a year at F. C. Corporation, employees w ­ ere given a declaration form (jiko shinkokusho) where they w ­ ere to describe how much satisfaction they had with their work and department. Individuals ­were allowed to write any concerns and wishes regarding their bosses, although they ­were also supervised directly by them. Takagi-­san took this opportunity to confess his feelings to Mōretsu Kachō. Thinking back to this impor­tant moment in his c­ areer, he recalled that he took up his pen and boldly scrawled, “I was not unsatisfied with my current job in the Marketing Department. But with this much pressure, I am afraid that I am not suited for this department. Listening to my se­nior, Ōkubo-­san, who moved to the Public Relations Department, I also feel that I could exercise my ability better in that department. It would be ­great if I could be transferred to that department.” As soon as the declaration form was collected, Takagi-­san was called from his desk and scolded harshly by Mōretsu Kachō, who asked him, “What is wrong with our department? Do you have some kind of prob­lem with us?” ­Needless to say, his request was not approved. Takagi-­san was crushed. A ­ fter his request was rejected, Takagi-­san started thinking seriously about quitting and becoming a high school En­glish teacher, an alternative desire that he had long held. He strove to find time to study for the

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exam to become a licensed teacher. He successfully passed the interview stage and was offered a job at one prestigious high school in Tokyo. Thinking that he could use this job offer as bargaining power, he once again sought to consult his boss. Not surprisingly, Mōretsu Kachō again grew livid, but in the end, he de­cided to accede to Takagi-­san’s request, saying: ­ on’t you know how much I have invested in you? ­Don’t you see it? I D sent you off to New York for two years, and do you know what it meant to me as my investment? What have I been d ­ oing? A ­ fter all that, the person I supported so much and invested so much in is leaving the com­ pany? What is my responsibility for that? It is not just you; I also need to quit. It is ­really a prob­lem if you just quit so easily. Clearly Mōretsu Kachō was extremely upset about Takagi-­san, but Takagi-­san won his transfer ­because Mōretsu Kachō did not want him to quit the com­pany. Again, Takagi-­san was able to follow his own ­career goals thanks to Mōretsu Kachō.

A Dif­fer­ent Corporate Life and Culture In 1974, Takagi-­san was happily transferred to the Public Relations Department. According to him, it was a completely dif­fer­ent corporate atmosphere, where “gentlemen are luxuriously working on their proj­ects without any quantified evaluation or pressure.” H ­ uman relationships w ­ ere also very smooth and less competitive in the department. While the Marketing, Sales, and Factory Production Departments are “market centers,” where employees are always being pressured to achieve their quantified goals, Administration, Personnel, and Public Relations Departments are “cost centers,” and they do not bring any direct profit but instead merely incur costs. But with less pressure and more time to complete his tasks, Takagi-­san felt that it was a g­ reat department where one could take time to fully actualize one’s ability. Takagi-­san never forgot Ōkubo-­san’s advice, and they remained good friends, even ­after they had both retired. They still got together at the O. B. meetings ­every year, where they shared their memories and recent stories about Mōretsu Kachō. By 1974, a­ fter five years at the com­pany including two years in New York, Takagi-­san fi­nally found his passion in his work. He discovered what would become his lifelong hobby of attending social and academic events, talks, and seminars through the com­pany. This interest was sparked by a coworker and friend, Aoyama-­san, who worked with him in his department. As Aoyama-­san got closer to Takagi-­san, he asked if Takagi-­san was interested in g­ oing to the lectures and workshops that F. C. Corporation had memberships for. T ­ hese corporate memberships ­were one of the perks offered by large corporations at that time. Aoyama-­



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san was in charge of such corporate memberships, and he complained that despite the fact that the com­pany paid for membership rights to many events and lectures, few employees took advantage of the opportunities. Takagi-­san admitted that he was also one of ­those employees who had no clue about this sort of ­thing. Upon hearing of the opportunity, he grew excited and asked Aoyama-­san if he could go. From then on, Takagi-­san became an active participant and utilized the corporate memberships fully to attend talks and seminars. Takagi-­san told me how F. C. Corporation took ­human development (hito wo sodateru) seriously but that the employees ­were not aware of this. In this way, Takagi-­san was able to travel to talks and seminars all over the world and learn the latest research from leading professors.

­Family ­Matters Takagi-­san continued to live with his parents. In 1976, however, he suddenly lost his ­father. Three years ­after his f­ ather’s death, his ­mother also passed away. With the loss of his parents, Takagi-­san’s passion to become in­de­pen­dent and to be able to judge the situation and work well without being instructed by his boss grew stronger. Takagi-­san had a secret admirer as well, his se­nior Watanabe-­san, who often interceded between Takagi-­san and Mōretsu Kachō on Takagi-­san’s behalf, protecting Takagi-­san from his wrath. Takagi-­san wanted to work hard to become like Watanabe-­san, and the loss of his parents inspired him to strive even harder to achieve this goal. ­After his parents’ sudden deaths, Takagi-­san was financially and mentally responsible for supporting his two younger s­ isters. During this period, an almost movie-­like story unfolded in Takagi-­san’s ­family. The older s­ ister, in her twenties at the time, took a trip to Los Angeles and was swept off her feet by an older American man in his late fifties. She came back home telling Takagi-­san that she was insistently asked to get married by a man she liked. Soon she flew to Los Angeles and married the man in Las Vegas. ­After this dramatic episode, Takagi-­san began sending money to his s­ ister in the United States, and according to Takagi-­san, her husband realized how easy it was to live off the money from his wife’s ­brother in Japan. In time, her husband ­stopped working, and they became increasingly dependent on Takagi-­san, to the extent that Takagi-­san felt that he had to step in to wake his s­ ister up and separate them. Her husband repudiated this and begged her to stay with him. He made collect calls to Takagi-­san at his office. Fi­nally, ­after several years, she divorced her husband and moved back to Tokyo, where she ­later married a Japa­nese man. In talking about this prolonged strug­gle, Takagi-­san said, “This sort of unthinkable event could happen to anyone!” As for Takagi-­san’s youn­gest ­sister, the

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previous host ­family in Los Angeles acted as a matchmaker for her and introduced her to a Japa­nese medical doctor who was a widower in Los Angeles. She was able to move back to her favorite city and had a happy marriage with him. Takagi-­san himself went through more than twenty arranged meetings by 1978. According to him, he was not good at finding a ­woman or dating. As he had lost both of his parents, he was determined to move into the ­family of his ­future wife. Takagi-­san fi­nally found an ideal ­woman, Kumiko-­san, through an omiai meeting in 1978. In time he built a two-­family home and his parents-­in-­law lived next door to Kumiko-­san, Takagi-­san, and their two c­ hildren. Takagi-­san called himself “Masuo-­san,” a famous cartoon husband who was married to Sazae-­san and lived with her parents ­under the same roof. Despite the unusual and often constraining image of Masuo-­san in social discourse, Takagi-­san told me how lucky he was to be able to live like Masuo-­san with ­great in-­laws.

Following His Dream to the United States, Now with ­Family In 1992, ­after over thirteen years of marriage, Takagi-­san received the opportunity to go to a Boston subsidiary to research the changing computer market in the United States while supporting the F. C. Corporation engineers who would study abroad at MIT. He brought his f­ amily and relocated to Mas­sa­chu­setts, where he received a g­ reat amount of support from his F. C. se­niors. During his stay in Mas­sa­chu­setts, Takagi-­san did not get along with his direct boss, whom he described as “a man obsessed with himself at the expense of o ­ thers.” Takagi-­san was always active, as he had been in Tokyo, occasionally visiting and giving talks at MIT and Harvard, while his wife attended Berkeley College to study m ­ usic. His ­children also enjoyed having such spacious rooms in their U.S. h ­ ouse and joining the high school band. In 1995, a­ fter three years in Mas­sa­chu­setts, his expatriate life ended, and it was time for Takagi-­san to return home. Kumiko-­san and Takagi-­san de­cided that it was better for the c­hildren to complete their high school education in the United States as they already felt guilty about taking their ­children abroad for Takagi-­san’s business reasons in the ­middle of their schooling in Japan. Thus, Kumiko-­san de­cided to stay with their ­children in Mas­sa­chu­setts while Takagi-­san went back to Japan alone, a condition he called “returnee bachelorhood” (tanshin kinin, a play on the usual condition of “business bachelorhood”). While his boss in Boston and his American friends warned him that this might lead to a divorce, Takagi-­san valued his ­family’s preference, and he stuck with his decision. ­After returning to Japan alone in 1995, he spent two years without his ­family, though he received support from his parents-­in-­law. This period also coincided



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with the approach of the one-­hundred-­year anniversary of the founding of F. C. Corporation, and Takagi-­san was assigned as a proj­ect leader to write their corporate history. This proj­ect was very enjoyable for him, and it also matched with his personal interests in social and historical issues. In 1997 his ­daughter returned to Japan to attend a Japa­nese university, and Takagi-­san assisted her in her studies as her Japa­nese was not good enough to complete the college assignments on her own. Two years ­later, in 1999, his son and his wife, Kumiko-­san, returned to Japan for their son’s college, and all the members of the Takagi f­ amily w ­ ere back together in Tokyo.

Retiring from F. C. Corporation In 2004, ­after completing the massive corporate history proj­ect, Takagi-­san retired from F. C. Corporation at the age of fifty-­eight. ­After his official retirement, from 2004 to 2006 he was sent as a temporary transfer (shukkō) to one of F. C. Corporation’s subsidiaries, a think tank called S. E. Studies, where he was asked to do research. Takagi-­san explained that they let him do what­ever he liked at the think tank, including biannual business trips to the United States. In talking about this period, Takagi-­san was still deeply appreciative of his com­pany, which allowed him to develop his interests and strengths. In 2006, at the age of sixty, he officially retired from F. C. Corporation’s subsidiary. Immediately before his retirement, Takagi-­san received a call from Sugii-­san, a CEO of J. T. Corporation, whom he had briefly met before. Sugii-­san asked Takagi-­san if he had any postretirement plans. While Takagi-­san had entertained many options, he had not de­cided on any specific plans yet. Sugii-­san politely asked if Takagi-­san was willing to work at J. T. Corporation. Takagi-­san accepted his invitation. From 2006 ­until the time of our last meeting in 2018, Takagi-­san had been serving as one of the board members of J. T. Corporation. This was the first time that Takagi-­san had taken an offer from outside of F. C. Corporation. During the years of his employment at F. C. Corporation, he had received calls from several U.S. headhunters, but he never thought of leaving his com­pany as he felt satisfied with the com­pany. What led Takagi-­san to accept Sugii-­san’s offer was a chance meeting while working for the S. E. Studies think tank. Takagi-­san and his se­nior had had a meeting with Sugii-­san, who was the CEO at J. T. Corporation. They had enjoyed a lively conversation over dinner, and Sugii-­san had hinted to Takagi-­san about a possibility for him to join J. T. Corporation. As he could not think of leaving F. C. Corporation’s subsidiary at the time, Takagi-­san had politely turned down the offer and expressed his sincere apology. Reflecting years l­ater on the way that Sugii-­san had approached him, Takagi-­san felt that perhaps Sugii-­san had been

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impressed with the way he declined the invitation, b ­ ecause Sugii-­san had still kept him in mind. As Takagi-­san’s official retirement approached, Sugii-­san had remembered the timing and called him up again. In 2018, Takagi-­san described himself as partly a “corporate friend [shayū] and O. B. of F. C. Corporation, and partly a board member of J. T. Corporation.” Moreover, Takagi-­san was still a social butterfly, g­ oing to talks and seminars. Not surprisingly, during a short visit to Japan in 2018, I again bumped into him at an academic workshop hosted by a research institute in Tokyo. Since entering this new period of his life, Takagi-­san continued to be an active member of many associations, including the International Volunteer Association, the Japan and U.S. Association, the Japan-­America Society, International House of Japan, the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Japan, the Minato UNESCO Association, the Japan Society of Boston, the Japan International Volunteer Center, and the Asiatic Society of Japan. For him, participating in volunteer organ­izations was an impor­tant hobby, and he enjoyed continuously ­going to such events to learn about the world and to stimulate his curiosity.

Reflecting According to Takagi-­san, belonging to a corporation fundamentally means that one’s life ­will be largely framed and guided by one’s relationship with one’s direct boss, which essentially constitutes one’s corporate life. Accordingly, it is crucial to have a good “humanistic” (ningenteki) relationship with one’s boss, which can lead one’s life in unexpended directions. Looking back, he recalled how he worried about his colleagues’ promotions and the intense competition ­under Mōretsu Kachō when he was in the Department of Overseas Marketing back in the 1970s. Takagi-­san speculated, While it is often said that Japa­nese corporations have been attacked for being old-­fashioned with their se­niority system, this is very much a gross mischaracterization. In fact, peers are always watching. Peers would say, “So-­and-so is so dif­fer­ent” or “So-­and-so must get promoted.” Indeed, the reasonably hardworking person is always promoted. The person we often question or won­der about ­will not likely get promoted. Takagi-­san thought this supposedly old-­fashioned system was in fact very much a performance-­based merit system already. He believed and hoped that Japa­nese corporations would be more confident of what they had in their own system, ­because he saw it as a competitive evaluation system in its own right. Takagi-­san also made reference to Mōretsu Kachō to explain that ­humans cannot ­really grow without pressure or something scary that drives them. During



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one meeting, Takagi-­san referred to one famous incident in the news from 2006 that reminded him of the importance of ­human relations in the com­pany. In the news story, a new apprentice chef at H ­ otel de Mikuni, a prestigious French restaurant in Tokyo, sued his famous boss Mikuni-­san for physically abusing him during his training. The incident garnered widespread media attention and involved the police as well. For Takagi-­san, such shocking news made him reflect on his past ­under Mōretsu Kachō. Despite the hardship he had suffered ­under him, he admitted that Mōretsu Kachō’s reasons for scolding him made sense to him. Takagi-­san recalled: ­ umans can tolerate ­things [gaman dekiru], even if they are told repeatH edly or scolded loudly by their boss like with Mōretsu Kachō, as long as ­there is a part that they agree with or that they understand 70 ­percent. We ­humans can think that such scolding cannot be helped and take it. But if what the boss is trying to do or say is completely unreasonable, ­humans are unable to tolerate it and go mad to the extent that they might sue their boss. Takagi-­san told me that ­there ­were a few employees who complained about Mōretsu Kachō in the l­abor u ­ nion meetings, yet no one r­ eally tried to confront him or sue him. He also explained, “What and how I was trained in the early years at the com­ pany became the yardstick in my life, and I was able to work with anyone l­ater as I could always think that I had worked with that notorious Mōretsu Kachō before.”

Reflections: Navigating Postwar Salar yman Lifeways From a distance, Matsuda-­san and Takagi-­san might be seen as very successful salarymen. Closely following their narratives reveals the complexity of and constraints in how they navigated the many corporate and social currents in their lives. Matsuda-­san found value in his work in the Sales Department by expanding his sense of self and membership, while Takagi-­san discovered value in his work by transferring from Marketing to Public Relations, where he was not evaluated by quantified goals. Both felt their sense of personal worth through work, and both did not compromise ­family or personal hobbies for their work but rather found ways to strike a balance among the dif­fer­ent spheres of their lives. They w ­ ere not prisoners to any iron cage of corporate ideology but rather ­were fully in control of the keys to their own ­grand design or life goals. Listening to many dif­fer­ent life stories from salarymen (and nonsalarymen), what surprised me was that my in­for­mants w ­ ere not just passive brownnosers to

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their bosses or brainwashed corporate warriors who worked like automatons for the com­pany. Takagi-­san in par­tic­u­lar was a g­ reat example of a well-­grounded and thoughtful individual who always made his hopes and limits clear to his boss, Mōretsu Kachō. Moreover, as much as Takagi-­san told me that one’s direct boss was impor­tant, Takagi-­san’s story is also filled with other members of the com­ pany and his f­ amily who directly affected the course of his life. Both Takagi-­san and Matsuda-­san w ­ ere caught between the shifting ideologies of the Japa­nese employment system and postbubble neoliberal restructuring, as well as the social dynamics of humanness (ningensei). And despite the changing institutional patterning and reforms, Takagi-­san and Matsuda-­san ­were deeply embedded in their ­human relations at their respective companies and successfully navigated the unpredictable waves of salarymanhood.

7 WEATHERING THE STORMS OF CORPORATE RESTRUCTURING

Fukuyama-­san, Tanaka-­san, and Ōtsuka-­san w ­ ere also unique salarymen I met over the course of my fieldwork. While this chapter focuses on the individuals whose lives could be described as “weathering the storms of corporate restructuring,” the lives of the previously introduced salarymen, Matsuda-­san and Takagi-­san, ­were also full of unexpected strug­gles with corporate changes. A close reading of each narrative ­will dissolve the labels and bound­aries I have constructed ­here for the purpose of organ­ization. Nonetheless, by introducing the three individuals in this chapter, whose lives coincided and collided directly with Japan’s corporate reforms, I hope to draw attention to the strug­gles and circumstances that highlight their individual tensions and desires as they strug­gled with recent corporate restructuring amid the changing global economy and Japa­nese society.

Fukuyama Ken: Finding His Own Time Fukuyama-­san was a spirited and pugnacious man who described himself as a “strange old man” who loved working, drinking, and w ­ omen. He was blunt and audacious but kind-­hearted. His phone and e-­mail messages always included his favorite s­ imple message: “I love drinking. I am drinking in Ginza e­ very night.” Despite the hedonistic impression that he sometimes projected, Fukuyama-­san was a hardworking individual. Moreover, Fukuyama-­san had suddenly become jobless late in his ­career ­after an unexpected layoff due to corporate restructuring and spent years looking for jobs and trying to make ends meet. 205

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I met Fukuyama-­san on a busy street in Ginza, Tokyo, one night in the summer of 2005 during my preliminary fieldwork in hostess clubs. I was accompanying a foreign hostess as we ran errands, when two tipsy men passed by. As they passed us, we seemed to catch their attention ­because we looked lost on the busy street. One man looked at us and said, “What are you d ­ oing ­here? . . . ​You are wasting yourself! You should not be ­here.” This was my first encounter with Fukuyama-­san. He kept insisting, “Well, I have good eyes. You can do better.” Moments ­later he ran back to us to introduce himself politely. I got to know him more and more ­after this fateful encounter, and ­later he was the man who introduced me to one of my fieldwork sites, Club Sumire, in 2007. Fukuyama-­san was born in 1953 in Kumamoto Prefecture in Kyushu to a small ­family. As a child, Fukuyama-­san remembered, he used to go to the hospital to take care of his m ­ other, who was hospitalized with cancer for two years before she died, when he was about seven years old. Fukuyama-­san often talked about being “someone who feels lonely easily” (sabishi gari-­ya) but also in­de­pen­dent, due to his lack of a ­mother figure as a child. Fukuyama-­san grew up near the w ­ ater and became interested in the sea and fisheries. A ­ fter graduating from a local high school, he entered a prestigious national fisheries university in Tokyo, where he learned not only about drinking and w ­ omen but also about how to live on his own during the university’s practical training. Upon graduating college, at the recommendation of his university se­nior (sempai), he applied for a job as third officer in the Fisheries Division of one of Japan’s largest fishery and food products corporations, N. Sea Corporation. Fukuyama-­san landed the job and began working with the vague idea that he would work for this com­pany ­until he retired.

Navigating the Atlantic During his first twenty years with the com­pany, Fukuyama-­san ­rose through the ranks in vari­ous departments, from ­middle management in the Trawler Business and Development Departments to chief of the Sales Division. His c­ areer took him across the com­pany and around the world. He first worked as the third officer in the Trawler Business Department for five years in the Atlantic Ocean; then he was transferred to the Development Division of the Production Department in Tokyo for one year, followed by another transfer to the Trawler Business Department as an expatriate worker in Spain for about three years. In 1985, he moved back to the Sales Division of the Shipping Department in Tokyo for three months to receive training. ­After completing the training, he was sent back to Spain as an expatriate to work for the Shipping Department for another two years. He described his five expatriate years in Spain as “happy and carefree” as he was able to enjoy more of his own time. His wife even took his absence as an opportunity to

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learn En­glish in the United States during this period. In 1987, he was sent back to the Sales Division of the Shipping Department in Tokyo and worked as a chief for three more years. ­After seventeen years at the com­pany, he was promoted to deputy man­ag­er where he worked for three years, and in 1996 he was again promoted to man­ ag­er, where he worked for six years in the Sales Division of the Department of Marine Business. Reflecting, Fukuyama-­san revealed how sales was not his type of work, as he was not good at remembering ­people’s names and ­faces, while, ironically, he was so easily remembered ­because of his distinctive face and mannerisms. Nonetheless, he was a team leader in charge of a fleet of ten ships, and he boasted that he and his partner earned up to 800 million yen (roughly 7.2 million USD) a year for the com­pany. He spent only eight hours a day at home, including sleep, which he thought had undermined his relationship with his wife and affected his relationship with his ­children. In 1999, Fukuyama-­san was temporarily transferred (shukkō) to a small subsidiary as a third man­ag­er of the Sales Department in Tokyo to help reduce their deficit. Though he worked hard to reduce costs, the subsidiary did not improve, and they had to close it in 2003. Fukuyama-­san was then sent back to the parent com­pany as a counselor in the Personnel Department, but at the same time he was told that he would be laid off in six months. What made ­matters worse, Fukuyama-­san ­later told me, was that this crucial time coincided with the unexpected pregnancy of a young female worker with whom he had been having an affair. Fukuyama-­san recalled how he was doubly shocked by this unexpected turn of events.

Corporate Restructuring Equals Downsizing and Layoff Fukuyama-­san talked about his feelings during this period as “regrettable” (kuya­ shikatta), particularly ­because he felt that his layoff had had nothing to do with ­either the collapse of the ­bubble economy or his work per­for­mance. According to him, “Our food business was not affected by the ­bubble.” He looked back with regret not simply b ­ ecause he had lost his job but ­because he could not stand the fact that he had been the only person in that subsidiary that had been fired. More critically, Fukuyama-­san clearly remembered the personal tension he had had with his direct boss, noting that they had never liked each other. This was what made him suspect that the layoff was unjustifiable. ­After looking for jobs and g­ oing to interviews for a year within the same industry, he still found himself jobless. P ­ eople looked at his resume and complimented him on his status and experience but denied hiring him for this same reason—it seemed that he was overqualified. Fi­nally, he became one of six finalists

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for a job with an ac­cep­tance rate of 3 ­percent, but in the end Fukuyama-­san was not selected. His experience and his status ­were the ­factors that undermined his possibility of being rehired while also helping him to look like a competitive and experienced businessman. This double-­edged sword has been common among late-­career laid-­off salarymen and reveals the ironic flexibility of neoliberal reforms that was becoming increasingly unfurled as the banner of the new postbubble Japa­nese economy. Neoliberal proponents often see neoliberal economic reforms as imparting positive flexibility in terms of opportunities for experienced middle-­aged men to be attractive candidates for headhunting (see Lane 2009). For Fukuyama-­ san, however, this very same experience became a threat to his c­ areer success— an experienced, unemployed middle-­aged salaryman was rendered an unattractive candidate. He was too old for the investment and time necessary for resocialization in a new com­pany, while at the same time his experience meant that he should be treated as highly as his previous position at his previous com­ pany. Fukuyama-­san told me how helpless he felt b ­ ecause it was more difficult for an experienced salaryman to get a job since he would simply be seen as an obstacle (meiwaku) by many employees as an older, outsider boss with less experience in the new com­pany. Though the layoff in 2003 had been unexpected, he had been aware of differential treatment in the com­pany between t­ hose who ­were good earners and t­ hose who ­were not. As a young salaryman, Fukuyama-­san had seen one se­nior executive fired in the 1980s, notwithstanding the dominant image of long-­term employment, especially among experienced employees. Thus, the ideas of the merit system and corporate restructuring that became buzzwords in the late 1990s had never seemed foreign to him. Unlike the typical image of older workers opposing the new merit systems and clinging to the idea of se­niority advancement, Fukuyama-­san was a strong supporter of the performance-­based merit system. He thought that having something objective to evaluate was necessary to avoid having one subjective dimension become predominant. Nonetheless, Fukuyama-­san emphasized that “of course it is impor­tant to evaluate an employee based on their achievement; but in real­ity, when making evaluations our emotions get involved. We are never f­ ree from our emotion in judging other employees.” It was what he felt had been the subjective dimension in his dismissal that he found ­really intolerable, ­because he had been the only one laid off in the division—­ every­one ­else was simply transferred to dif­fer­ent divisions and thus saved, not rendered jobless. Fukuyama-­san described his boss at the time as someone who never ­really thought about the management and continuity of the corporation. When they faced the deficit prob­lem in the subsidiary he had been transferred

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to, Fukuyama-­san felt that moving their office from the expensive World Trade Center building would be the first ­thing to do. His boss did not even consider listening to Fukuyama-­san’s opinion. As Fukuyama-­san described, the boss and the com­pany only cared about face: the symbolic value of the World Trade Center office. As a consequence, they could not sustain the subsidiary, and it went bankrupt; soon a­ fter Fukuyama-­san was laid off. Feeling betrayed due to the com­ pany’s choice to save face instead of protecting their employees, Fukuyama-­san did not go quietly. He actively negotiated his conditions and convinced the com­ pany to provide severance pay at one-­and-­a-­half times the normal rate. According to Fukuyama-­san, the com­pany did not simply ignore him. They tried to help him look for jobs, and they also gave him a lot of insider information and materials. He received the premium period of six months of job loss insurance (at 18,000 yen/day) and an additional 10 million yen for his severance pay. ­After a year of looking for a job, he felt helpless at the prospect of not being able to properly support his f­amily in the ­future. He described that moment as presenting him with only two options: ­either committing suicide so that his ­family could collect his life insurance or starting his own business. With his attitude of “Somehow I’ll make it through!” he took the latter choice, and he started working as a broker dealing specifically with shipping vessels for tuna trading. Unlike the ste­reo­typical image of salarymen, Fukuyama-­san never had strong loyalty to the com­pany from the beginning, but he had a strong sense of responsibility for his job specialty and his interest in fisheries. A ­ fter being laid off, Fukuyama-­ san had no lingering feelings for the com­pany. He did not keep in touch with anyone except for his close se­niors and ju­niors, a few ­people from the same industry that he met while in Spain, and his friends from the fisheries university. Fukuyama-­san reflected that during his salaryman period, he was never conscious of the long-­term employment system; it was his sudden exclusion from it that made him gradually realize how impor­tant it was to have such a system to protect employees, not only from economic restructuring but also from incompatibility with bosses and other delicate h ­ uman relations in the com­pany. ­After experiencing the lack of a salary during his period of unemployment, he also appreciated the security that salarymen have in receiving salaries even when the com­pany is not d ­ oing well. “In other words,” Fukuyama-­san explained, “now I feel that the long-­term employment system means basically working for one person so that you can plan your life, which is very impor­tant not only for my own peace of mind but also for the peace of mind of my ­family.” ­After facing the hardship of unemployment, Fukuyama-­san realized how impor­tant it was to have a “monotonous” life, though ironically it was only a­ fter he had lost it. This newfound appreciation was further reinforced by Fukuyama-­ san’s wife, who he characterized as someone who believed that all the money for

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living has to come from the husband. Since Fukuyama-­san’s job loss, she had been working for the city hall as a part-­time worker, but Fukuyama-­san said that she was saving the money for her own ­future dream of volunteering in foreign countries. His wife’s attitude t­ oward Fukuyama-­san as the sole breadwinner in the ­family put a heavy constraint on him. The Fukuyamas made a rule that as long as he brought the money home for the f­ amily, he could do anything.

Postlayoff Life as a “­Free Man” ­ fter losing his position as a salaryman and becoming in­de­pen­dent, Fukuyama-­ A san not only changed the way he worked but also his entire lifestyle. When I met with him in 2006, he was enjoying his new status as a “­free man,” as he described his lifestyle where he ran his business alone without any boss or employees. His freedom was strictly defined by his control of time and his drinking practice—­ though of course this came at the cost of his financial security and stable life planning. “I never had time even to think of what to do or what I can do with my time,” he recalled. In the past, he had also been involved in corporate entertainment, but the bud­get was ­limited for tax reasons. “Now I can spend as much as I want for corporate entertainment without worrying about taxes and coming up with justifications to my boss for drinking. This is a ­great sense of freedom,” he described. He located his small office in the periphery of Ginza and literally lived ­there from Monday to Friday without ­going home. This arrangement suited his personal life, though it originated from a ­mistake he made when he was drunk; riding the train back home one night a­ fter an eve­ning of drinking, he lost all of his impor­tant documents and his laptop. Since this incident, he and his wife made an oral contract that he would sleep in his office during weekdays and go home on weekends to see his c­ hildren and wife. Thus, he only went home two days a week to do what he called “­family ser­v ice” for his twin ­daughters and his wife. From 2004 he maintained this lifestyle, getting up around four thirty in the morning on Monday and boarding the 5:10 train with about ten to fifteen kilograms of luggage filled with food, clothes, and practical items (as ­things are more expensive to purchase in Ginza). He would spend the entire week in the small Ginza office and go home with his dirty clothes and empty bags at the end of the week. For Fukuyama-­san, leaving salarymanhood also made his private life more active and “vibrant.” He recalled the lack of time and constant fatigue he felt ­every day as a salaryman. With his newfound freedom, he began seeing a w ­ oman he met at a bar in Ginza in 2003. Occasionally when he got drunk, he would boast of this to me, repeating, “I have a girlfriend.” Against my initial naive criticism of his private life, Fukuyama-­san always justified his deeds, saying that he was en-

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titled to this enjoyment ­because of the difficulty of his wife, who he claimed was neither caring nor attractive, and he asserted that he was fulfilling his responsibility for his ­family by ­doing every­thing he could for his ­children and his wife when he was at home. Indeed, Fukuyama-­san was a good cook and ­house­keeper at home. Still, if I persisted, he told me that I would never understand b ­ ecause from the beginning the entire marriage had been somewhat arranged, and he did not marry someone he liked or with whom he felt compatible. In fact, Fukuyama-­ san and his wife w ­ ere gradu­ates of the same high school and became pen pals. When he asked his f­ ather to check on her in person while he was working in Spain, his ­father went to make a marriage arrangement. Fukuyama-­san mentioned that at one point ­later in their marriage, his wife resisted his sexual advances, and since this rejection, he never felt relaxed or refreshed at home. ­After being laid off, he gained more time for himself, but he also became aware of his acute sense of loneliness. Since his layoff in 2003, while the amount of time Fukuyama-­san spent at home may not have changed, he realized that an increasing emotional distance developed over the years between him and his wife and then his ­children as well. Fukuyama-­san often mentioned that he loved his ­children, and comparatively speaking his ­children w ­ ere young due to difficulties in conception. A ­ fter ten years of infertility treatments, the Fukuyamas ­were able to conceive twin girls when Fukuyama-­san and his wife ­were in their early forties. Both ­children ­were very gifted, but from the beginning one was always healthier and stronger than the other, and the weaker child was ­later diagnosed with ASD (autism spectrum disorder). When Fukuyama-­san began his Ginza office lifestyle, they often visited him to stay overnight at the office. However, Fukuyama-­san said that when his ­daughters ­were approaching their early teens, they started thinking of him as an outsider. Fukuyama-­san also thought that his wife was always suspicious of his affairs and talked about this with his c­ hildren, so his d ­ aughters started accusing him as well. Despite t­hese unsettling ­family circumstances that continued into 2006, to my eyes Fukuyama-­san seemed quite happy around this period. Fukuyama-­san was never too guarded about his extramarital life, and when he got drunk, he became even more descriptive. His girlfriend, Yuka-­san, was a single w ­ oman in her forties. Yuka-­san was working at a small snack club in Ueno. She had once been a hostess in Ginza, but she did not get along with the mama-­ san at e­ very club that she worked at and was not competitive enough to keep her position in Ginza, so she moved to Ueno. According to Fukuyama-­san, she was a very kind ­woman who also cared about her ­mother; during the day, she helped her ­mother run a small Chinese restaurant in Ueno. Then at night she worked in order not to cause her m ­ other financial trou­ble. Fukuyama-­san talked about her as someone who was working hard even though her situation was not the best.

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However, their brief relationship ended a­ fter Fukuyama-­san’s business fell into difficulties, and he could no longer afford to spend money to support her.

Humanness and Fukuyama-­san’s Caring Nature In retrospect, Fukuyama-­san not only was able to openly talk about his experience of being laid off, but he also grew to be empathetic with the “invisible community” of o ­ thers who had also been laid off. His friends who I met always described Fukuyama-­san as having a good and kind heart. I experienced Fukuyama-­san’s caring nature when I traveled to the resort town of Atami with Fukuyama-­san and his female and male friends on one occasion. Fukuyama-­san was the one who took care of every­one equally. When returning home, all of the w ­ omen wanted to spend hours shopping while the men wanted to leave. Fukuyama-­san was the only man who accompanied the ­women, carried the ­women’s souvenirs, and even looked for bargains for the ­women. When we fi­nally finished shopping and made it to the train station, ­there was a homeless-­ looking man sitting on the platform. His distinctive smell kept every­one away from him in the waiting room. ­Later he left without his large worn bag, and Fukuyama-­san quickly noticed it, grabbed it, and looked for the man u ­ ntil he found him on the other side of the platform. I remember how every­one was impressed by Fukuyama-­san’s actions. Fukuyama-­san’s caring extended beyond close interpersonal relationships. He was also a member of Marine Blue 21, an NPO dedicated to cleaning and maintaining the marine environment. Fukuyama-­san has been a member since 2003, donating 100,000 yen a year. He told me his reason for joining: “I have been dealing with the issues of fisheries and the marine business for my entire life since college. This organ­ization’s objective is one that I am very supportive of. ­After being laid off and now getting settled in a new position, I wanted my money to be used for a better reason. Then I thought of ­doing this.” I noticed that this had become an impor­tant aspect of his identity—­I saw the Marine Blue 21 logo not only on his business card but also on the desks in his office and in his room. As I got to know him more over many years, I came to feel that his interest in charity activities was not a direct result of his layoff. However, as he said, as much as he once lost his name, face, and com­pany affiliation as a corporate employee, he gained something ­else: a sense of time and freedom, ­whether it be drinking, dating, or donating, while also tackling his sheer sense of loneliness, a feeling he had not realized in the past. For Fukuyama-­san, being “restructured” si­mul­ta­ neously gave him both increased control over his own sense of time and an unexpected longing for connection, companionship, and security.

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Becoming a “House Husband” (Shufu) Having maintained this lifestyle since April 2004, the Fukuyamas ­were visited with misfortune in October 2006. Fukuyama-­san’s wife broke her ankle during their ­children’s school sports festival. This unexpected event led to another restructuring in Fukuyama-­san’s lifestyle. ­After the day of the injury, Fukuyama-­san started g­ oing home ­every day and took an active role in taking care of the everyday domestic ­matters ­there. He began calling himself a “house husband” (shufu), who cooked e­ very day, made school lunches for his c­ hildren, and cleaned and did laundry while also serving as the official chauffer to drive his wife to work and back. Indeed, from his enthusiastic descriptions, he seemed to be embracing—­ and even transcending—­the kind of “fathering masculinity” that has gained media attention in recent years (e.g., Goldstein-­Gidoni 2019; Ishii-­Kuntz 2013) by taking complete domestic responsibility. Fukuyama-­san proudly described this new lifestyle as follows: He would get up around six in the morning and make breakfast and lunch boxes for his ­children while catching up on the TV news. At around seven ­o’clock, one of his kids would leave for school for an extracurricular activity, and at around seven fifteen, he ate breakfast with his other d ­ aughter and wife. A ­ fter breakfast, his wife hung the laundry while he did the dishes and cleaned the h ­ ouse. At around seven forty-­five, the other ­daughter would leave for school. Each time his ­daughters left for school, he would see them off from the doorway and wave at them ­until they reached the street corner and turned out of sight. By just before eight thirty, Fukuyama-­san would drive his wife to the city hall where she worked. He would leave his car ­there and take the 8:50 a.m. train, arriving at his office in Ginza at twenty minutes past nine. He ­stopped working at around four in the after­noon and would leave Ginza on the 4:17 p.m. train. He would arrive at the local station just before five and pick up his wife at five ­o’clock. ­After picking her up, they would shop together for groceries and return home to cook. His wife would go to bed around nine ­o’clock, and he would stay up to drink beer ­until eleven ­o’clock, followed by a long bath and TV ­until around two or three in the morning. Fukuyama-­san ­stopped g­ oing to Ginza a­ fter his wife’s injury. He seemed happy taking care of his ­family when I met with him in December, but as his wife’s condition improved, he told me that he was ready for this lifestyle to end soon. He also told me that t­ here was a subtle but gradual shift in the reception of his c­ hildren ­toward him. ­After he began his regimen of ­family care, his c­ hildren got used to seeing him always at home, cooking and cleaning. Moreover, according to Fukuyama-­san, his ­daughters actually liked his cooking better than his wife’s, so they secretly enjoyed eating his dinner and lunch box e­ very day. Over time, one ­daughter gradually opened up to him, but the other one with ASD was difficult

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t­oward him and took longer. This ­daughter never looked back at him when he was waving to her from the doorway in the morning, but eventually a­ fter a month or so of Fukuyama-­san sending her off e­ very morning with calls of “Good luck at school!” she began to look back at him indirectly and waved capriciously to hide her shyness. He proudly described this change to me, while imitating her, clearly moved by this development. ­After two months or so, he announced to me that he was even being considered as a “pos­si­ble candidate” for the upcoming ­family trip, although his d ­ aughters had been the ones who used to say, “The last person I want to travel with is my dad.” In January, he proudly told me how ­these ­things ­were gradually changing. Despite t­hese changes in Fukuyama-­san’s ­family, ­after his wife’s recovery in the spring of 2007, he returned to his old lifestyle, although with a bit more moderation this time. He started ­going to the gym nearby, which he used as an excuse for his drinking. “­After ­doing some exercise to feel healthy, I feel I can justifiably drink as much as I work out! So I go to the gym and drink ­later! The drinks even taste better!”

Juggling Part-­Time Jobs In the fall of 2009, Fukuyama-­san contacted me and shared with me the current difficulties in his business. His business stagnated in 2008, and it became very difficult to sustain his drinking lifestyle. As someone in his fifties, he said he was too old to get a new full-­time job, so he started ­doing many dif­fer­ent part-­time jobs at night in order to supplement his primary business and to keep paying for his ­family. Through the introduction of his friends and favorite mama-­san, Fukuyama-­ san tried his hand at a range of successive jobs, including a security guard for one week, a bartender for three months, a chef for two weeks, and a delivery person for four days. As someone working on the other side of the hostess club for the first time, he would often get in fights with the mama-­san or other employers and would then quit. His last job as a delivery man in the Tsukiji fish market did not require much social skills, but he injured his back and had to quit. Especially having left salarymanhood once already and then being embedded in his own f­ree lifestyle, Fukuyama-­san faced even more difficulties in sustaining a job as an employee for someone ­else. In mid-­October 2009 he became increasingly desperate to fulfill his promise to his wife to send home the money for monthly living expenses, and he was again saved by his personal connections. Thanks to his old network of university friends, he got an offer from the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries to help with shipping near Aomori Prefecture. He returned to a salaryman lifestyle and began working in the fisheries business to supervise the transport of tuna in the

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Hokkaido, Aomori, and Chiba areas. At the Tokyo office he also got permission to spend time working on his own business. While he briefly mentioned that he did not like his new job very much as sometimes he was badly treated and harassed by young female workers in the office, he was fortunate to have received this opportunity. ­After ­going through layoffs and a precarious lifestyle with multiple short-­term jobs, Fukuyama-­san felt appreciative of this sense of stability and jokingly called this transition as becoming a “nyū salaryman,” a pun on the homonym nyū, which contains both the En­glish meaning of “new” and the Japa­nese meaning of “reentering.”

Nyū Salaryman Life and Another Layoff In 2009 Fukuyama-­san was enjoying his new salaryman lifestyle, and although his job required him to move around a lot, this provided a distraction from his loneliness. In his travels he found several hostels in the countryside where he would occasionally stay for short periods. Fukuyama-­san proudly told me how he became friends with the proprietors and how they appreciated him when he would bring fresh fish back to them to show his gratitude. This was perhaps his way of creating home-­like spaces outside of his home. When I met him during the winter of 2010, he excitedly showed me the pictures of his new job as an observer for shipping vessels in Hokkaido, Aomori, and Chiba. He also showed me pictures of corporate drinking with many older men, which he described as “Drinking parties with reemployed retired old bureaucrats” (amakudari ojisan no nomikai), where the former employees of the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry and Fisheries gathered to have fun drinking and dining. Since they did not have much of a bud­get, they bought food and drinks from outside and brought them to the office. Fukuyama-­san was still very new to t­hese ­people, but he told me how valuable this is and how much he enjoyed it ­because while they drank together, he got to listen to and learn so much from the real experts in the work of shipping and fisheries. Fukuyama-­san enjoyed his on-­site (genba) work in dif­fer­ent locations and became an active member of such after-­ work social drinking. ­After completing the three-­year contract as an inspector for tuna shipping as a nyū salaryman, in 2012 Fukuyama-­san was looking for a job again. He applied to many Japa­nese companies unsuccessfully and a­ fter a year eventually landed a job in 2013 at a German com­pany in South Africa, where he was in charge of selling fish overseas. He enjoyed using his expertise for the job, but he also occasionally clashed with the German president regarding the way they sold fish. According to Fukuyama-­san, when selling fish in Japan, they always told clients the ­actual amount of feed, but this president rejected this idea and told Fukuyama-­san not

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to tell the clients. Fukuyama-­san consulted with the previous Japa­nese man who used to work in the same position, who explained that as it was unfair practice, he had secretly told clients the amount without telling the president. However, Fukuyama-­san could not bear such secretive methods, so he told the clients and the president openly, ­after which the president fired him. Thus, despite his passion for the fisheries business and his expertise, Fukuyama-­san was laid off again in 2014. A ­ fter this, Fukuyama-­san was left with only his shrinking private business, and he continued applying for many positions and part-­time jobs ­until 2018, when he fi­nally was able to start receiving his pension.

Fukuyama-­san in 2019 Fukuyama-­san’s dream was always ­simple. He wanted to go back to his natal home in Kumamoto, Kyushu, a­ fter his retirement. His dream came true. He worked hard to pay off the ­house loan in Tokyo and gave the ­house to his wife. By 2019, ­after his twin ­children had graduated from college and successfully found employment, Fukuyama-­san left Tokyo alone to return to Kumamoto. ­There he began his new life, a healthy life, landscaping, eating organic vegetables that he grew, and exercising ­every night ­after a hot bath. He lost five kilograms naturally and became muscular while he jokingly said that his only complaint was that he had no one to date. While receiving his pension, Fukuyama-­san maintained his in­de­pen­dent and less lucrative fishery-­related business and was involved in many environmental organ­izations for keeping the oceans clean. During winter breaks, he traveled to Tokyo, and in the spring, the ­whole Fukuyama ­family took a trip to dif­fer­ent hot springs. He told me that he was fi­nally a f­ree man. He spent his days enjoying growing vegetables in his garden and drinking alcohol and living alone in his huge natal home in Kumamoto while spending time with his old friends. When I took my ­family to visit his home in 2019, Fukuyama-­san was fully reembedded in the local community and looked even livelier than before. As we watched the news together, we discussed the large-­scale restructuring and ongoing employment adjustments that had been gaining media attention in recent years, including “in-­ house unemployment” mechanisms in which companies cut personnel costs while avoiding outright dismissal.1 Fukuyama-­san noted: Large companies are a hierarchical pyramid structure. As they age, employees are maybe pushed out of this pyramid into “exclusion rooms” [oidashi beya] or into in-­house unemployment [shanai shitsugyō]. Still, I envy companies that can afford to create exclusion rooms. It is a reflection [kagami] of long-­term employment. While the practices of send-

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ing unwanted or older employees to exclusion rooms or redeploying them to other divisions [haichi tenkan] are indeed encouraging workers to leave their companies of their own w ­ ill to look for reemployment outside, and this can be tough for the individual, still to me, it is good as companies nonetheless keep you and pay you e­ very month. It’s sometimes impor­tant to take it as it is. In fact I would rather be employed than run my own business. Perhaps I can say this ­because I am beyond it now. As someone who had witnessed firsthand the transformation of con­temporary business practices, rather than embracing neoliberal subjectivity as a flexible and autonomous agent, over the course of his tumultuous c­ areer, Fukuyama-­san’s desire for stability increased. Even though he became an entrepreneur—­the quin­ tes­sen­tial neoliberal subject—he did not see this as the fulfillment of self-­ actualization or as an empowering autonomy. Instead, he had felt that setting up his own business was his only option to support his ­family as he was bound by his need to be a breadwinner. Looking back at his colorful life, he saw the effects of radical corporate restructuring on the ground as a threat to personal security

FIGURE 7.1.  Fukuyama-­san’s home in Kumamoto, where he has lived since 2019. Source: Photo­graph by author.

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and the security of his f­amily, and he regarded any form of long-­term employment protection—­even so-­called in-­house unemployment—as better than having to make it on one’s own.

Tanaka Kenji: Searching for Satisfaction in Life Tanaka-­san turned sixty years old and retired from his com­pany in the spring of 2007. With his gentle, quiet, and almost subdued demeanor, Tanaka-­san strikes one as someone who is soft-­spoken and nonconfrontational. In 2006, he introduced himself to me as a salaryman who was “relegated to the edge of the win­ dow” (madogiwa-­zoku) in the office. I met him through participation in Bayside Half and a Tokyo Bay volunteer cleaning group in the suburbs of Tokyo, where he lived alone as a business bachelor (tanshin funin). When he described himself as marginalized at the office when we first met in 2006, Tanaka-­san was still working, but he was desperately waiting for his retirement in the spring of 2007. Despite his subdued image, Tanaka-­san was an active participant in the local marathon club, the volunteer cleaning group, a cycling group, and a mountain climbing group. As he explained ironically, “My weekend and weekdays got reversed!” He was always busy on the weekend with some sort of group and individual activities, while he had plenty of time during the weekdays in the office. If one rides the train in the daytime on weekdays in Tokyo, one w ­ ill see many dif­fer­ ent kinds of p ­ eople, including middle-­aged h ­ ouse­wives, young w ­ omen and men, tourists, students, and salarymen who are called “sales salarymen” (eigyō)—­those who go out to meet clients during the day. Tanaka-­san was one of ­these daytime train riders, ­doing business errands while killing time during the day outside of the com­pany. When I met him dressed in a suit on weekday after­noons, he seemed very dif­fer­ent from the Tanaka-­san I knew from the other activities. I was not sure what the ­actual nature of this mismatch was ­until I got to know his story.

Coming out of Southern Japan Tanaka-­san was born in a small town in Fukuoka in Kyushu as the only son and the eldest of three siblings to schoolteacher parents in 1946. He often joked about how parochial his hometown was back then. Recognizing the ever-­decreasing differences between the center (Tokyo) and periphery nowadays, he recalled that he had never seen traffic lights or young men with long hair while growing up, and he embarrassingly found himself the only boy with a shaved head at the entrance ceremony for the Tokyo University of Science in 1965.

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Tanaka-­san had a passionate interest in mathe­matics, so he went to university to study math. In the midst of the political-­academic turmoil of the student movement in the 1960s, many classes ­were canceled, and just like many other students, he joined the demonstrations. He s­ topped studying seriously a­ fter one year and began mountain climbing and ­doing a part-­time job in order to cover the costs of participating in the student mountain climbing club. When he graduated four years ­later having majored in math, he had two ­career options—to become a teacher or a systems engineer. His parents favored the former, but a­ fter taking the teaching exam, he questioned simply following his parents’ expectations. Instead, he de­cided to work for a corporation, and upon graduation in 1969, he got a job in the computer division of a major clothing retailer, J. Com­pany. Despite his desire to be a computer engineer, not many courses on computers ­were offered in college back then. Thus, he studied on his own while working on the floor of a department store during his first few weeks in training. While working, he was able to see the gradual deterioration of the com­pany and did not see many prospects if he stayed. A ­ fter considering other f­ actors, including a pos­si­ble marriage partner whom he had met in the same com­pany and his status as first and only son, he made up his mind to quit the com­pany and moved back to his parents’ home in Kyushu. Tanaka-­san, the newly minted salaryman, ended up quitting the com­pany a­ fter four years in 1973.

From Capital to the Country and Then Somewhere in Between While he looked for a computer-­related job for reemployment, he had difficulties finding a com­pany in Fukuoka that used computers. Following an acquaintance’s advice, he went to the prefecture’s capital city, Fukuoka City, to look for a computer-­related com­pany and got a job as a computer engineer at a major office supplies com­pany, U. Corporation. The following year he married the ­woman he had met at his previous com­pany in Tokyo, whom he described as an “ordinary ­woman,” and they purchased a h ­ ouse together near his parents’ h ­ ouse in rural Fukuoka, where his wife would live as he worked and lived in Fukuoka City. The year 1973 marked the time when both his long-­term participation in one com­pany and also his long-­term separation from his f­ amily as a business bachelor began, which fi­nally came to an end in 2007. Tanaka-­san’s first assignment was to help the stagnating offices in Hiroshima and nearby areas, as ­there ­were not many companies in Fukuoka using computers. Tanaka-­san took it as his mission due to his specialty. ­After marrying, he began commuting to the Hiroshima office by taking the earliest flight on Monday morning and returning to Fukuoka on Saturday night. Tanaka-­san remembered

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coming home one day on Saturday to find his wife crying, and he realized how hard it was for her to be alone in Kyushu without a husband close to her ­every day. It was an extremely foreign lifestyle for her as her ­father had been a factory worker, which did not require any sort of overtime dealing with customers, office prob­lems, and social drinking as Tanaka-­san had to do. In 1975, the Tanakas had a ­daughter, followed by a son three years ­later. Tanaka-­san was laden with responsibilities at work, and sometimes he even had to go to the office on weekends to deal with customers. He recalled his passion for work in ­those years and modestly admitted he had done quite well at it. Tanaka-­ san described the values among salarymen at that time as prioritizing work more than anything, and that was “the way it was supposed to be” back then. According to him, he was pondering solutions for computer-­related prob­lems even ­after work and on weekends. Tanaka-­san remembered that he even dreamed about pos­ si­ble solutions at night, and at least twice he found solutions for coding prob­ lems in such a way. Moreover, it was not just about his own internalization of his responsibility as an engineer; his clients also expected him to help them on weekends. Once he was personally called by his clients, who asked him to teach them about computers. ­After providing help, he was given monetary compensation, but he kindly turned it down as he simply wanted to be helpful for the customers. On such occasions, the clients took him out for corporate dinners. He recalled, “Of course monetary compensation might be more useful in the end, but I did not want to make money that way.” Despite his busy schedule even on weekends, Tanaka-­san felt a clear sense of happiness and satisfaction during this period. At home, his wife was in charge of all domestic ­matters on weekdays, and on weekends they often took their c­ hildren to the zoo together from a very young age. Tanaka-­san proudly described how his ­children still love taking photos of animals and that ­there ­were many pictures of animals in his ­children’s apartments in Tokyo even t­ oday.

Navigating the Waves of Neoliberal Economic Reforms Since he was d ­ oing well in Hiroshima, Tanaka-­san was officially transferred to the office ­there. He lived ­there as a business bachelor, visiting his home once a month for a weekend. Then, when another branch in Osaka ran into difficulties, Tanaka-­san was sent to help that office as a temporary transfer (shukkō) and was promoted to man­ag­er. For two years from 1991 to 1993, he worked hard to raise the Osaka branch’s profits and to fix their prob­lems. While living in Osaka, Tanaka-­san realized that this was a rare chance to visit the many famous t­ emples in nearby Kyoto, so he started biking t­ here on weekends. During his touring, he met other p ­ eople who cycled in the Kyoto area and joined a local cycling group.

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Though he enjoyed his weekends, he also felt frustrated as t­ here was nothing he could do to help the branch since the com­pany was strictly closed on weekends. By 1993 the Osaka branch was improving, but by this time the Hiroshima office was in trou­ble and Tanaka-­san was sent back to save that office. This coincided with the aftereffects of the bursting of the economic ­bubble, but Tanaka-­san explained that his com­pany was never ­really affected as they had not even had a ­bubble period in the first place. Back in Hiroshima, despite the fiscal ailments of his com­pany, he continued to focus on his physical health through after-­work pursuits. He added to his repertoire new hobbies, including r­ unning and triathlons, in order to sustain his bodily strength for his long-­term passion, mountain climbing. Though the irony was lost on him, when Tanaka-­san left the Osaka branch for the Hiroshima branch the Osaka branch again fell into a slow decline, and he was sent back as a temporary transfer (shukkō) once more to help them six years ­later, in 1999. While talking about this period, he hesitantly mentioned that this was the time when he had fought with the Tokyo head office. ­Later he explained, “Well, in a way, this was the last period of my work, I guess. My work died [boku no shigoto wa kokode owattanda]. . . . ​I was fifty-­three years old when I went back to Osaka the second time.” According to Tanaka-­san, around this time ­there was already talk that the Hiroshima branch should be sold to S. Com­pany, whose CEO Tanaka-­san disliked, b ­ ecause the branch could no longer be managed by the parent office in Tokyo. Tanaka-­san, without being informed of ­these plans, was simply sent to Osaka with another assignment to help them raise their profits and to close the Hiroshima branch as he left. He recalled, “Well, in the midst of the deficit at the Hiroshima office in the early 1990s, I had been sent back to Hiroshima and I had improved it. You know, if someone was r­ eally working hard with the intention of improving the branch, it would improve a bit.” Indeed, it was ­because the Hiroshima branch improved that he was sent to help the Osaka branch again. With ­little concealed contempt, Tanaka-­san remarked that the Tokyo office did not care about what he thought—­they ­were simply waiting for a small improvement so that they could sell it for a better profit to S. Com­pany. Tanaka-­san recalled: This was a big deal for me. I felt betrayed [uragirareta] by the com­pany. ­There ­were many ­things in the background to justify this take-­over, but I was not informed or consulted, and they made the decision without me. . . . ​I was a bit emotional [jōcho teki ni natteta], ­because I knew t­ hese ­people in Hiroshima for more than ten years. I had hired many of them myself, and I had made some improvement, and we ­were getting better—­ all of which, I thought, should not be given up for this take-­over. I argued with the CEO of my com­pany over this, and I wanted to avoid the take-­ over by S. Com­pany b ­ ecause their CEO was not even a good person.

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While talking to me in 2007, he still remembered the anger and the sense of regret he had, as well as the sense of emptiness, as what they had built over the years was simply destroyed by this take-­over. And, of course, he never talked about this emotional pain to anyone inside or outside of the com­pany, including his wife. The take-­over was not simply economic but also symbolic for Tanaka-­san. He described it as “a betrayal by the com­pany.” It not only changed the ­future of the Hiroshima office and its employees, as well as Tanaka-­san’s place of residence and work, but it also changed the way the parent com­pany treated him and the way Tanaka-­san felt about his work and his com­pany. He realized, “My com­pany is a com­pany; from the beginning, it was a business a­ fter all. It was my m ­ istake to be emotional.” When I asked about what he meant by the term “business,” he simply said, “It is mathe­matics. That is all.” He recalled that Japa­nese companies used to care about employees, but ­things changed, and now more and more Japa­nese companies, just like American corporations, started valuing shareholders rather than their own employees. “I did care about my employees,” he said with regret, “but despite this situation, we took the friendliest methods ­toward our employees and closed the Hiroshima branch by giving them all severance pay and then taking them on as new employees. In closing the branch, I did every­thing ­because no one ­else would. I did every­thing even though it was not my idea to sell it in the first place.”

A Room with a View and L ­ ittle Else, at the Tokyo Head Office When the com­pany made the decision to sell the Hiroshima branch, Tanaka-­ san was asked by the parent com­pany to go to the new com­pany to help them transition. However, Tanaka-­san turned it down and de­cided to stay in his original com­pany, as he did not like the CEO who purchased the Hiroshima branch. This, according to Tanaka-­san, made his status and consciousness t­oward work and his workplace change. At the end of his last assignment to help the Osaka branch, Tanaka-­san was sent back to the Tokyo headquarters in 2002, where he was still working when we first met. However, his desk was near the win­dow at the edge of the office—­a sign of the ste­reo­typical structural marginalization of employees in Japan who ­were personae non gratae, known as the “window-­seat tribe,” or madogiwa-­zoku. While Tanaka-­san still received his full salary, he was no longer given any meaningful work and was left to while away his time at the office. Taking this position as a kind of in-­house unemployment at the Tokyo office filled him with difficult emotions. He explained:

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I feel the sense of alienation starkly. E ­ very day I am g­ oing to work, but I am not “working.” I know how much of a burden I am to them. They think I am a strange and difficult old man who complained and did not go to the new office in Hiroshima but came back to Tokyo. What could I possibly do then? No, they are right. Yes, I could not do anything. [And now] I am in a position where I cannot do anything. If I do something, it ­will simply disturb ­others as it requires a lot of money, ­people, and skills. So instead I have to think of passing on my computer knowledge and skills. But to whom? ­After being transferred to many places, I have no partner to pass on my knowledge to. I have subordinates, but ­there is no junior—­I mean, emotionally speaking. Computer technology requires costs and ­people on a large scale, and the transmission of knowledge is crucial; but what can I do now, being in the Tokyo office without knowing anyone and without being wanted? Now I cannot do anything; I feel stuck. I am suffering, but [the com­pany] is also suffering; both are equally counting the number of days I have left in the office. This is just terrible. Tanaka-­san, despite his ­will to quit the com­pany, continued ­going to work, planning to do so ­until he reached his retirement in the spring of 2007. In the meantime, while he felt more and more a burden, his job was simply to wait. For the first time in his life, at the Tokyo office Tanaka-­san ­stopped drinking with his com­pany friends and subordinates ­after work. He used the time ­after work to engage in his hobbies: r­ unning, biking, mountain climbing, and volunteer cleaning in Tokyo. Knowing other salarymen’s ambivalence regarding corporate drinking and trying to take Tanaka-­san’s arrangement positively, I suggested that this could also mean he had gained his own f­ ree time. He denied this, saying, “Well, without corporate drinking, I have more time and feel ­free. But this does not simply mean something positive. We h ­ umans like to drink with t­ hose whom we like. Not drinking also reflects the quality of the relationships I have at the com­pany. It is never intimate, close, but rather instrumental. So drinking ­after work means not only that the com­pany is d ­ oing well but also that individuals are ­doing well in the com­pany.” Tanaka-­san felt extremely alienated in his position not b ­ ecause he was a useless and careless individual at the com­pany but b ­ ecause he was a person who tried to be productive for his com­pany and ­others. Thus, he was acutely sensitive to the pos­si­ble burden (meiwaku) he caused to o ­ thers. ­After experiencing this alienation for three years, he explained to me what this ­whole experience meant to him: This take-­over meant a lot of t­ hings to me. But what I realized most was my single-­mindedness ­toward work. I was even obsessed with my work,

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as was expected of me. Then I hardly helped my wife with any ­house­hold ­matters. For me, what I could do to help the com­pany meant every­thing then, but as much as I helped them, now I am treated like a burden to the com­pany. To respond to their expectations, I w ­ ill not do anything but wait. . . . ​I learned a lot. My work is not every­thing. It is this damage that taught me that t­ here are many t­ hings we can do to create significance beyond work. Now ­because of this, I was able to let go of my attachment to my work. In this sense, it was good ­after all as my perspective became broadened. For Tanaka-­san, this broadened perspective meant that he was able to realize, “I am not just an individual defined by my work; I am able to think of myself beyond work. I can see myself through ­family, hobbies, and other informal groups.” He continued: Someday when I get r­ eally old and look back, I think I w ­ ill think of t­ hese years in Tokyo as the most meaningless and wasted period in my life. I have no sense of achievement in what I do now, and no one even expected anything from me. . . . ​Yeah, I can just feel that I am becoming dead weight. This is r­ eally horrible. . . . ​But this seemingly meaningless experience itself should be positive as something ­else, perhaps unexpectedly. Say, I am just talking to you like this. This is fun! This meaningless experience w ­ ill bring me something fun and positive in an unexpected manner. I was d ­ oing so well before without failing; now I’ve become more well rounded and this makes me understand the feelings of t­ hose who suffered. So I believe that this is fostering some sort of strength in me in order to cope with and to overcome difficulties. Since the year he had gotten married, Tanaka-­san had been away from his wife and f­ amily nearly e­ very weekday. As much as he relied on his wife for domestic ­matters, he also went along with what­ever she asked. When Tanaka-­san was assigned to Tokyo, his wife came to visit him often b ­ ecause his c­ hildren ­were all working in Tokyo. Ironically, it was his wife—­originally a Tokyo native—­who had become the only Kyushu resident in the ­family. In 2007 Tanaka-­san was looking forward to the time when he could go back to Kyushu a­ fter retirement. In an intriguing contrast to Fukuyama-­san, who lived close to his ­family but had been largely alienated from them, Tanaka-­san, despite his long absence (his business bachelorhood), remained close to his wife and ­children. Indeed, he had a picture of his wife in his cell phone and would frequently show it to me whenever he talked about his ­family.

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From Com­pany Win­dow Seat to Hospital Win­dow Throughout my fieldwork, I met Tanaka-­san ­every Saturday and Sunday for Bayside Half activities and volunteer cleaning. We also met during weekdays in Tokyo. Suddenly, on March 16, 2007, Tanaka-­san called to ask me to meet him the next day, without specifying the reason for such an abrupt request. When we met the next eve­ning, he was lively, but unusually he was not drinking or eating much, and I did most of the talking and eating. When we ­were about to part, he told me that this could be our last meeting, as he had been diagnosed with a serious case of esophageal cancer, and he would be hospitalized the next day (March 18). Thus, the seventeenth was officially his last day of work, and on the eigh­teenth, he was hospitalized for major surgery. On March 20, 2007, Tanaka-­san officially retired while he was still in the ICU.2 ­There was no official ceremony or farewell event as he had canceled any retirement-­ related events due to his hospitalization. In this way, Tanaka-­san successfully managed to clean up all of the work and loose ends he was involved with before his hospitalization. While he did not have any ritual closing, Tanaka-­san said, “While t­ here are good companions, ­there are also unpleasant companions. Without my cancer, I would not have any reason to cancel such events.” The one regret he had in the way his work life ended was that he could not formally express his appreciation to his CEO, bosses, and colleagues ­because the date for his hospitalization had been pushed ahead by one week. On April 10, Tanaka-­san was transferred to the general ward, where he began rehabilitation and started walking again. At the beginning, he did not know how much he could eat or drink and repeatedly regurgitated what­ever he ingested. He felt that he would never sleep, eat, or even walk again as a normal person. But he started walking ­every day ­after being transferred to the general ward, and he was able to recover his life slowly. ­These first literal steps ­toward a normal life ­were critical for Tanaka-­san; he explained that having strong legs was impor­tant as he wanted to climb mountains as long as he was alive. During his hospitalization, his wife came from Kyushu to take care of him. His ­children working in Tokyo also came e­ very day. Tanaka-­san told me how much he appreciated his ­family, especially his ­children, while he was in the hospital. Upon his discharge from the hospital, even the Bayside Half members welcomed him, even though he was no longer an official member. While he could not walk or run with the other members, he practiced walking with his wife in Bayside City in April. By the ­middle of May, only two months ­after his surgery, he was already ­running two hundred kilo­meters a month. On May 7, Tanaka-­san and his wife moved back to Kyushu. As a rule, he had gotten up early to do exercise in the morning before his retirement, so Tanaka-­

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san and his wife began getting up at five thirty ­every morning to go mountain climbing together, which became a routine practice. While before his retirement Tanaka-­san used to worry about becoming a burden to his wife, in August 2007 he told me that so far he did not feel like a “guest or garbage” at home in his postretirement life, and every­thing was coming together. He dined and shopped together with his wife, while he kept his r­ unning hobby on his own time and went ­running while she was away ­doing her part-­time job with her friends. Tanaka-­ san was fully enjoying his hobbies, including studying history, learning ­music, ­going to the mountains, and r­ unning.

Lasting Relations: Companionship beyond the Com­pany By being put in charge of closing the very com­pany that he had worked so hard to improve, Tanaka-­san learned the hard way what his com­pany had become ­after all. In talking about changing corporate relationships, he also kept reminding me that it is only in Tokyo (the urban center) that you see firsthand ­these tenuous relationships and this kind of treatment. Tanaka-­san also frequently talked about how ­things had been done without manuals before, with employees learning on the job and from each other. Implicit in his remarks was his own ambivalence ­toward the cold relationships of the urban center and the digitalization of jobs versus what he seemed to feel was the more analog approach to relationships in his hometown and southern Japan in general. Nonetheless, despite his difficult experiences, he did not simply decry corporate institutions as meaningless economic entities. Meeting with him from 2010 to 2017, I witnessed how Tanaka-­ san changed his views on his corporate experiences. Starting in 2010, Tanaka-­san had annual medical checkups in Tokyo and made it a rule to visit me and Bayside Half on his way to the hospital, as well as to the Japa­nese Alps, his favorite place to hike. Over ­those years, I witnessed how Tanaka-­san changed. He began to talk nostalgically about his com­pany experience, and as he described it, some of the negative experiences turned out to be positive viewed from a distance. When we met one day in 2017, Tanaka-­san reflected on how he had managed every­thing without manuals when he had started working. In Hiroshima, he had many problematic employees, and he often visited their homes to encourage them to come to work. One employee would not come out of his ­house, so Tanaka-­san went several times to talk to the employee’s wife instead. While talking to the wife, eventually the employee came out and listened to their conversation closely without joining. Gradually the employee’s facial color changed. ­After a brief hospitalization, he recovered and came back to work regularly. Tanaka-­san shared this

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story to show how this was also a part of his work, though he was never asked by his com­pany to do it. As he reflected on the many corporate changes of the 2010s, he remarked how incompetent employees have no space in companies now and nostalgically talked about how he and his colleagues used to have an incompetent boss due to the se­ niority system, and they had often got together over drinks to talk about him. While it had been stressful then, it also helped colleagues to bond. Now se­niority was gone, and every­thing had been routinized in manuals so that anyone can do tasks, which he felt undermined individual thinking and improvisation. He also reflected on how, depending on the kind of employee, he had changed the way he approached them and offered praise or scolding based on his personal assessment. Tanaka-­san felt that in t­hese ways, work used to be “human-­oriented” (ningen jūshi) rather than “manual-­oriented,” and he saw the “manualization” of work as part of the Americanization of the Japa­nese corporate world. For Tanaka-­san, while t­ here had been many unpleasant moments in the past, they all came together to mean something very positive in retrospect. He recalled how he would be called by clients on weekends and asked to come as soon as pos­ si­ble to fix some prob­lem. Even though he might have already had private plans, he would cancel every­thing to meet the clients. He remembered how his clients welcomed him politely, saying, “Ohhh, you ­really came ­here ­after all!” And he was appreciated for his sincerity. Tanaka-­san told me, “Through the pro­cess of such h ­ uman relationships, even though I canceled every­thing for the clients, I could not think of my ‘work’ simply as painful.” In his postretirement reflections, Tanaka-­san acknowledged the ever-­present tension between h ­ uman relations and profit and between institutions and individuals, and he insisted that they should not necessarily be mutually exclusive, although in practice they sometimes w ­ ere. What his unexpected experiences of corporate take-­over and structural marginalization taught him was more about the importance of the substance of ­human relations that persist while the com­ pany dissolves. He reiterated that “institutions change depending on situations and become tenuous, but the ‘com­pany’ [companionship and friends] and communication you develop by working together and your memories and emotions in that institution ­will last.” Even ­after Tanaka-­san moved back to Kyushu ­after his retirement, perhaps by applying the lesson he learned from his experience of economic restructuring, he could cherish the companionship he had developed through his membership in many dif­fer­ent clubs in Tokyo. He told me that his level of happiness and satisfaction had not changed, but his “sense of happiness, or feeling of satisfaction by accomplishing something, does not only have to be from work; it can be from

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f­ amily or hobbies in our daily life.” A ­ fter his bout with cancer, Tanaka-­san joined the Cancer Friends Marathon Association in Kyushu and proudly told me that he had finished the marathon in 2009. In addition, he occasionally came back to Tokyo to meet, run, bike, and go mountain climbing with the friends he had met in the local clubs.

Teaching, Volunteering, and Being Active ­ fter Tanaka-­san relocated to Fukuoka, he became active as a volunteer in vari­ A ous roles. Just as he had helped clients with computer prob­lems on weekends before, he was invited to help at local elementary schools with computer issues. Meanwhile, teachers recognized Tanaka-­san’s math skills, and he was asked to teach mathe­matics to local ­children. He enjoyed being involved with teaching, as it had originally been his c­ areer goal. Moreover, in 2015 he earned qualification as an origami teacher. He explained his motivation as coming from seeing some schoolchildren cram papers into their backpack during his volunteer teaching. This made him won­der about teaching origami to help such ­children become or­ga­nized. Four times a month, he taught origami at schools, and his classes became so popu­lar that he taught at a ­children’s welfare center and el­derly care facilities, as well as at an origami club that had been established by his students. When I complimented his volunteer activities, Tanaka-­san still drew on his working experience and explained that he had seen many weak employees, so it became natu­ral for him to think about what he could do to help them out. Ultimately, the vicissitudes of his salarymanhood led him back to his original dream of being a teacher, and he continued to draw on his experiences to meaningfully navigate each new phase in his life. In the summer of 2019, Tanaka-­san came to Tokyo ­after a climbing trip to the Japa­nese Alps, and I met him again. He proudly told me how Bayside Half members had visited him in Kyushu the previous year. At age seventy-­three, Tanaka-­san still enjoyed teaching math and origami to schoolchildren, while he continued to run and climb mountains in his off time.

Ōtsuka Ichiro: The Pork Cutlet Bowl at the End of a Turbulent Rainbow Despite his ­humble, gentle, open-­minded disposition, which he easily projected when we first met in 2007, Ōtsuka-­san confessed that he used to be “an arrogant man with three h’s [highs],” being rich (coming from a rich f­ amily), tall (being more than six feet tall), and smart (passing ­every academic exam), and he described himself as a man who had been able to get anything he wanted. Reflect-

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ing, he described his life as turbulent (haranbanjō no jinsei). In a l­ ater meeting in 2010, he received an award from his com­pany in recognition of thirty years of ser­v ice. He said that he took his job seriously, but when I asked about his job, he reluctantly described himself as a “crushed person” (tsubusareta ningen). Ōtsuka-­san was born in Aizu Wakamatsu, Fukushima Prefecture, in 1963. Being the first son and first grand­son in a large f­ amily, he was raised with full love and care. His ­father used to be an ordinary salaryman, but in order to pay the high medical expenses for a chronic kidney prob­lem, he de­cided to become in­ de­pen­dent and started a business dealing with construction products. Due to the unexpected success of the business, the Ōtsuka ­family soon became a rich and famous ­family in the region. As a child, he recalled being impudent and selfish, having clear likes and dislikes. He was a child who never ate any cheap meat and hated school meals. Even in the city, he never had to give his address to cab ­drivers as they knew his address merely from his name. He was called a “rich kid” (obocchama), and looking back, he admitted, “I was ­really a spoiled rich kid.” When he was preparing for the high school entrance exams, his ­family considered having him take an exam prior to the general exam so that he would be well prepared for the ­actual exams in February. Ōtsuka-­san’s plan was to study architecture and civil engineering in the ­future and to take over his ­father’s business, as he was the first and only son in the f­amily. Although he did almost no preparation and had ­little hope that he would pass, he took the entrance exam at D. High School,3 a technical high school in Tokyo, and unexpectedly passed it. This was a turning point in his life, Ōtsuka-­san recalled.

Riding the Raucous Escalator from D. High School to D. Com­pany Upon passing the high school entrance exam, every­thing changed for Ōtsuka-­san. First of all, despite his desire to attend a regular high school, his ju­nior high school told him to accept the offer from D. High School and showed an unwillingness to help him with letters of recommendation in the ­future other­wise. His ­family resisted the school by writing letters for him, but the school insisted that it was very prestigious to get accepted by that high school, and if a student rejected their offer once, the ju­nior high school would forever lose any prospects of sending students to D. High School in the ­future. Despite Ōtsuka-­san’s misgivings, getting into D. High School did have considerable advantages. It meant more than just attending a high school; it was a special technical high school where students studied electrical engineering and related subjects without paying tuition and receiving an allowance by working for the affiliated com­pany (D. Com­pany, a power com­pany). Additionally, at the

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time it was a boys-­only boarding school with strong behavioral prohibitions. Thus, entering the school would basically train him to be an adult, as well as for his ­career and his f­ uture. Ōtsuka-­san’s ­family wished that they had known t­ hese conditions in advance, as they would not have applied in the first place. But ­after careful consideration, Ōtsuka-­san de­cided to accept the offer in order to prevent ruining the reputation and f­ uture of his ju­nior high school in Aizu Wakamatsu. Instead of thinking of it as a constraint not to be able to go to a regular high school or to take over his ­father’s com­pany, he reasoned that he would become big enough in the com­pany to use his ­father’s com­pany as a business partner and then work ­until his f­ ather got too old, when he would then take over the business. T ­ here w ­ ere other more immediate repercussions of this choice as well; once he accepted the offer and no longer had to prepare for other entrance exams, the school discouraged other students from getting distracted by him and playing with him. In a way it was from this early period that Ōtsuka-­san began walking on the edge of the mainstream. Life at D. High School in the late 1970s was fun and crazy. Ōtsuka-­san spent his first year only ­going to the school, the com­pany, and his dormitory in western Tokyo. When he became a ju­nior, however, he started commuting to the center of Tokyo to enjoy the nightlife. It was very uncommon back then for male high school students to have an allowance (30,000 yen/month) that they received from the school. He recalled, “As high school students, we had money. Of course we spent it badly!” They usually left the boarding school with a weekend permit and went to discos in Shinjuku to drink and dance all night, only coming back to the dorm on Sunday night. Ōtsuka-­san used to be an aggressive young man who occasionally got into fights with other young men in Tokyo. According to him, bullying and fights ­were common around that time, and young men always carried knives in their bags. But he distinguished this be­hav­ior from the current bullying in the news media, claiming that it was never insidious and hidden back then. In addition to his reputation for fighting, during his high school years, he was a “star” in the night clubs and discos of Shinjuku, always surrounded by many young girls who w ­ ere aggressive and forceful to the point of dragging him into h ­ otels, which he credits with giving him misogynistic views at the time. E ­ very time he got into trou­ble for fighting, his aunt, who was the only relative from Aizu Wakamatsu living in Tokyo and who was a surrogate m ­ other for him in the city, would go to the school to apologize for his deeds. He called himself a “bad boy” (yankii) who was obsessed with fighting men and playing with w ­ omen all the time. A ­ fter getting tired of the aggressive young girls, he lost any interest in such girls and began spending more money to go to a more mature and subdued disco, where he met his ­future wife, Sayuri-­san.

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Growing as a “Social Adult” (Shakaijin) ­ fter graduating from D. High School in 1981, Ōtsuka-­san joined the school’s A corporate affiliate in Tochigi Prefecture, D. Com­pany, where he received new employee training. Despite expecting to study technical m ­ atters, upon joining the com­pany he had to learn about natu­ral resources—­trees and mountains—as many power lines in Tochigi went into the mountains, and they had to learn about the kinds of trees in order to properly cut them and to provide compensation for the citizens. He remembered how he spent his first year rigorously memorizing the mechanisms of trees and nature, which ­later became his main hobby. It was around this time that he also commuted to Tokyo by motorcycle to see his girlfriend in Tokyo, a two-­hour drive one way. Ōtsuka-­san was still a troublemaker, though, getting into fights and arrested for drunk driving. Nonetheless, Ōtsuka-­san recalled that during this first year as a full-­time employed “social adult” (shakaijin), he began to change. As in high school, with his strong sense of right and wrong and likes and dislikes, Ōtsuka-­san easily got into fights. One day when he went out cherry blossom viewing with coworkers, a strange man picked a fight with them. According to Ōtsuka-­san, this man started speaking ill of his se­nior and tried to punch him. Seeing this, Ōtsuka-­san could not hold back and tried to respond to the man physically. When he was about to punch the man to defend his se­nior, somebody punched Ōtsuka-­san from the side. Caught completely off guard, Ōtsuka-­san says he literally flew about three meters. In fact, it was his se­nior who had punched him. As he regained consciousness, his se­nior shouted at him, “­Don’t you get it? This is not an extension of D. High School. This is not a school. You are a representative of the com­pany!” Ōtsuka-­san, receiving his se­nior’s strong punch and stronger words, was filled with remorse ­because he had believed that if he fought for the group, his members would be supportive and join the fight. But it was his own group member, his favorite se­nior for whom he had fought, who scolded him instead. Ōtsuka-­ san still remembered this incident vividly and told me how this was the moment when he made up his mind to change himself. On his way home that day, he was crying out of regret, and he recognized a gradual sense of waking up. “Ever since, I have become gentle,” he recalled. He expressed gratitude for his se­nior, who taught him “the meaning of the scale of the com­pany and what it is to work as a social adult.” He realized that his com­ pany and he himself as an individual employee had to be extremely modest, as technically almost all residents in the Kanto region, including this strange aggressive man, ­were literally customers of his com­pany. (D. Com­pany was effectively a mono­poly in the Kanto region.) Ōtsuka-­san recalled that this was the most power­ful lesson regarding work that he ever received. Thus, despite his se­nior’s

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seeming betrayal by attacking him, Ōtsuka-­san was thankful to him for waking him up to the real­ity of the proper roles and mannerisms expected of social adults, and up ­until his recent retirement, he always respected this se­nior as an ideal man. Upon finishing his first year of training in Tochigi Prefecture, Ōtsuka-­san entered D. University night school and was assigned to work in the Tokyo office in 1982. Though he had been in a stable relationship with his girlfriend, Sayuri-­san, for more than a year at the time, his f­ amily and relatives still worried about his crazy high school period and kept encouraging him to get married and ­settle down. Nonetheless, Sayuri-­san was five years older than him, divorced, and the d ­ aughter of a single ­mother—­all of which appeared to be inappropriate for the first son of the prestigious Ōtsuka ­family back home. Ironically for Ōtsuka-­san, despite their general insistence for him to marry, all of his relatives opposed this par­tic­u­lar marriage. As a final resort, Ōtsuka-­san and Sayuri-­san de­cided to conceive a baby in order to persuade every­one to accept their marriage (what he called a tsukucchatta kekkon, in contrast to a dekichatta kekkon, or marriage a­ fter an unplanned pregnancy). ­After hearing about his girlfriend’s pregnancy, Ōtsuka-­san’s ­family gave up their re­sis­tance, and he quit the university and married Sayuri-­san in 1983. As the first and only son, his parents gave a wedding party three times in Tokyo and in Aizu Wakamatsu. Ōtsuka-­san and his wife soon had a ­daughter, followed by a son, and ­later in 1986 he was transferred to Ibaraki Prefecture, where he rented a h ­ ouse with a garden. From his first year with the com­pany in 1981, Ōtsuka-­san had worked hard and shown ­great pro­gress. With a combination of se­niority and merit systems at the com­pany, he was comfortably climbing up the corporate ladder while also rediscovering his joy in dealing with nature at work (the mountains) and at home (their garden). Every­one knew he would be a big man in the com­ pany in the f­ uture, and Ōtsuka-­san was promoted and trusted to the extent that he was eventually able to do business with his f­ ather’s com­pany just as he had dreamed. In Ibaraki, he was successful not only in his work life but also in his ­family life. However, it was around this period that he said he started feeling lonely ­because his wife “simply became a ­mother” and made him take the role solely of a ­father, only to be concerned with ­children’s ­matters.

A New World in Tokyo and New Prob­lems at Work ­ fter ten years in Ibaraki Prefecture, Ōtsuka-­san asked the com­pany for a transA fer for his ­children’s high school education. His request was approved, and the Ōtsuka ­family returned to Tokyo in 1995. He started helping his aunt, his surrogate ­mother in Tokyo, to open her own hostess club in Ginza. Ōtsuka-­san called it a debt of kindness (on) to her that he wanted to repay. Ōtsuka-­san’s life changed,

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and he worked from morning ­until night at his com­pany and then at his aunt’s hostess club as a bar master, where he prepared drinks and food and also supervised the club, ­until midnight instead of ­going home or ­going out to drink with his colleagues. It was at this hostess club, Club Ai, where I met Ōtsuka-­san in 2007 and where I conducted my own participant-­observation. At the club, Ōtsuka-­san was supportive to hostesses as their ­labor u ­ nion leader and often defended hostesses against the mama-­san. For him, it was an eye-­opening experience working at the hostess club, as he could meet many dif­fer­ent salarymen and hear their real voices, and he explained that being in the hostess club was a chance to study the “­human world.” Indeed, a few times in 2007 he told me that he would rather work at a hostess club than at his com­pany, although I know that o ­ thers ­were very impressed by the fact that Ōtsuka-­san not only helped his aunt at night but also worked at a major com­pany during the day. In addition to working at the club, he would also bring his coworkers ­there, and he gave his subordinates the rare experience of drinking at such a high-­class Ginza hostess club. While D. Com­pany was not hit hard by the bursting of the b ­ ubble, this did not simply mean that Ōtsuka-­san was unaffected by the collapse of the b ­ ubble economy. In the midst of his success in the com­pany, his ­father’s business was affected by the economic downturn and eventually went bankrupt in 1999. ­After his f­ ather’s com­pany’s bankruptcy, Ōtsuka-­san lost his plan to take over the business and instead took on some of his f­ather’s debts. Out of some hundreds of billions of yen that the com­pany owed, Ōtsuka-­san owed twenty million yen in debt as the first son of the Ōtsuka ­family. Ōtsuka-­san had always been cared for and received advice from his com­pany boss, and so when his wife received a letter about the debt from the ­lawyer, Ōtsuka-­san turned to his boss for advice on what to do about paying off the debt and dealing with his f­ather’s bankruptcy. Ōtsuka-­san even suggested the possibility of receiving a partial amount of his retirement pay in advance, but his boss was shocked by the bankruptcy and the amount of debt he owed and accused Ōtsuka-­san for being responsible for taking on so much debt. Not knowing how to h ­ andle the situation or give advice, this boss consulted with his boss, who also did not know what to do, and word of Ōtsuka-­san’s situation ended up reaching the top boss in the department without Ōtsuka-­san’s knowledge. As it is usually the top boss who must take all of the responsibility for his subordinate’s deeds and wrongdoings (see for example Matsuda-­san’s feelings about this in chapter 6), Ōtsuka-­san’s debts ­were interpreted as distrustful be­ hav­ior that threatened the face of the top boss for having such a problematic employee in the com­pany, and Ōtsuka-­san’s promising ­career was suddenly thrown into uncertainty.

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Structurally, Ōtsuka-­san’s debt crisis could not have come at a more sensitive moment. This was also a crucial period for Ōtsuka-­san’s ­career prospects, as promotions to middle-­level management are usually de­cided when a worker is in his late thirties or early forties. As Ōtsuka-­san and other in­for­mants explained to me, when considering promotions, Japa­nese corporations take into consideration salarymen’s life course, specifically the maturity of the individual and f­ amily (e.g., high education costs for c­ hildren, medical expenses, home loans, e­ tc.), and thus employees around this age face a lot of pressure and difficulties at work. As a result of his debt situation, Ōtsuka-­san was soon taken out of the management track and never received any promotions during this crucial period. The r­ ipple effect of his f­ ather’s debts also reached his own f­ amily, further affecting his relationship at home with his wife, as she had to acknowledge that her husband would receive no further promotions and would instead gain the stigma attached to his ­father—­the very man who had opposed their marriage. Recalling ­these incidents, what was most regrettable for Ōtsuka-­san was his naive trust in his boss and com­pany. He had only considered consulting with his boss ­because he had trusted him. Moreover, his com­pany was technically the com­ pany that he had worked for since he was sixteen years old, and he had always shown pro­gress and achievement since his first year of employment. Moreover, this incident also coincided with the purchase of his first h ­ ouse in the suburbs of Tokyo through a home loan, and he needed the extra “care” (support, promotion, and money) from the com­pany the most at this crucial juncture. Ōtsuka-­san felt that he had been betrayed by the com­pany in 1999 and saw himself as a “crushed ­human” ever since. It took a long time for him to accept this real­ity, and t­here ­were many moments in 1999 when he seriously considered quitting the com­pany. But given the cost of supporting his wife and his ­children, who would eventually be attending college, he de­cided to keep working for the com­pany ­until his ­children finished college and became in­de­pen­dent. Ōtsuka-­san was not completely resigned to his fate, however. During one interview, he confessed, “Yes, I have a dream.” He would take early retirement from the com­pany in 2010 and start pursuing what he r­ eally wanted. He planned to open a restaurant serving pork cutlet bowls (katsudon) in the center of Tokyo. He justified his agenda as revenge against the com­pany, and he was e­ ager for his chance to escape the cold corporate shell that had caged him for so long despite his loyalty.

Self-­Re-­creation through Hopes and Hobbies Despite his anger ­toward the com­pany and his secret plan, Ōtsuka-­san did not simply remain a victim of the com­pany. He used his daily commute and f­ ree time

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at the com­pany to study cooking theory, while he put his knowledge into practice serving drinks and snacks at his aunt’s hostess club. Fi­nally, in 2004 he passed the cooking exam required to become a licensed chef, and he used his connections to consult with architects regarding the ­future restaurant layout. By 2009, it seemed that his dreams w ­ ere fi­nally taking shape, and he was planning on officially leaving his com­pany around 2010. This dream was not simply a reaction to his alienation from the com­pany. Ōtsuka-­san had long wanted to try his hand at the restaurant business. He explained that he was a long-­term customer of one locally known pork cutlet restaurant in his hometown, and he had been disappointed by the poor quality of pork cutlets in Tokyo. His dream was to re-­create the taste of his hometown for the ­people of Tokyo. Furthermore, regardless of his lack of promotion in the com­pany, Ōtsuka-­san was an active teacher of his ju­niors in the com­pany, and he still had a strong sense of responsibility for training and supporting the young employees. As much as he felt disappointed about being unable to make decisions on his own in the com­pany, and as much as it was difficult for him to follow ­orders from a ju­nior whom he felt was not even competent but who was ­later promoted above him, he also looked content when I saw him at the hostess club, surrounded by many of his subordinates, who still relied on him and spoke highly of him to me. Pork cutlets ­were not his only passion. In both the countryside and city, Ōtsuka-­ san continued to pursue his passion for gardening. E ­ very morning when he got up, he would go to the garden first to talk to his plants, ask them how they w ­ ere, and ­water them. “I love raising and growing something,” he said. For him, this was more than a hobby; this was his “spiritual tranquility.” He described his passion in the following way: Plants and flowers are ­really honest. They ­really are. They never tell lies. They never betray you. When they are sad, they get weak. When they are happy, they grow tall. They respond honestly to the way you are and what you do. They give me a sense of reward. . . . ​Raising them does not mean just watering. You cannot just ­water them. You have to raise them. You have to make them feel like they want to grow. You cannot just indulge or neglect them. If they want ­water, you cannot just give ­water. You have to wait ­until they soak up all the ­water and nutrition by themselves through their bodies; then we can give them more w ­ ater. Other­wise they ­will die. Ōtsuka-­san developed this interest unexpectedly, ever since his first year in the com­pany when he worked outdoors, and he became more serious about gardening ­after he purchased his home in Tokyo. He emphasized the dialectical nature of care and the concept of cultivating (sodateru): one cannot just order or coerce p ­ eople, but one has to cultivate their ­will or desire to work and try hard themselves.

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He emphasized the importance of “having a sense of being dialectically recognized by a com­pany.” In the past, Ōtsuka-­san had a strong sense of being a member of the com­pany. But ­after he realized that he was not trusted anymore, he lost all t­ hese feelings due to the lack of reciprocity from the com­pany. Without reciprocity, he reflected, ­humans—or any living beings—­feel crushed. According to him, “Just as with anyone, salarymen have all sorts of economic and personal affairs, so the ones who are recognized and selected by the com­pany in the end signify that, despite the turbulence, they are r­ eally accepted and recognized. And, of course, they w ­ ill have a strong sense of loyalty.” In short, he i­ magined that ­those with ­little loyalty to the com­pany must be ­people who had some trou­ble in the com­pany. Indeed, Ōtsuka-­san’s experience revealed that ­there was no way to predict what might lead to being structurally marginalized or fired. Fi­nally, ­after several years of suffering from his ­father’s unexpected misfortune, Ōtsuka-­san was able to feel grateful for this experience as he felt ­free, and he lost any emotional attachment to his work. Instead, he felt this made him grow as a ­human (hito toshite seichō shita). He told me that he learned what it was like to fail for the first time, as he had been always successful and even arrogant in the past. Moreover, ­because of this experience, he could now pursue what he r­ eally wanted to do. He would not work ­until the com­pany’s expected retirement age, he explained, as he had already worked for nearly thirty years, and he felt justified in leaving without damaging his pension.

Herniation, Recovery, and Raising His Ju­niors Ōtsuka-­san’s story took another turn for the worst when I met him again in 2008. Ōtsuka-­san had suffered shoulder and neck pain since the winter of 2007, but no one took it seriously. His doctor at the com­pany hospital, D. Hospital, took an X-­ray but could not identify the disk injury he had, instead judging that it could be “stiff shoulders due to aging” (go-­jū kata) and gave him a cooling compression pad. In the fall of 2008, as the pain became severe, he went to the hospital again. This time the doctor that had examined him was gone, and the staff apologized for not being able to offer the same doctor who knew Ōtsuka-­san’s condition. Instead, they had him checked by a visiting doctor from Keio University Hospital. This change in doctors was a stroke of luck for Ōtsuka-­san. The visiting doctor quickly recognized the significant disk injury and identified it as a spinal disk herniation. It turned out that his original diagnosis had been a medical error, and the herniation had grown significantly worse. Ōtsuka-­san was told that he should have surgery as soon as pos­si­ble. Nonetheless, the carotid arteries ­were located within five millimeters of his herniated disk, which complicated the surgery; t­ here was a strong chance that the surgery could damage or sever the arter-

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ies, leading to potentially irreversible damage. According to Ōtsuka-­san, ­there ­were fewer than five surgeons who could perform this tricky spinal surgery in Japan, but thankfully, one of t­ hese, a Keio University spinal specialist, agreed to work on him. Around the time of this surgery, Ōtsuka-­san sent me many messages telling me how fearful he felt and how tricky the surgery was “as it ­will cut my neck.” He told me that one pos­si­ble side effect was damage to the ner­vous system, which could cause him to lose his memory. He asked me to remember his life for him, as he would not like to forget who he was and what he had done. ­Things got worse for Ōtsuka-­san, however. He was caught between two very difficult choices. He told me that his f­amily was against the surgery and that it was only me and his aunt, the mama-­san at the club, who supported the surgery despite the pos­si­ble side effects of memory loss. He could listen to his ­family and forego the surgery, allowing the condition to grow increasingly painful and eventually debilitating, or he could risk memory loss and have the surgery without his ­family’s support. In the end, with his f­ amily’s continued opposition, Ōtsuka-­san took the risk and de­cided to have surgery ­because the amount of pain was unbearable. On September 4, 2008, Ōtsuka-­san went in for surgery and stayed in the ICU for several days, l­ater moving to the general ward. When I visited him in the hospital, he told me that he wanted to go back to work again as he had a lot to teach his juniors before his retirement. He was in charge of all training for young employees, and he worried whether the young members would be able to pass the various work exams. The surgery and initial recovery took about a month in total. Meanwhile, Ōtsuka-­san took paid holiday from his com­pany, which he had accumulated over his working years. Although he was treated in the com­ pany hospital, he did not rely on his com­pany for the expense. Instead, he paid the fee for the entire surgery, medical equipment, neck brace, and other miscellaneous expenses, including a two-­month hospitalization fee that was covered by his national insurance. By November 2008, Ōtsuka-san was back doing desk work at the company. By April 2009, he was finally back in the field. Ōtsuka-­san was now in charge of supervising young employees when they climbed up the steel power structures to fix electrical lines. One of ­these employees was a young ­woman, Yamada-­san, who worked hard physically just like the male employees. Yamada-­san was small in physique and married with small ­children. His com­pany did not want to allow ­women to do such a dangerous job, but Ōtsuka-­san took on the responsibility of training her b ­ ecause she was so determined. When I met her, I could not believe that she did every­thing that the men ­were made to do. Indeed, Ōtsuka-­san once told me how it was a handicap for her as a female to do this work if evaluators ­were only to consider the criteria evaluated by the performance-­based merit system

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(speed, for instance). He explained, “She could do every­thing just like the male employees, but with her female physique, her speed is dif­fer­ent.”4 With her small body, she could efficiently crawl over the electrical cables, which w ­ ere sixty meters above the ground, but she took double the time of male employees in completing the entire task. Ōtsuka-­san told me, “So you cannot just have the merit system to judge their per­for­mance. In training new workers, I do not consider gender. If I do, I cannot do this job. This is horrible. But in evaluating, I consider her gender. In real­ity, she is a female and she takes longer, but she can do every­thing just fine.” On November 6, 2008, Yamada-­san had to take an exam to test her skills for promotion. In the weeks leading up to the exam, Ōtsuka-­san was concerned about how she would ­handle it. When I talked to him briefly the day before the exam, he was on his way home a­ fter drinking and said, “Well, I think she is fine as she is a hard worker [ganbariya] . . . ​and I also talked to tomorrow’s examiner, many times, asking him to judge her generously!” To my knowledge, Ōtsuka-­san was a man who never liked this sort of back-­channel negotiation (nemawashi) or favoritism. Perhaps this was the way Ōtsuka-­san appropriated his own version of a “performance-­based merit system,” valuing her efforts and spirit and the quantified per­for­mance. When I pointed this out, he laughed and said, “I c­ an’t help it [shōganai]!” On the exam day, Yamada-­san did every­thing fine, but she took longer as he had feared. According to Ōtsuka-­san, she received deductions due to the delayed completion time, but still she was able to pass even with t­ hese deductions. Ōtsuka-­san was very happy and he took all the examinees out to dinner and drinks ­after the exam.

Unexpected Disaster, Son’s Sickness, and a New Plan Notwithstanding his dramatic 2008 surgery, the period from 2009 to 2011 ­were critical years that upended Ōtsuka-­san’s life. He had never abandoned his dream of opening a pork cutlet restaurant, and he was seriously considering taking early retirement. However, in 2009 his son, who was in his last year of university and was preparing for job hunting, begged Ōtsuka-­san not to quit. This was b ­ ecause in his job application, ­there was a section to answer ­whether his f­ather was still employed. Ōtsuka-­san’s son felt that if his f­ ather was still employed in such a famous com­pany, this would be advantageous for his success in getting a job, and thus he begged Ōtsuka-­san to continue working. As much as he preferred to take early retirement with the good financial package that was offered at the time, he de­cided to postpone his dream for his son. However, a­ fter successfully getting a job offer at a good com­pany, his son came down with tuberculosis and was quarantined in the hospital. As a result, his university graduation was delayed, and his job offer was rescinded.

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Then on March 11, 2011, the ­triple disaster—­earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown—­struck Japan. Although the trigger was an earthquake, ­human error was critical to the outcome, and Ōtsuka-­san’s com­pany was also implicated. This affected the ways employees and their families in D. Com­pany ­were treated by the rest of society as well as by the com­pany. According to Ōtsuka-­san, “Every­ thing changed a­ fter the March 11 disaster.” For example, as D. Com­pany had lost the public’s trust, for the first few years Ōtsuka-­san ­couldn’t wear his uniform in public b ­ ecause ­people would sometimes purposely bump into him while he was working. Moreover, employees’ salaries, pensions, and retirement packages ­were largely reduced, and they no longer received bonuses. All corporate welfare was gone, including the hospital Ōtsuka-­san had been treated at. As his ­house had been purchased through a long-­term plan based on his salary and bonus, his entire plan regarding home and f­ amily changed. Reflecting, Ōtsuka-­san described this time as one of uncertainty when he could not see any f­uture for several years. At the same time, facing this difficulty, Ōtsuka-­san felt an increased sense of loyalty to his com­pany and had a strong desire to help D. Com­pany. ­After ­going through this turbulent time, Ōtsuka-­san’s perspective on his life changed. While he could have remained at D. Com­pany u ­ ntil age sixty-­five, his salary would have been cut by 40 ­percent, so his new plan was to take D. Com­pany’s alternative retirement package to work with full salary u ­ ntil age sixty. For Ōtsuka-­san, every­thing changed a­ fter the disaster, which also made his dream of opening a restaurant go up in smoke. When I met him in 2017, ­there ­were also new ­family developments that enriched Ōtsuka-­san’s life. ­After his son recovered from tuberculosis, he spent seven years as an irregular worker, and in 2017 he successfully secured a regular full-­ time position. Also in 2017, his married ­daughter delivered a new member to the ­family. This baby brought their ­family closer, and Ōtsuka-­san often visited his ­daughter to see the baby. He also proudly announced that his female subordinate, Yamada-­san, had been successfully promoted to section chief and soon moved up the ­career ladder. Ōtsuka-­san felt that this was a sign that his time spent raising his ju­niors had been well worth it, despite his own ­career setbacks. In the summer of 2019, Ōtsuka-­san was no longer in Tokyo, relocated as a business bachelor in Niigata Prefecture. Ōtsuka-­san had retired from D. Com­pany in spring 2019, and since April he had been reemployed by a new com­pany to train their new employees. When we talked on the phone, Ōtsuka-­san sounded energetic and lively, happily employed as a new man­ag­er in W. Com­pany. Modestly, he told me how more than six companies, which had been D. Com­pany’s subcontractors, had tried to headhunt him before retirement, but he accepted W. Com­pany as they ­were the first one to contact him. When I asked about what the secret was to his successful reemployment, Ōtsuka-­san responded, “It is thanks

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to D. Com­pany.” I mentioned that his attitude t­oward D. Com­pany seemed to have changed significantly, and he laughed and continued, “It was D. Com­pany that gave me credibility and skills. So t­ hese subcontractors ­really trusted me. . . . ​ Perhaps treating o ­ thers well resulted in this. Still, without D. Com­pany, ­these companies would never have approached me.” While D. Com­pany had lost trust in Ōtsuka-­san once, which also made Ōtsuka-­san lose trust in D. Com­pany, it was precisely ­because Ōtsuka-­san had continuously worked at D. Com­pany that he generated such trust from W. Com­pany.

Reflections: The Vicissitudes of Salar ymanhood Unlike the ste­reo­type of a Japa­nese corporation’s structural inflexibility, t­ here is a tremendous amount of fluidity and flexibility at work u ­ nder the surface of their seemingly stable employment patterns. While structural marginalization has been often discussed in relation to female workers, following the ­actual life stories of men reveals how male employees are also subject to unanticipated ­career trajectories. In addition to vertical movement through promotion, many Japa­nese corporations mobilize male employees through dif­fer­ent job roles, divisions, departments, locations, and even across related companies (e.g., a parent com­pany or subsidiaries) for vari­ous reasons, including ­human resource development, cost cutting, and punishment. When dealing with economic downturns, ­there are many ways to marginalize, reprimand, and manipulate workers without officially dismissing them. In this re­spect, Japa­nese corporations demonstrate employment flexibility within the same organ­ization (including subsidiaries) rather than through utilizing the external l­abor market across dif­fer­ent companies. This also problematizes the reductionistic ste­reo­type of the salaryman identity, as ­there are diverse salaryman identities based not only on the com­pany that they work for but also on vari­ous jobs, roles, and divisions within the com­pany. Despite their unexpected marginalization or disempowerment, each case in this chapter reveals the men’s subjectivities that embraced “working hard for something,” w ­ hether it was one’s ­children, wife, or com­pany—­and often all three si­mul­ta­neously. Moreover, despite their tumultuous life courses, each in­for­mant was able to reflect on and re-­create a sense of integrity—­the opportunity to rethink their lives by giving new meaning to their practices or by fashioning a new sense of self that had been suspended or repressed in some form by their long participation in a com­pany in pursuit of profits. However, it was only by becoming neoliberal subjects—­that is, by being subjected to neoliberal reforms in the

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com­pany that si­mul­ta­neously converged with personal conflicts—­that they ­were able to revalue ­those early experiences. Just as it is difficult to summarize the heterogeneous effects of broad socioeconomic forces on individual lives, it is also difficult to reduce the vari­ous competing ideologies in Japan into one hegemonic doctrine. Fukuyama-­san’s, Tanaka-­ san’s, and Ōtsuka-­san’s par­tic­u­lar circumstances in which their ­careers ­were cut short, dramatically changed, or marginalized represent the unexpected and unpredictable h ­ uman outcomes of postbubble economic changes and the resulting ideological clash between Japan’s postwar economic nationalism and postbubble neoliberalism. What is more impor­tant, however, is that such ideologies are never separate from the multiple cultural idioms and other contexts that dominate their personal experiences. At some point in their long-­term salarymanhood, they ­were constrained or structurally marginalized by, and also resisted, the changing institutional patterning of the older ideology that s­haped their new m ­ iddle class lifeways—­seniority, age-­related responsibility, and long-­term commitment—as well as neoliberal policies of corporate downsizing, ­labor rationalization, and performance-­based evaluations. Indeed, each case showcases the dynamics of convergence and the collapsing together of competing ideologies between individuals and institutions ­under Japan’s neoliberal reforms. In examining Japa­nese modernity in the 1960s, Plath (1964, 191) carefully ventured that “a ­century of strug­gle with industry and democracy has not converted Japan from an agrarian arcadia into an industrial utopia.” He concluded that “industrial democracy is not only a complex form of culture, it forms a cultural complex” (Plath 1964, 195). Salarymen like Fukuyama-­san, Tanaka-­san, and Ōtsuka-­san revealed not only the “complex form of culture” u ­ nder neoliberalism but also the creation of “a cultural complex” out of the convergent evolution and in­de­pen­dent invention of par­tic­u­lar sociocultural dynamics alongside and under­neath globalized neoliberal policies. Under­neath the comprehensive structures of con­temporary society, t­here exist multivalent ideologies that are both competing and complicit, collapsing together and seeking compromise with each other in any given situation. In short, no ideology becomes completely dominant in overwriting and overriding existing ideologies. Crucially, for ­these salarymen ­under economic crisis, neoliberal ideology did not determine their individual subjectivities or privilege a neoliberal subjectivity over another form. Rather, t­ hese salarymen’s experiences and reflections call attention to the dynamic pro­cesses of genesis, reproduction, and transformation in the forms and meanings of identities and practices among Japa­nese businessman ­under neoliberal reforms.

CONCLUSION

When Plath (1980, 3) was writing in the 1970s about “rhe­torics of maturity” in the postindustrial era, when mass productivity and mass longevity ­were achieved, he argues that fundamentally “a person is a collective product” and that p ­ eople continuously craft and revise “our cultural heritages, our consociates, and ourselves” (8, 9). For Plath, the “rhe­torics of maturity” is “a rhe­toric of long engagements among intimates” (226) that is marked by “a lifelong engagement between the dynamic of personal integrity on the one hand and the dynamic of social integration on the other” (51). In the forty years since Plath’s work, Japan’s economic and social structures have changed dramatically. Nonetheless, my research also reveals that salarymen, both working and retired, are not just “working” (­doing ­labor) or “retired” (dissociated from social significance) in a ­simple sense; they are still composing and being composed by the dynamics of “personal integrity” and “social integration.” T ­ hese dynamics are best understood through the concept of society (shakai), which implies both the broader interpersonal field in which an individual is embedded as well as the public nexus by which one is recognized as a social actor. Simply put, salarymen do not stop participating. Many men dream of working as long as they are active and able (gen’eki de iru kagiri). Working in this sense is not just about making money or performing productive work. To borrow my in­for­mants’ words, it is closely related to their sense of value as “an individual in society” (Rohlen 1974)—­and specifically, their sense of social responsibility as employee, man­ ag­er, husband, f­ather, club member, and grand­father, a sense that persists and takes on new meaning as they grow older. 242

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What began as a study of (corporate) men and masculinity ended up as more of a reflection on the issues of individual self-­cultivation and concerns of “families in practice” (Gutmann 1996) in the midst of socioeconomic change. This reflects how salarymen or any other social actors represent both the nexus and product of ongoing self-­cultivation and socialization in the changing global economy. This is a combination of Plath’s dynamics of “personal integrity” and “social integration,” as well as what Lebra (1984) terms “triadization”—­the ongoing socialization pro­cess through f­ amily, school, and com­pany (and beyond)—­which shapes the development of the self as a “social adult” (shakaijin) through interaction with ­others in society (shakai) writ large. For my salaryman in­for­mants, becoming a shakaijin meant maneuvering through multiple responsibilities as well as tumultuous economic ups and downs. Rather than clinging to the notion of the com­pany man ­under economic nationalism or enterprising selves ­under the neoliberal economy, t­hese salarymen tried to restructure their sense of self and maintain control of their lives and their f­amily’s livelihood even in the midst of turmoil. Through the eyes of ­these diverse men, this book has examined how the postbubble economic recession and increasing penetration of global capitalism in Japan has affected Japa­nese institutions and individual Japa­nese men at work and leisure. Obviously, Japan’s long-­term recession and increasing globalization ­under neoliberal reforms have shaken not only the macro level of national policies and economic/corporate restructurings but also the everyday lives of individuals and their families. As I have argued, the ideology of neoliberalism is not just a globally enforced market-­centered ideology, but it has been actively promoted by Japa­ nese corporations to reengineer older Japa­nese corporate practices. This ethnographic study has shown how Japa­nese corporations actively used the ideology of neoliberalism as an external pressure to reengineer Japa­nese corporations and how individual working men have wrestled with vari­ous effects of restructuring, as well as how they have continuously constructed their sense of integrity through social engagement.

Subjectivity in Post-­Toyotist Japan Muehlebach and Shoshan (2012, 322) argue that economies’ transition from Fordist industrial models to post-­Fordist, postindustrial models of production and employment has had a power­ful effect on worker consciousness. “Fordism,” they write, “was an affect factory, organ­izing ­women, men, and ­children into a new ‘econometrics of feelings.’ ” They suggest that “Fordism s­ haped the senses of generations, giving them a rhythm and leaving deep, visceral traces” that persist

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t­oday, producing what they call a “post-­Fordist affect” of melancholy that suffuses the pre­sent with longing for the rhythms and retrospectively projected security of Fordist times (324). A similar melancholy surfaced in the comments of my in­for­mants since the mid-2000s. Breaking with the previous structure of long-­term mutual entailments, economic restructuring produced a new kind of alienation among employees by creating new hierarchies of value based on flexibility and profitability. During the ­bubble economy, some critics and workers themselves had become critical of the rigid employment system, including long-­term employment and se­niority. Yet my in­for­mants’ life stories reveal how their willingness to work hard was driven by their own rational understandings and dedication to f­ amily, com­pany, and social needs. Rather than mindless corporate animals, they w ­ ere mindful social adults who often saw their roles as employees and husbands/fathers as a meaningful and impor­tant mission. At the same time, u ­ nder corporate restructuring, my in­for­ mants’ responses revealed how previous safety nets ­were now shaken in the name of employee empowerment and global competitiveness only to reveal crude cap­ i­tal­ist alienation. As they reflected on how they felt as workers in t­ oday’s companies, their comments evinced a reflexive reevaluation of the time when the Japa­nese economy became known for Toyotism, the combination of flexible production with com­pany citizenship and state-­guided economic nationalism. Considering the effects of neoliberal reforms on the operation of Toyotism as a distinctive accumulation regime and (social) mode of regulation highlights the local realities of neoliberalization as variegated pro­cesses that are “si­mul­ta­neously patterned, interconnected, locally specific, contested and unstable” (Brenner, Peck, and Theodore 2010a, 184). In other words, despite government, policy makers’, and business leaders’ efforts to promote a specific mode of control—­“self-­ management” (Imai 2011)—­this neoliberal narrative did not successfully gain hegemonic traction on the ground. Put in context with anthropological studies in other postindustrial socie­ties, the Japa­nese case highlights both the similarities and the limitations of assessing the impact of neoliberalism. On one level, the structural transformations resonate with what Molé (2012) finds in postreform Italy. ­There, neoliberal ­labor market flexibility has created an alienated workplace where temporary workers fight with permanent workers, resulting in the social and economic alienation of l­abor and the breakdown of Fordist solidarity. As Molé (2012, 28) notes, “Neoliberal reform was intended to dismantle a l­ abor market defined by its safeguards or protections, part of a broader ethos of Fordist stability.” As in Japan, Italian workers benefitted from long-­term employment as an institutional postwar legacy. U ­ nder the post-2003 reforms, the previous system of long-­term employment increasingly became an object of envy

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and permanent workers became a target of workplace harassment by temporary workers. While confronting similar global economic pressures to increase ­labor efficiency, Japan and Italy have very dif­fer­ent under­lying economic systems. In contrast to the high structural unemployment that ­limited corporate solidarity in Italy (Molé 2010, 42), Japan enjoyed a relatively high and stable employment rate and strong companyist solidarity. Whereas in both cases nonregular workers have increasingly replaced regular workers, in Italy ­these dynamics have contributed to aggressive actions by temporary workers, who harass their permanent coworkers using mobbing as a strategic weapon against them. In contrast, as ­labor instability increased in Japan, the breakdown of workplace solidarity has been internalized in self-­defensive, reactive mea­sures: avoiding interstitial tasks, withdrawing cooperation, lowering per­for­mance goals, and developing a general attitude of risk aversion. Moreover, the absence or presence of meaningful mediating discourse is another crucial ­factor in how individuals on the ground respond to neoliberal reforms. For example, Yan’s (2003) conceptualization of suzhi in China and Lane’s (2011) insight into the value of autonomy and in­de­pen­dence in the United States reveal how distinctive subjectivities that incorporate “neoliberal values” may emerge. In China, Yan (2003, 495–96) argues, Maoist-­era targets of critique, such as notions of feudalism and backwardness, are invoked “as a strategy that justifies the need for liberalization and enlightenment and thus calls on the market economy as the cure, never as a prob­lem.” ­Here the local concept of suzhi mediates the effects of neoliberal reforms as an “intangible operator” to transform neoliberal ­labor regimes into a culturally valued subjectivity. This is embedded within a discourse of civility, self-­discipline, and modernity that marks postsocialist, neoliberal governmentality in China. In contrast, Lane’s (2011) study of unemployed male tech workers in Texas shows how employees and their families invoke the same philosophy of c­ areer management advocated by their employers to embrace a culturally valued subjectivity of being an autonomous “com­pany of one” despite insecure employment. Neoliberal flexibility becomes transvalued through local masculine idioms of in­ de­pen­dence, mobility, and self-­actualization. Thus, success and protection within the American neoliberal economy are tied to embracing neoliberal ideals by rationalizing job instability as part of their long-­term c­ areer development as in­de­ pen­dent enterprising selves. While shifting culpability for their hardships away from both themselves and their employers to the abstract forces of the market, ­these men, in effect, work on the economic logic of neoliberalism by welding neoliberal ideologies of market logic and self-­responsibility onto American idioms

246 Conclusion

of “marketing oneself as an in­de­pen­dent, never-­complaining com­pany of one” (Lane 2011, 140). In Japan, individuals have similarly been impelled to become flexible, autonomous workers willing to take risks and accept responsibility. Yet even as many employees take on competitive and resistant stances within unstable workplaces, they fight for job stability and become risk averse, to such an extent that management came to reconsider and amend reforms. The responses from both employers and employees reveal the absence of meaningful transvaluation; structural reforms in Japan did not successfully produce a new discourse that could legitimate the reforms among workers. No new forms of self-­directed therapies or lifestyles have emerged that can mediate and legitimize individual well-­being (Davies 2015); nor have idioms like suzhi or autonomous company-­of-­one in­de­pen­dence emerged to transvaluate the l­abor and subjectivity of companyist ideology into a neoliberal form. Japan’s case shows that no locally meaningful discourses or cultural idioms have emerged for workers to draw from in order to mediate the reforms. Instead, the reform pro­cess revived preexisting discourses and idioms and simply reinforced desires for stability, which many employees had become skeptical of during previous de­cades. The subjectivity that emerged among workers I spoke with was neither reflective of nor convergent with neoliberal values; rather, it was a reflexive and reactive subjectivity that eschewed neoliberal values. As a result, some workers became increasingly risk averse, and many continued to seek success within the system, even though the system itself has been eroded by globally accelerating waves of economic reforms. It is perhaps this absence of new mediating discourses or transvaluation that might make Japan seem to be suffering from a “precarity of existence” (Allison 2013). Despite the premise of liberating individuals through open competition and objective evaluation, individual responses to reforms in Japan by both employees and man­ag­ers can best be understood as ­silent re­sis­tance. Rather than sitting idle or simply becoming complicit with neoliberal values, employees have critically reflected on and passive-­aggressively responded to government and business leaders’ hegemonic ideology and practice. This is reflected in Matsuda-­san’s experience of recognizing the prob­lems of neoliberal techniques in his com­pany and how his management team thought through and revised the performance-­based merit system by providing permutation tournaments. This sentiment was also echoed in Ōtsuka-­san’s confession that despite the push for quantifiable metrics, he could not help taking into consideration gender, effort, and a­ ctual per­for­mance when evaluating his subordinates like the young w ­ oman Yamada-­san—an appropriation of his own version of the performance-­based merit system. T ­ hese reflections reveal their critical ac­cep­tance of the irresolvable tensions and difficulties

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of applying so-­called neoliberal practices of merit evaluation with deeply rooted “humanistic” (ningenteki) practices of cultivating and evaluating other h ­ uman beings. Intriguingly, while sharing some similarities with other postindustrial socie­ ties in North Amer­ic­ a and Eu­rope, the Japa­nese response to neoliberal reforms resonates more with postsocialist lit­er­a­ture on the reevaluation and reappropriation of local logics and values, which found new meaning and expression ­under global cap­it­ al­ist reforms (e.g., Collier 2005; Rogers 2009), as well as with the risk-­ averse attitudes in Argentina found by Shever (2008, 702). In the latter case, neoliberal privatization provoked a fallback on kinship networks and resilient local discourses of f­ amily instead of embracing subjectivity as “autonomized individuals.” And yet it was precisely b ­ ecause workers felt that they could no longer expect privatized corporations to protect them from risks that they fell back on the ­family system. In Japan, even as companies suffered and pushed employees to take risks, workers nonetheless expected companies to protect them, which revealed the resilience of prewar/postwar subjectivities and postwar employment relations and social order. Regardless of neoliberal policy goals in par­tic­u­lar states—be they rationalizing l­abor forces or privatizing state industries—­individuals on the ground ­will likely maneuver ­these seemingly dominant ideologies in unexpected ways, producing new meanings of employment, risk, and security by tapping into and reworking existing cultural idioms in their socie­ties.

Rethinking the Dominant Group In considering the relationship between cultural idioms and dominant ideologies in Japan, I was frequently reminded of Tanaka-­san’s dilemma when he was desperately waiting for his retirement in 2007. He explained, “Well, we talk about and value endurance [gaman] and say that gaman is good in Japan, but we do not know how much. How much gaman is good gaman?” In dif­fer­ent circumstances in 2009, Fukuyama-­san also confessed to me that sometimes he wished he w ­ ere single, ­because “as long as I have a ­family, I have to keep working hard for them.” When Ōtsuka-­san was about to request early retirement in the winter of 2009 to pursue his dream of a pork cutlet restaurant, his son cried, and his ­family begged him not to quit and to work ­until retirement. As a result, Ōtsuka-­ san had to suspend his dream and keep working. He told me, “My son cried and begged me not to quit, so for now, I cannot help but wait [shōganai].” Ōtsuka-­ san’s case was even more poignant as his life had always been subjected to his ­family’s actions and expectations. However much t­ hese three individuals’ c­ areers ­were affected by shifting socioeconomic ideologies, ­family ­matters, and physical

248 Conclusion

health, ultimately they w ­ ere the ones who chose their actions with thoughtful consideration, even though their personal lives and ­career choices seemed constrained as ever by the ­human connections of their families. Perhaps ­these three individuals’ subjectivities may not ring true for the group of men outside the center, where such dominant ideologies work less influentially. Such men include ­those whose wives are the sole breadwinners for their ­family, men who reject the burden of being a breadwinner, or men with inherited wealth. The sociologists Abercrombie and Turner’s (1978, 160) insight that “the dominant ideology does not function to secure compliance from the dominated classes” is relevant ­here. As they argue, the dominant ideology works most persuasively on the dominant class rather than in the subordination of the dominated class. In this sense, as much as Shimizu-­san still had not found his ideal place, he was successfully ­free from other ideological pressures of salarymanhood, including both having a sense of institutional inhibition from corporate organ­izations and ­family strictures and being ­free from a sense of responsibility vis-­à-­vis society and ­others. Applying Abercrombie and Turner’s (1978) insight to ­those within the dominant class of Japa­nese salarymen, the importance of ideological compliance in the com­pany and within the new ­middle class and the effects of ­these ideologies on the assumed dominant group have been largely dismissed in the lit­er­a­ture on postwar Japa­nese society. Clearly both salarymen and the new m ­ iddle class have been oversimplified as a dominant economic group and a dominant economic class ideology. When examined closely within the contexts of their individual life trajectories and within the historical trajectory of salarymen and the new ­middle class as a w ­ hole, the ethnographic realities of the individual men’s narratives in this book serve to destabilize essentialist notions of Salarymen as well as Japa­nese companies and reveal the dynamics within dominant ideologies operative in con­ temporary Japa­nese society.

New Alienation and New Flexibility As the stories in this book have shown, the implementation of neoliberal policies in Japan produced a range of unexpected effects and reactions, both at the corporate level and for individual workers. Neoliberal policies, most prominently performance-­based merit systems (seika-­shugi), promise that employees ­will be rewarded with pay for per­for­mance, but in fact they have not only constrained employees but also undermined their motivation (yaruki) and “fighting spirit” (ganbarism) as a result. Thus, certain cultural idioms such as yaruki, ganbarism, and gaman—­which could be constraining—­were nonetheless key values in Japa­

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nese society. However, ­these values that ­were also built into and encouraged by corporate institutions ­under the ideology of companyism are no longer necessarily valued in the corporation, as management (shareholders) and corporate assets (real estate, branches, investment) have become privileged over employees. Yet, despite the popu­lar and academic view of neoliberal ideology as creating globalizing neoliberal practices and subjectivity, the narratives of salarymen show that ­those who w ­ ere subjected to some sort of corporate restructuring did not simply remain victims of ­these transformations; nor did they become proponents of the entrepreneurial self or opponents of neoliberal policies like seika-­shugi. Of course, while ­there might be salarymen who appreciated the flexible market that enabled them to advance their ­careers and thus had ­little sense of conflict, the lives of salaryman I met ­were more complex and nuanced, ­either navigating the waves or weathering the storms of corporate reforms in all of their vicissitudes. In all cases, they critically observed and creatively responded to the large-­scale restructuring of the Japa­nese economy, becoming neoliberal subjects while actively eschewing neoliberal subjectivity. Even ­those successful salarymen like Matsuda-­ san and Takagi-­san saw the opportunity for reemployment as some combination of one’s long-­term efforts and one’s “personal quality” (jinkaku) rather than a result of being an enterprising self or an expert bundle of skills who benefited from a new kind of neoliberal flexibility. What is significant in the cases of Matsuda-­san, Takagi-­san, Fukuyama-­san, Tanaka-­san, and Ōtsuka-­san presented in part III is that this restructuring came into each person’s life unexpectedly but in highly nuanced, context-­dependent circumstances that cannot be reduced to a ­simple economic formula of cause and effect, even within the larger regime of economic restructuring. Even in the radical case of mergers and acquisitions at Tanaka-­san’s com­pany, which made him realize how “business is mathe­matics a­ fter all,” Tanaka-­san suffered precisely ­because of his socially framed interpretation and personal sensitivity regarding his hiring, training and working together with ­those employees who became victim to capricious corporate reforms. ­These cases highlight the dynamics of the simultaneous convergence and collapsing of competing economic ideologies with other cultural idioms of sociality and humanness, which channel the ways in which neoliberal ideology intersects with personal life trajectories. Rather than holding on to the previous notions of companyism within Japan’s postwar economic nationalism, ­these salarymen tried to restructure their sense of self by drawing from the cultural idioms they had learned through their own biographies and by bringing ­these values into their participation in other social institutions, personal c­ areer paths, hobbies and leisure, and dreams of the f­ uture. Indeed this itself is nothing new; in his study of work and leisure among salarymen, farmers, and merchants in the 1960s, Plath (1964, 70) showed how modern

250 Conclusion

work styles produced the new social framework of the workplace as “the system of social control,” on the one hand, and ­after hours as a time “during which we search for enjoyments that ­will help restore a sense of ‘completeness’ and well-­ being” (9), on the other hand—­though in practice “this line grows dim” (39). By using after-­work spaces or weekend spaces creatively, my in­for­mants gained a more expansive sense of being an individual man that goes beyond strict institutional contexts of work and home—­the two major institutions that bind working men to their socioeconomic roles as an employee or husband. At hostess clubs, men could shed their social roles and rejuvenate themselves through fantasy. Even as after-­work entertainment became more difficult to justify in the corporate world, it became more meaningful as a humanistic space for building social relations among customers. On the other hand, while members of leisure clubs like Bayside Half may be constrained by the institutionalized—­ almost work-­like—­rules, expectations, and responsibilities or interpersonal tensions, many stayed on b ­ ecause they felt meaning in playing hard together and supporting each other. What was more impor­tant for members was that regardless of individual differences, they could “deepen [their] companionship and value teamwork by participating.” And within such spaces, some outsiders like Saitō-­ san could also pursue enjoyment, working hard, and self-­cultivation just like other members of society. Whereas increasing differences in employment have eco­nom­ ically stratified postbubble Japa­nese society and generated public debates about increasing class disparities in the new economy, the invigorating camaraderie of leisure pursuits has become a social leveler; merely ­running together makes all participants gold-­medal winners.

Salar ymanhood as Social Adulthood: ­R esponsibility and Social Connection Since I started working, every­thing has changed. I mean, being a “social adult” [shakaijin], I have to meet and deal with ­people whom I do not necessary like or care for. As a student, I could distinguish t­hose whom I liked and disliked so clearly, and I could choose to deal with only ­those I liked. Now, being a professional, it is a real challenge for me as I need to work well with every­body and also to think and care for a variety of dif­fer­ent ­people in society. (Suzuki-­san, a young female professional in customer relations) This statement by Suzuki-­san, a young female professional—­a salarywoman— in the early 2010s encapsulates, perhaps ironically, the sense of maturity and re-

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sponsibility that characterizes the subjectivity of salarymen. As Suzuki-­san alludes to with the concept of “social adult” (shakaijin), my in­for­mants’ stories reveal how rather than embodying a kind of hegemonic masculinity or enterprising self, their salarymanhood was more about enacting the notion of being a social adult—­a generic adult status rather than a par­tic­u­lar gender role and per­for­mance, but one that implies a heavy sense of responsibility as a member of society. Given the power of Japan’s companyist ideology to structure the lifeways and perspectives of Japan’s postwar New M ­ iddle Class, many observers have viewed the relationship between com­pany and individual purely through economic terms, and likewise the term shakaijin has been treated as synonymous with a hegemonic salaryman masculinity. For many salarymen, as well as the young female professional Suzuki-­san, however, such a relationship is not just about an individual and a com­pany nor about a par­tic­ul­ar kind of masculinity (hegemonic or other­ wise). Suzuki-­san’s comments reveal that she must strive to “not only work well with every­body” but also “think and care for a variety of dif­fer­ent ­people in society.” Being a shakaijin, then, is about participating in some activity with wider social significance. Thus, as a concept, shakaijin has broader cosmological implications concerning an individual’s relationship with multiple other individuals. The concept of shakaijin implies an in­de­pen­dent social adult who should be socially mature enough to be self-­reliant (jiritsu) or ­free to act yet also mature enough to be aware that one can never be perfectly or truly ­free in one’s actions or ­free from impositions (Gagné 2010a). This shows the cultural inflections of seemingly equivalent concepts of adulthood in dif­fer­ent socie­ties: a socially appropriate (generally understood and accepted) concept like shakaijin in Japa­nese social contexts is not necessarily equivalent to the concept of a socially in­de­pen­dent or isolated individual in American social contexts. Rather, shakaijin may be more accurately understood as a mature social adult who is in­de­pen­dent enough to recognize the importance and conditions of one’s social embeddedness and act accordingly. This in­de­pen­dence highlights the nuances of social embeddedness rather than social in­de­pen­dence, although practically both are seen as characteristics of social maturity in their respective Japa­nese and American contexts. Thus, being a shakaijin as well as a corporate employee in Japan means more than simply participating in corporate fields; it implies mediation with and a role to play in the larger forces of social order. Critically, h ­ ere self and society are not antithetical, as “we do not become actualized as persons simply by playing a role or cathecting a drive; what we are ­doing must be recognized or validated by ­others” (Plath 1980, 13). Their connection with society and their sensitivity to sociality through f­amily, school, and work relations are key ele­ments in their self-­development and sense of integrity. Seen from such a cosmological relationship of an individual’s place in the broader society, such intense emotions, including their passion for work or feelings

252 Conclusion

of betrayal by their com­pany, are pos­si­ble among Japa­nese workers b ­ ecause their connection to the com­pany is also a connection to society writ large. As the life histories in part III demonstrate, salarymen’s sense of connection to society (shakai to no setten) can be achieved most often through corporations but is not always l­imited to the corporate nexus. More precisely, their sense of connection to society is about working through or for self/others/society. In this re­spect, even though meaningful relationships between workers and companies have become increasingly diversified u ­ nder neoliberal economic restructuring, the importance of individuals’ sense of connection to society has not been completely overturned. During my fieldwork, no salarymen questioned the fundamental value of having a connection to society through their com­pany. Instead, they problematized the lack of connection that was produced through neoliberal reforms, and they actively drew on their personal experiences to re-­create their sense of connection through noncorporate spheres like hobbies and community activities. And even individuals like Shimizu-­san (who did not believe in society) and his corporate clients ­were finding such commonalities in the space of dance events, while Saitō-­ san and other marathon club members ­were already finding their connection in the weekly training sessions.

The Ideology of Neoliberalism and the Discourse of Middleness/Mainstreaming ­ nder late capitalism, many sociologists have pointed to a proliferation of beU liefs and ideologies and a “legitimation crisis”—­the lack of a “decisive, clearly articulated and uniform set of beliefs which provides comprehensive coherence for the dominant class” (Abercrombie and Turner 1978, 163). At the same time, many anthropologists have increasingly substituted the word discourse for ideology, with some claiming that the era of late capitalism does not have ideology and only has discourse. Purvis and Hunt (1993, 474), in contrast, argue that both ideology and discourse are indeed “much the same aspect of social life—­the idea that ­human individuals participate in forms of understanding, comprehension or consciousness of the relations and activity in which they are involved; a conception of the social that has a hermeneutic dimension, but which is not reducible to hermeneutics.” Instead of making claims for the decline of ideology and the ascendency of discourse, they suggest that both can coexist in the same society, and they call our attention to distinction, not denotation, as “concepts of the social are never fully referential” (474, 478). In pursuit of analytical distinction, Purvis and Hunt (1993, 474–76) point out that ideology is distinguished by directionality, interest, and ideological effect from

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one group to another. Discourse, in contrast, is the pro­cess that organizes (one’s) thinking, understanding, and experiencing of the internal features through specific linguistic or semiotic vehicles. When applied to the concepts of the socioeconomic category of the New ­Middle Class and the lived experiences of t­hose who have the orientation of new m ­ iddle class (chūryū) ­under the postwar ideology of companyism, the rapid economic growth in Japan since the postwar period has successfully blurred such distinctions among ideology, discourse, and material real­ity in Japa­nese society. As shown in chapter 1, the g­ reat degree of overlap and the ambiguities surrounding the linguistic term ­middle was a puzzle for many scholars and social critics, leaving the differences between ideology and discourse unexamined. As a result, this sparked many debates about Japa­nese society among Japa­nese, non-­ Japanese, and scholars of Japan, raising a range of questions, such as “Is Japan ­really a middle-­class nation?” and “Is Japan a homogenous country despite apparent differences?” As many anthropological works on nonmainstream or marginalized groups in Japan have shown (e.g., Gill 2001; Hertog 2009; Nakamura 2006; Margolis 2002), the fine line between ideology and discourse problematically created more nuances within Japa­nese society. Their works reveal that single ­mothers, deaf individuals, and homeless p ­ eople, who may not be socially or eco­nom­ically categorized as ­middle or mainstream—­that is, they have dif­fer­ent economic opportunities or are less ideologically charged by the demands of the New M ­ iddle Class—­can still draw from or even embrace the broader “middle/mainstream consciousness” (chūryū ishiki). Thus, we see a tenuous relationship between ideology and discourse among ­these groups. Moreover, when looking at the center (salarymen who seem to be located in the middle/mainstream), historical and so­cio­log­i­cal studies show how t­ hose who self-­identified as the ­middle class w ­ ere not strictly “­middle class” in a socioeconomic sense. Now, however, recent structural changes u ­ nder neoliberal economic reforms challenged the companyist ideology that had protected the new m ­ iddle class. Nonetheless, even Fukuyama-­san, who fell outside of this socioeconomic grouping due to layoffs and other economic challenges, could still draw from and identify with the cultural idioms of middle/mainstream (chūryū). This is precisely ­because this middle/mainstream consciousness is not the new m ­ iddle class in ­either an ideological or economic sense (Kelly 2002). More precisely, the broader middle/mainstream consciousness acts as the discourse of middleness while the socioeconomic category of the New ­Middle Class can be an ideological term within the framework of postwar economic nationalism. In other words, while the ideological import of the New ­Middle Class and the discourse of middleness/mainstreaming overlap to a certain degree, the ideological

254 Conclusion

weight of the New ­Middle Class draws from the discourse of middleness, which grew up alongside the ideology of companyism as a public consciousness of middleness/mainstream. Thus, the two are not synonymous, and the discourse of middleness/mainstreaming has been able to persist regardless of the lack or presence of the socioeco­nom­ically distinct new ­middle class and class differences at large. What is critical in this term ­middle within the broader middle/mainstream consciousness is the significance of its conceptual implications in Japa­nese. Kelly (2002) points out that the folk term “mainstream” (chūryū) in Japa­nese implies “social inclusiveness” rather than categorical distinction between upper, ­middle, and lower as in the En­glish gloss of “­middle.” Moreover, Kelly critically notes that “mainstream is not ­really the stream in the ­middle, but the broadening stream.”1 This middleness of the broader middle/mainstream consciousness (chūryū ishiki) is not so much a vertical ­middle, which has a clear top and bottom (as in hierarchical conceptions of economic class), but rather a horizontal ­middle, which does not have clear bound­aries and oppositional layers. Thus, the discourse of this middle/mainstream orientation serves to “ ‘declass’ and ‘massify’ the debates about social stratification” (Kelly 2002, 235) and thus possibly works against the ideological effects of neoliberalism and stratification in Japa­nese society. In other words, this middleness/mainstreaming discourse can have massifying and declassing effects for individuals regardless of distinct socioeconomic differences. Consequently, if companies can no longer create any sense of unity among employees amid the breakdown of the ideology of companyism and corporate citizenship, individuals themselves nonetheless try to re-­create new forms of community by participating in spaces or activities that have similar effects. For Ōta-­san in MTC com­pany from the prelude, to re-­create a context where one can relate with ­others beyond corporate roles is equally impor­tant ­whether working ­under the ideologies of companyism or neoliberalism. But the need for such spaces has also taken on new meanings as corporate sociality has declined since the 1990s. As we saw in chapter 3 and chapter 4, after-­work and leisure spaces are where members deconstruct and declass their differences, not by erasing or flattening ­these differences but by transcending them. Even within the tensions produced by the strength-­training exercise in Bayside Half, members strug­gled ­because they recognized how the exercise was well intended for the safety of members even though some members found it too hard; at the same time, with the new individualized, diversified training options, members equally worried about possibly causing more members to sacrifice their own training for the sake of supervising ­others. Their strug­gle was a microcosm of the tensions between recognizing individual differences and finding common ground, which has characterized the ambivalence of postbubble new ­middle class society. Ultimately, members tried

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to promote an inclusive environment that was the most fair for every­body to participate, precisely b ­ ecause members w ­ ere keenly aware that “every­body is so dif­ fer­ent.” Indeed, men in leisure drinking spaces (chapter 3) and members of the marathon club (chapter 4) taught me again and again how “every­body is dif­fer­ ent,” not just in terms of age, gender, and r­ unning ability but also in terms of personality, personal taste, and personal desires. As a number of recent studies have suggested, the force of the ideological effects of the New ­Middle Class might be becoming tenuous within an ever-­changing globalized society and the clash with economic reforms driven by neoliberal ideology. Yet the discourse of the broader middle/mainstream consciousness (chūryū ishiki) still remained meaningful in many of my in­for­mants’ lives as of 2019; indeed, public polls reveal that individuals have identified themselves as “­middle” at record-­high levels, hovering between 92–93 ­percent since the early 2010s (see figure C.1). Thus, the broader middle/mainstream consciousness can be resilient not in spite of or ­because of a growing fear of the ever-­increasing socioeconomic differences but precisely b ­ ecause the broader horizontal orientation of middle/ mainstream consciousness is (and was always) not about economic ideology or class in a strict sense from its very inception, but rather it is rooted in the inclusive discourse of shared social values of humanness and mutual recognition of one’s embeddedness in society.

100

%

90

80

70

60

50

40

30

20

10

0

Year High

Middle

Low

Not sure

FIGURE C.1.  Comparative Self-­Assessment of Standard of Living. Q: “Which rank do you think is appropriate to classify the living condition of your ­house­hold?” The four pos­si­ble responses ­were High, Middle, Low, and Not Sure. Source: Data Compiled by author from Cabinet Office (2019).

256 Conclusion

Final Thoughts Writing of the changes in the concept and experience of the individual ­under global capitalism, Bauman (2007, 68) notes: Once competition replaces solidarity, individuals find themselves abandoned to their own—­pitifully meagre and evidently inadequate—­ resources. The dilapidation and decomposition of collective bonds made them, without asking their consent, individuals de jure, though what they learn from their life pursuits is that virtually every­thing in the present-­day state of affairs militates against their rise to the postulated model of individuals de facto. Bauman’s words echo through the corporate hallways of postbubble Japan. Nearly three de­cades since the bursting of the ­bubble economy, yearnings for security and belonging have taken on a new urgency in Japan. In speaking with t­ hose on the front lines of restructuring who have watched security lifelines slowly fray—­ young employees, ­middle man­ag­ers, and the recently laid off—­what emerges strongest is not a precarious subjectivity per se. Rather, we can see the disarticulation between employment structures and individual stability and an ambivalent nostalgia for Toyotism, which emerges from this widening gap. Thus, while subjectivity itself has not become “liquidized” (cf. Bauman 2007), the corporate-­ centered social structures that had enabled shared social values for stability and individual aspirations for security are being eroded by a growing undercurrent of capricious liquid capital flows and attendant neoliberalist labor-­market flexibility. And yet many have pursued competitive and resistant strategies at work in order to maintain job stability and did not easily give up on the increasingly tenuous model of Japan’s postwar new ­middle class lifestyle. While the collective bonds of social responsibility may remain comparatively more resilient in Japan than in many other socie­ties (cf. Bauman 2007, 68), the most vis­i­ble decomposition of bonds in Japa­nese society is in the bond between the employer’s success and the employee’s welfare. A ­ fter several generations of salarymen being socialized into postwar companyism, this form of subjectivity took on almost ontological security for young generations to strive for and older generations to rely on for their f­ utures and the f­ uture of their families. However, as ­these bonds of welfare corporatism wear thin, individuals are admonished to become more flexible and autonomous. To borrow Bauman’s terms, individuals are forced to become “flexible employees” de jure, without the opportunities and resources necessary to become “flexible employees” de facto. As the Japa­nese case shows, despite the universalizing rhe­toric, the transformations wrought by neoliberal policies are always deeply s­ haped by the preexist-

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ing contours of social institutions, cultural values, and local aspirations, highlighting how no ideology takes root in a vacuum. To prevent both theoretical generalizations and dangerous terminological slippage, it bears remembering that the identities and subjectivities of individual Japa­nese men ­were never reducible to an ideological category of hegemonic salaryman masculinity. Furthermore, while ­these Japa­nese employees ­were the most directly penetrated by the dominant ideology of companyism, this ideology never secured total compliance from them. Indeed, from other ­angles, due to the postwar gendered structure of work and ­family, even in the midst of their corporate challenges, it was their wives and families who often encouraged and expected such compliance from men in order to secure their new ­middle class livelihoods. Recent economic restructuring u ­ nder neoliberal reforms has starkly expressed the discrepancy between the postwar ideology of companyism and the new ideology of neoliberalism, as well as between the cultural icon of the Salaryman and the lived experienced of individual salarymen. By examining the experiences and interpretations of salarymen historically and across dif­fer­ent spaces of work and leisure, this book challenges the conventional critique of how dominant ideology is unilaterally coercive and how it actually operates. In the pro­cess, it reveals how the clash of power­ful ideologies like companyism and neoliberalism offer a space for reflection and reframing for individuals to fashion new meanings and subjectivities in their lives. As a result, even as the socioeconomic category of the New ­Middle Class and the ideology of companyism have been challenged by the clash with neoliberalism, the inclusive qualities lying b ­ ehind ­these power­ful concepts have persisted. Even as the Japa­nese economy and society continue to be restructured u ­ nder the pressures of the shrinking and aging population and global neoliberal logics, the stories of my salarymen in­for­mants reveal how the resilient consciousness of Japan’s diverse yet inclusive middle/mainstream modernity still resonated with their sense of integrity and sociality as working men, f­ amily men, aging men, and complex individual men in twenty-­first ­century Japan.

Notes

PRELUDE

1. All names of companies and individuals are pseudonyms, except where other­wise noted. 2. A more detailed description of this space can be found in chapter 3. At Class A, Mama-­san and Second Mama-­san are both Filipina w ­ omen, and the hostesses are Rus­sian, Bulgarian, American, Mongolian, and Japa­nese. INTRODUCTION

1. ­There are a few exceptional ethnographic studies on salarymen: among them, Dasgupta (2013) studied corporate training and Hidaka (2010) collected life histories of salarymen. 2. Similarly, Iwao (1993, 7) highlights the informal, powerless status of Japa­nese men in real­ity and offers an optimistic view of gender relations in Japan: “The Confucian ethic of the three obediences formally binding w ­ omen could be rewritten t­ oday as the three obediences for men: obedience to m ­ others when young, companies when adults, and wives when retired.” 3. More recently, Aronsson’s (2014) work on c­ areer ­women reveals how female regular employees’ constraints largely come from their female colleagues or bosses as well as institutional rigidity at work. 4. Moreover, studies reveal that marriage to a ­woman is not understood to be “­either impossible or undesirable” for homosexual men in Japan (McLelland 2000, 16), and in practice, Lunsing (2001) argues, Japa­nese marriage forms are more diverse than ­those of many Western countries. 5. Among scholars of neoliberalism who have focused on Japa­nese society, t­ hese studies examine impor­tant macrolevel socioeconomic effects (e.g., Borovoy 2010; Brinton 2011; Imai 2011; Keizer 2010; Lechevalier 2014; Matanle 2003; Suzuki 2015; St. Vogel 2006; R. Watanabe 2014). 1. HISTORICIZING JAPA­N ESE WORKERS AND JAPA­N ESE CAPITALISM

1. From a so­cio­log­i­cal point of view, Ishida (2003) argues that class determination based on “objective ­factors,” such as education, occupation, and income level, is not necessarily correlated with one’s subjective evaluation of living standard. 2. In practice, this freedom was still l­imited to nonoutcaste classes. Outcaste classes in the pre-­Meiji period ­were marked by their association with par­tic­u­lar trades and hamlet communities, but even ­after the abolition of the caste system in the Meiji period, their background was still traceable by the new ­family registration system (see Amos 2011). Moreover, additional new distinctions emerged; industrial laborers w ­ ere clearly distinguished from rich urban dwellers as well as from rich and poor villa­gers (Gordon 1985, 25–26). 3. This was a policy whereby the Meiji government tried to offer certain forms of aid to help t­ hose samurai-­class salarymen who suddenly lost their status and salary. Specifically, it included loans for business, sales for unusable land, and the encouragement of migration to Hokkaido. 259

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4. The relatively neutral term “white-­collar” (howaito-­karaa) was introduced only a­ fter the first translation of C. Wright Mills’s manuscript White Collar in 1957 (Miyake 1995, 3). 5. Secondary school matriculation rates increased from 5.1 ­percent to 19.8 ­percent for men and 1.3 ­percent to 14.1 ­percent for ­women between 1895 and 1925, though high school and college education was still almost exclusively l­imited to men in urban areas (MEXT 1962). University matriculation rates increased from less than 1 ­percent in 1900 to around 5 ­percent in the mid-1920s, though again this was l­imited to men in urban areas (Ōta 2007, 48). 6. It was around 1897 when female office workers ­were recognized in society. However, ­there ­were still lingering dominant ideas that good d ­ aughters from good families should not work outside the home (Matsunari et al. 1957, 50). Since the end of World War I, corporations, banks, and department stores actively hired female employees as typists, telephone operators, and office clerks. Influenced by ­women’s participation in the work force during World War I in E ­ ngland and Germany, t­ here ­were many educated Japa­nese ­women who believed that “the rise of female status lies in economic in­de­pen­dence” and who started participating in the work force (Matsunari et al. 1957, 51). While the majority of ­women who worked outside of the home ­were employed in textile factories or other forms of manual ­labor (Gordon 2008, 99; Macnaughtan 2005), white-­collar and professional work for w ­ omen also expanded. Specifically, according to the 1920 census, t­here ­were 168,000 female employees (11 ­percent) out of a total of 1,566,000 employees in banks. Teaching was another profession with a high participation of w ­ omen, with 54,000 teaching jobs (31 ­percent) held by ­women in 1918 (Matsunari et al. 1957, 51). Though most corporate females w ­ ere ­limited to fringe work and it took another thirty years before female workers began working equally alongside male employees (albeit with continued gender wage gaps), ­these female workers’ consciousness was high enough that they enacted the first typist ­labor u ­ nion strike in 1920, calling for better treatment (Gordon 2008, 150; Matsunari et al. 1975, 52–53). 7. The category of new ­middle class was first recognized in the mid-­Meiji and Taisho periods (1890s–1920s) along with the decline of the old m ­ iddle class ­under the rapid expansion of Japa­nese capitalism. However, from the end of the Meiji period to the early Taisho period (1910s–1920s), the increasing number of diverse white-­collar salarymen gradually subsumed the samurai-­class salarymen and formed a new social stratum in Japa­ nese society. The mass of this new group acted as a buffer to break down the older feudalistic class structure, but it also came with internal stratification within the same class and an increasing number of p ­ eople at the bottom of this class in the form of impoverished former samurai who ­were unsuccessful in navigating the new economy (Matsunari et al. 1957, 31–32; Murakami 1978; Naoi 1979). 8. The term koshiben literally means a person with a lunch box hung from one’s waist, but in his novel Salariiman Monogatari (The story of the salaryman), Maeda (1928, 1) describes the difficulty of defining the term, as koshiben is a person who receives salary, but not all salary receivers are koshiben. Broadly speaking, koshiben encompasses the wide horizontal group of one social status whose (1) type of occupation includes public officials and com­pany employees, (2) financial level falls in the m ­ iddle range of the economic structure, (3) educational level is higher than m ­ iddle school, and (4) income is largely guaranteed for life (Maeda 1928, 3). 9. ­There ­were an estimated 111 cases of such movements by the late 1910s (see Yomiuri 1919a, 1919b, 1925). 10. While the blurring of the distinction between blue and white collar is often attributed to postwar democ­ratization, M. Takahashi (2001, 19) identifies a similar “logic of homogenization” promoted by blue-­collar workers in the prewar period.



NOTES TO PAGES 44–55

261

11. Gordon (1998, 20) notes that “the twin calls for voice and for equality had roots in the prewar past. The link between democracy and equality reached back to some of Japan’s earliest ­labor disputes . . . ​the prominence of postwar demands for status equality and the emotional resonance of this goal flowed from the workers’ heritage of re­sis­tance to discrimination.” 12. ­Here, SCAP refers not to the title held by General Douglas MacArthur but to the offices of the occupation. 13. Dōmei was formed in 1962 from the merger of three other u ­ nions, Zenrō, Sōdōmei, and Zenkanko, and had a total membership of around 1.3 million members, while Sōhyō had around 4.2 million members in the early 1960s (Scalapino 1965, 695–707). The growing membership, which included salarymen and blue-­collar workers, encompassed a wide range of individuals who did not share a consciousness of socioeconomic class nor a desire for unification. Internal differences w ­ ere further exacerbated by the younger, more radical workers who pushed for “base-up” raises that would raise minimum pay levels and thereby benefit younger workers but at the expense of having ­little benefit for more experienced or higher-­level workers (see Levine 1965, 659, 662; see also Tipton 2002, 165). 14. Gordon (1998, 132) cautions that the term hegemony does not simply imply “the hyper-­exploitation of workers.” Rather, the dynamics of corporate hegemony in Japan included effort on the part of man­ag­ers to socialize workers to accept corporate goals as their own while also offering concessions to gain the support of workers. At the same time, he notes that the po­liti­cal price for workers’ economic and employment benefits was their loss of personal autonomy and ­limited demo­cratic participation in the workplace as ­unions lost power. 15. It is also impor­tant to note that ­there was no complete protection for all regular workers, ­either, as Japa­nese corporations quietly reduced the number of se­nior workers according to fluctuating market demands. 16. ­Here, “blue-­collar workers” refers to workers whose jobs w ­ ere directly involved with industrial production in secondary industries, such as light and heavy manufacturing. 17. It is impor­tant to note that the eve­ning out of salaries is not simply the homogenization of base wages. One crucial and often overlooked ele­ment in the pro­cess of salary convergence is the contribution of bonuses. In par­tic­u­lar, Aoki (1981, 32) argues that the bonus system in Japan might have added to “the illusion of ­middle consciousness” in that while individuals may experience a squalid life of living month to month on a cheap salary, they can still feel well off by being able to buy big items or to go on trips twice a year with their bonus. Intriguingly, the mediating role of the salarymen bonus system in eve­ ning out differences between lower-­and middle-­class employees existed in the prewar period as well, but it worked in reverse in order to make the lower base salaries of white-­ collar workers more equal to the salaries of blue-­collar workers, who based on age and years of experience tended to have higher wages than the older, less-­experienced, but more highly educated white-­collar workers (Kinmonth 1981, 316–17). As late as the 1930s, con­ temporary writers such as Maeda Hajime (the author of Sarariiman Monogatari) noted that “it was only the bonuses and extra allowances that allowed the white-­collar worker to get out of this yearly cycle of debt and to maintain a marginal and threadbare middle-­class living standard” (Kinmonth 1981, 317). In other words, some con­temporary commentators felt that the bonus system for salarymen in fact served mostly to compensate salarymen for the combination of low base salaries and social demands for maintaining “a certain level of nominal middle-­class respectability,” whereas blue-­collar workers in fact enjoyed more discretionary income and less social pressure. 18. For instance, examining social stratification, Odaka (1962) argued that although one could see superficial homogenization, far more internal competitions and differentiation

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would continue to emerge within the ­middle class than between dif­fer­ent socioeconomic classes (see also Ishikawa 1982b). 19. Kishimoto’s (1978) study also shows that ­there ­were many cases where ­those who claimed themselves to be m ­ iddle did in fact have lower incomes and did not meet the (socioeconomic) standard of ­middle class. 20. According to R. Watanabe (2014, 62), the deregulation committee consists of “representatives from employer associations, economists and ­labor scholars [who are] ­eager to promote deregulation of the Japa­nese economy.” 21. In Japan, the protection of workers’ jobs was not only a tacit agreement among employers and employees but was also supported by the court system, which tended to side against employers in cases of disputed dismissals. Thus, employers in Japan have found it difficult to dismiss employees ­under most circumstances. 22. Despite the popularization of the term, long-­term employment (shūshin koyō) is not an explicit ­legal contract, and use of the term spread widely in Japan only a­ fter the translation of Abbeglen’s (1958) Japa­nese Management (Nomura 1994, iv, vi). Additionally, Cole (1971) found a moderate rise in midcareer changes in the late 1960s, which accompanied the weakening of long-­term employment in the late 1960s. In the 1970s, the long-­term employment system was modified again, with many large companies deploying “voluntary early retirement programs” for their se­nior workers (Rohlen 1976; Morishima 1992). According to Nomura (1994, vi), the practice was not common in small corporations and did not apply to fringe workers in large corporations. Moreover, even at large corporations, it was common for female workers to retire young or for middle-­aged or older male employees to be sent to subsidiaries, and it was not developed in some industries, such as the textile industry, u ­ ntil the 1960s and 1970s (see Brinton 1993, 123, 150). However, according to Brinton (1993), hiring workers with the view to long-­term employment has been the practice of a few large firms since the 1920s, although Kinmonth (1981, 319, n119) notes that even in the late 1930s “lifetime or permanent employment did not exist even on the ideological level.” 23. According to Nomura (1994, ix), cutting the cost of middle-­aged employees is not common among industrialized nations. Based on comparative studies in Germany, the United States, and Sweden, length of employment is a key f­ actor in the level of employment protection. In the Japa­nese case, it is precisely b ­ ecause the length of employment is reflected in higher salaries that middle-­aged employees are prime targets of restructuring. 2. WORKING IN AND WORKING ON NEOLIBERALISM

1. Beginning in the 1990s, ­labor ­unions gradually lost decision-­making power regarding employment (see Imai 2011, 168; R. Watanabe 2014, 62). See also chapter 1 for the rise and fall of the ­labor ­union Rengō’s influence from the early 1990s ­until the early 2000s. 2. From the late 1990s, the new disciplinary grid of performance-­based metrics was introduced to the private sector. By the early 2000s, it was further extended to the public sector, reflecting similar hegemonizing techniques of “mea­sur­ing per­for­mance” instituted in places like Britain and North Amer­i­ca since the 1980s (Carrier and Miller 1998). 3. They also include personal assessment (satei), process-­based merit systems (katei shugi), and effort-­based merit systems (doryoku shugi). 4. On the vari­ous difficulties with MBO, see Imai (2011); Keizer (2010); Hirakimoto (2005); see also Morishima (2004) on the challenges for both employees and man­ag­ers. 5. According to Morishima (2004), the new merit-­based evaluation can work well for ­those who have higher salaries from the beginning, but they undermine the motivation



NOTES TO PAGES 79–105

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for ­those who receive salaries in the ­middle to low range. Likewise, Ōtake and Karato’s (2003, 7) study of blue-­collar workers revealed the same findings. St. Vogel (2006, 121) also notes that while companies exercised wage restraints, “they have maintained a sense of equity by restraining compensation for man­ag­ers even more than for blue-­collar and clerical workers.” In manufacturing companies, employers would apply the performance-­ based merit system to white-­collar workers only (St. Vogel 2006, 123). See also Hirakimoto (2005); JIL (2003); Tatsumichi and Morishima (2007). 6. Unemployment is significantly associated with male suicide rates, especially t­hose of men in their prime working age, while the correlation between unemployment and suicide is not as straightforward regarding w ­ omen (Kuroki 2010). 7. On the reincorporation of previous evaluation systems, see Conrad and Heindorf (2006); Miyamoto (2009). On reconsideration of long-­term employment strategies, see Inagami (2004); Keizer (2010); Matanle (2006); McCann, Hassard, and Morris (2006). 3. THE BUSINESS OF LEISURE, THE LEISURE OF BUSINESS

1. ­There are many kinds of hostess clubs, and Class A fits in the category of international hostess club. In international hostess clubs, the basic structure of business is similar to other hostess clubs in Japan, but what distinguishes them from other hostess clubs is the ethnic composition of mama-­sans and hostesses, as many of them are foreign nationals (Filipina, Rus­sian, Bulgarian, American, Mongolian), as well as the lack of training and unity among workers. 2. This constant kibitzing and counterkibitzing (boke to tsukkomi) is a style of verbal comic exchange found in many dif­fer­ent social contexts, but it is particularly pronounced in the Kansai region. 3. Hostess clubs in Japan have been the subject of a range of scholarly work, including Allison’s (1994) groundbreaking study of corporate entertainment (settai) at hostess clubs in Roppongi during the ­bubble period of the early 1980s, Kawabata’s (1995) study of the formation of hostess identities in 1994, and Chung’s (2009) study of Korean hostess clubs and lounges in Osaka in the early 2000s. 4. The presence of female customers in t­ hese spaces offers an in­ter­est­ing twist to the role and reputation of hostess clubs in other contexts in Japan as well as in contrast to female ser­v ice spaces in other socie­ties. While hostess clubs have been described as serving “the rituals of masculine privileges” in Japan (Allison 1994, 10) or as demonstrating the “masculine triumph over ­women” in Chinese karaoke bars (Zheng 2009, 107), when bosses bring female professionals to hostess clubs in Japan, such ­women are treated almost as a kind of celebrity. This is ­because in theory the crucial selling point of hostess clubs is the superb aesthetics and customer ser­vice, regardless of gender, and hostesses enjoy the change of atmosphere that w ­ omen from outside the club bring. In practice, female guests are thus treated with more attentiveness b ­ ecause of their rarity, as well as b ­ ecause they are regarded as having higher standards of aesthetics and ser­v ice. 5. Mama-­san is an honorific expression of mama, often an owner or a man­ag­er of the hostess club. The mama-­san is usually the head who manages hostesses and customers. She is often a highly charismatic, attractive ­woman with numerous skills and experiences. Many customers and hostesses told me that the success of hostess clubs fundamentally rests on the personality of the mama-­san. 6. The frequent contrast was with the recently in­ven­ted cabaret clubs, which emerged ­after the bursting of the ­bubble to satisfy individual customers who are not able to drink on the com­pany dime. ­These establishments can be seen as a relatively inexpensive version of hostess clubs, where they employ hostesses and “boys” (servers) and do not have a mama-­san.

264

NOTES TO PAGES 106–229

7. At the Korean hostess clubs in Osaka studied by Chung (2009) a majority of hostess are Korean w ­ omen, who offer the regular ser­v ices of serving drinks. Along with the superintendent, director, and executive director, ­there usually is a chef, waiters, piano accompanist, and show members who dance onstage. Aside from Korean hostesses and mama-­sans, Chung found that in some Korean hostess clubs ­there are also hidden ­women, called “soldiers” (heitai) who ­were hired specifically for sexual ser­v ices (personal ­communication). 8. Indeed, all the mama-­sans at Club Ai, Sumire, and Class A also knew how impor­ tant it was for a club to have many dif­fer­ent types of ­women (differing in sizes, shapes, education, verbal eloquence, ­etc.) to meet vari­ous men’s tastes. 9. The combination of alcohol, hostesses, and bureikō may convey the idea that one can do anything when drunk. However, I never encountered particularly surprising or outrageous be­hav­ior by men in the clubs. Even if a man got upset about something, many ­people, including hostesses and other men, would attempt to soothe him and defuse the situation. 10. Quasi-­romance can be facilitated by men for w ­ omen for their specific purposes as well. See the cases of ­women consuming men’s ser­v ice through quasi-­romance to facilitate women-­friendly lifestyles (Dales 2005) or to reinforce prevailing gender hierarchies in host clubs (Takeyama 2016). 5. ESCAPING THE CORPORATE SHACKLES

1. I used pseudonyms of their choosing, while I also used the real names of some in­ for­mants on their request. Almost every­one asked me to use a pseudonym for their com­ pany or place of employment. 6. NAVIGATING THE WAVES OF WORK AND LIFE

1. For a discussion on how high schools placed students into companies during the 1970s, see Rohlen (1983). For an updated discussion on this placement system in the late 1980s, see Okano (1993), and for the transformation of this system into what Honda calls “necessary disillusionment” in the early 2000s, see Honda (2003; 2004). For the continued importance for school-­mediated job placement, particularly among students from disadvantaged backgrounds, see Ishida (2011). 7. WEATHERING THE STORMS OF CORPORATE RESTRUCTURING

1. This includes externally oriented mechanisms such as early retirement incentives (sōki taishoku), temporary or permanent transfers to subsidiaries or branch offices (shukkō and tenseki), internally oriented mechanisms known as “in-­house unemployment” (shanai shitsugyō), including reshuffling/redeployment within companies (haichi tenkan), and encouraging employees to quit voluntarily by relegating them to “the edge of the win­dow” (madogiwa-­zoku) and more recently “exclusion rooms” (oidashi beya) (see Itō 2017; Gagné 2020). 2. Despite retiring at this time, the medical fees for his surgery and hospitalization w ­ ere covered by his com­pany health insurance. 3. In the past, some large Japa­nese companies (such as ­Toyota) had their own affiliated high schools to train student-­employees for the specific knowledge and skills necessary for the com­pany. D. High School was one of ­these, specifically designed to train students to be electrical technicians. One out of four employees at D. Com­pany came from this high school. It was originally established as male-­only high school in 1954 but ­later became coed. It was closed in 2005 ­because the com­pany de­cided that they did not have to invest so much to train specialists.



NOTES TO PAGES 238–254

265

4. In this par­tic­ul­ ar job, employees must climb along cables and are subject to tremendous friction on their chest. As a result, ­women must wear a special harness. CONCLUSION

1. Personal communication, 2010.

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Index

Abercrombie, Nicholas and Bryan Turner, 7–9, 248, 252 ability-­based merit system, 71, 82 aging population, 3, 62–64, 120, 257 aging workforce, 3–4, 62–64 akogare, 115–119 alienation, 86–89, 107, 244–250 Allison, Anne, 10, 102, 112, 114, 116 Bailey, Peter, 118–119 blue-­collar workers, 26, 36–54, 62, 259n2 (chap. 1), 260n10, 261n16 ­bubble economy: bursting of, xix, 4–6, 25, 61; postbubble recession, xviii–­xix, 3–7, 9–10, 17–19, 60–69, 87–89, 103–106, 241 bureikō, 111–112, 264n9 capitalism: global capitalism, 5–7, 9, 16–19, 67–70, 87, 105, 121–122, 243, 247, 256; Japa­nese capitalism, 5, 26–27, 31–32, 66–67, 83, 260n7; late capitalism, 8, 13–14, 21–22, 252 ­career development, 15, 66, 80–81, 245 cheering, 131–132, 149–150 chūryū: ishiki, 253–255; kaikyū, 56–57. See also middleness; new ­middle class class consciousness, 28, 36–38, 51–57 companyism, 10, 12–13, 17, 21–22, 48–49, 57–58, 63, 67–68, 77, 87–89, 156, 245–257; com­pany citizenship, 48–49, 58, 244, 254. See also corporate-­centered society Connell, R. W., 10–12 corporate-­centered society, 12, 47–51, 57–60, 63–64, 256. See also companyism corporate entertainment, xviii, 10, 97–98, 101–106, 108–118, 130, 250, 263n3 corporate hegemony, 12, 50–51, 57–60, 63–64, 261n14 corporate restructuring, xviii–­xix, 9–10, 13–14, 20–21, 61, 67–70, 77–82, 85–87, 103, 205–208, 216–217, 243–250; and structural reforms, 18–19, 67–70, 84, 123, 246 corporate welfare, xviii, 48, 52, 58–59, 62–63, 93

corporate welfarism, 58–59; welfare corporatism, 57–59, 67, 70, 87, 256; welfare capitalism, 58–59; Japanese-­style welfare, 58, 62 credentialism, 32–34, 48 daikokubashira, 9–13, 58, 63, 121, 248 Dasgupta, Romit, 12–13 democracy, 2, 42–46, 52, 59, 71, 241, 260n10, 261n11 deregulation: committees, 61, 262n20; financial, 68–69; ­labor, 17–19, 61, 68–69, 76 discretionary work system, 9, 71–81 dismissal, 4, 34–40, 45, 60–62, 65–79, 207–209, 262n21 dominant group, xviii–­xix, 1–3, 6–14, 21–22, 26, 247–248; vis-­à-­v is marginal groups, 6–8, 253 early retirement, 4, 60–62, 65–66, 77–78, 84, 86–87, 262n22, 264n1 (chap. 7) economic nationalism, 2–3, 6, 8–9, 19, 50–51, 63–64, 68, 89, 241, 243–244, 249–250, 253 fantasy, 102–103, 117–119, 250 female workers, 19, 30, 37, 41, 49, 114– 115, 240, 260n6; ­career ­women, 12, 259n3 (intro.) feudal system, 27–32, 41–42, 59, 260n7 Fordism, 6, 17–18, 48, 58, 243–245; post-­ Fordism, 243–247 gaman, 247–249 ganbaru, 73, 119, 150 ganbarism, 150, 248–249 gender: ideology, 1–3, 9–13, 63, 93, 121, 174; roles, 6–7, 11–13, 48, 58–59, 244, 251, 259n2 (intro.); division of ­labor, 48, 57–59, 260n6 giji ren’ai, 117–119, 264n10 global financial crisis, 4, 69 Gordon, Andrew, 45–46, 50–51, 59, 60 haken, 18–19 hashigo, 109–110, 130 hiring freeze, 4, 62, 70 homelessness, 4–5, 11, 253 283

284 Index

hostess clubs: and trust, xviii, 103, 105–106, 109–115, 122; definition of, xv, 101–102, 106–107, 117, 121, 233, 263n1, 263n5, 263n6 humanistic: humanness, 111, 176–177, 185–186, 204, 249, 255; lifestyle, 44, 46–47, 56; relations, xviii–xx, 110–112, 120–121, 202, 250; understanding, 110, 246–247 identity, 5, 7, 26, 37, 51–52, 55–57, 152, 156, 240–241, 253–257 ideology: corporate ideology, xviii, 3, 10–11, 107, 203; dominant ideology, xix–xx, 1–3, 7–14, 18, 21–22, 103, 115, 121–122, 156, 174, 241, 247–248, 257; dominant ideology thesis, 7–10; vis-­à-­v is discourse, 15, 16, 21–22, 27, 68, 245–247, 252–255 interstitial work, 71–75, 80, 245 intimacy: and commodification, 101–103; corporate, 109–115; humanistic, 109–112, 120–121; managed, 107, 116, 118–122; sexual, 101–103, 106–108, 111–119 Japa­nese management, 17, 20–21, 46–47, 52–54, 57–59, 63, 68–72, 76, 81–85, 87, 204, 262n22 jiko gisei. See self-­sacrifice jinkaku: recognition of character/worth, 41–43, 46–49; as personal quality/character, 37, 185–186, 249 job competency, 71, 74–75, 81–83 job security, 10, 18, 34, 44, 47–56, 63, 66–70, 83–84, 87 job tasks, 26, 65, 71, 75, 80, 187–188 Kelly, William, 57, 253–254 Kumazawa, Makoto, 37–38 ­labor market: internal, 18, 66, 69–70, 83, 88, 244; external, 61, 66, 88, 240–241 ­labor ­union movements: salary increase movement, 30, 34–36 shop-­floor activism, 50–53 strikes, 31, 34, 43–46, 79, 260n6 ­labor ­unions: blue-­collar, 36–38, 40; decline of, 61, 68–69, 262n1; Dōmei, 45–46, 261n13; enterprise, 17, 44–47, 61, 68–69; Rengō, 61, 262n1; salarymen, 34–41; Sampō, 42; Sōdōmei, 38, 261n13; Sōhyō, 45–46, 261n13 Lane, Carrie, 15, 245–246 layoffs. See dismissal LDP (Liberal Demo­cratic Party), 5, 61 leisure: hobby, 123–128, 148–152, 171, 203, 223–226, 234–236, 249, 252; space, xix–xx,

19–21, 89, 101–102, 106, 113–118, 121–122, 136, 138–140, 151–152, 254–255 life course, 11, 14, 148, 234, 240–241 livelihood wages, 44–47, 58, 63, 70, 87 long-­term employment, xv, xviii, 3–4, 17, 48, 51, 53, 60–63, 66–73, 78, 82–89, 94, 178, 208–209, 216–218, 244–245, 262n22, 263n7; lifetime employment, 85, 262n22 long-­term provisioning, 70, 83–89 lost de­cades, 61–64 loyalty, 17, 37–38, 42, 70–72, 79 madogiwa-­zoku, 218, 222, 264n1 (chap. 7) mainstream: consciousness, 49, 63–64, 253–255; lifeways, 62–64, 87, 156, 174; mainstreaming, 51–57, 252–255; orientation, 64, 68, 254 March 11, 2011 disaster, x, 120, 239 masculinity: corporate masculinity, 11, 241; as daikokubashira, 9–13, 58, 63, 121, 174, 209–210, 217, 248; and fatherhood, 11–12, 121, 213–214; hegemonic masculinity, 2–3, 6, 8, 10–13, 107, 113–115, 250–251, 257; salaryman masculinity, xviii, 2, 5, 6, 11–13, 113–115, 121, 250–251, 257 MBO (management-­by-­objectives), 71–83, 262n4 Meiji Restoration, 27–29 ­middle class: compared to Eu­ro­pean, 55–56, 58–60; lifestyle, 40–41, 49–55, 63, 88–89, 190, 240–241, 256–257, 261n17; middle-­ classization, 40–41, 52–57; society, 25, 55–57, 64, 253–255 middleness: identification with, 22, 25–26, 51–52, 56–57, 174, 252–255, 262n19; and consciousness, 49, 51–57, 252–255, 257, 261n17 modernity: Japa­nese modernity, 3, 17, 34, 68, 77, 241, 257 ­middle class modernity, 48–49, 59, 67, 77, 257 modernization, xix, 2–3, 26–32, 56, 59 morale, xix, 72, 76–79, 82–84, 109 neoliberalism: and deregulation, 5, 68–70; and enterprising selves, 15–19, 66–68, 80, 88, 217, 243–251; as flexibility, 15–17, 66–67, 70, 76, 88–89, 208, 217, 244–249, 256; as ideology, 6–7, 10, 13–20, 63–64, 241, 243, 245–246, 249–250, 252–257; and reforms, xviii–xx, 3–6, 13–21, 27, 62–64, 67–69, 71, 76–79, 83–89, 208, 240–247, 251–257; and governance, 14–17, 80, 88; subject of, 15–19, 87, 217, 240, 249; and subjectivity, 14–19, 27, 67–68, 86–88, 217–218, 241, 243–249, 256; and privatization, 14, 17, 68–70, 247

Index

new ­middle class: as ideological category, 2–3, 20–22, 25–27, 31–32, 36, 40–41, 52, 59, 63–64, 241, 248, 251–257, 260n7; as discursive cultural orientation, 21–22, 50–52, 63–64, 68, 252–253; and class consciousness, 25–28, 36–38, 49–57, 172, 190 nonregular: employment, 4, 11, 70, 79, 88–89, 245; workers, 11–12, 18, 49–50, 61–63, 75, 88, 244–245 old ­middle class, 29, 31–32, 40–41, 59, 260n7 overtime, 75–76 overwork, 61, 69, 78, 87; death from, 5, 75, 79 performance-­based merit system, xv–xx, 21, 71–85, 88, 105, 172, 185–186, 202, 208, 237–238, 241, 245–249, 262nn2–5 Plath, David, 241–243, 249–250 Purvis, Trevor and Alan Hunt, 252–253 regular workers, 4, 11–12, 49–51, 58, 62, 70–71, 75–76, 82, 86–87, 245, 259n3 (intro.), 261n15 repre­sen­ta­tional hegemony, 2, 8, 10–11 risk, 18, 67–68, 70, 80–81, 89, 245–247 salary girls, 30 salaryman: age of terror, 38–40; as corporate warriors, 3, 12, 204; as dominant group, xviii, 2–3, 6–14, 22, 247–248; doxa, 107, 120–121; as icon/ideal, 2, 7, 20, 37, 174, 257; identity, 5, 27–38, 156, 240–241; merchant-­class, 29; proletarianization of, 38–41; salarymanhood, 5, 12–13, 40, 51, 156, 250–252 samurai: commercial code, 29; ethos, 3, 29; samurai-­class salarymen, 27–32, 259n3 (chap. 1), 260n7 seika, 74, 82 seika-­shugi, xv, xix, 21, 71, 248–250. See also performance-­based merit system self-­advancement, 30, 37–38 self-­cultivation, 152, 242–243, 250 self-­management, 18, 71, 244 self-­responsibility, 15–16, 70, 79, 81, 147, 245–246 self-­sacrifice, xvii, 96, 147, 151, 254 se­niority, xv–­xix, 3–4, 13, 17, 47, 54, 56, 68–71, 74, 78, 82–85, 241, 244

285

sexuality: heterosexuality, 1, 10–14, 119; parasexuality, 118–119 shakai, 170, 242–243, 252 shakaijin, 11–13, 113, 179, 231–232, 243–244, 250–252 shūshin koyō. See long-­term employment ­silent re­sis­tance, 19, 88, 246–247 social adult. See shakaijin social class, 25–27, 41–42, 49–51, 55–57 social nudity, 114–115 social stratification, 25, 31, 56–57, 64, 250, 254, 261n18 spirit, xix, 124, 149–152, 238, 248–249 standard of living, 25–26, 29–36, 47, 49, 55, 85, 190, 255, 259n1 (chap. 1), 261n17 stratified society, 25, 64, 250 structural marginalization, 62, 65, 222, 227, 236, 240–241 structural reform, 68–70, 84, 123, 246 subjectivity, 7, 14–19, 22, 25, 27, 39–40, 48, 56, 67–68, 77–79, 87–89, 217, 240–241, 243–251, 256–257 suicide, 4–5, 62, 75, 79, 263n6 (chap. 2) Takahashi, Masaki, 34, 38, 45, 260n10 target sheet, 73, 76, 79–80, 83–84 temporary workers, 49, 60, 88, 244–245 third place, 21, 157, 171 transfer, 60, 78; shukkō and tenseki, 62, 264n1 (chap. 7) Toyotism, 17–18, 48–49, 244; post-­Toyotist affect, 18, 243–247 unemployment, 4–5, 9, 15, 34–36, 38–40, 43–44, 69, 245, 263n6 (chap. 2); in-­house unemployment, 216–218, 222–223, 264n1 (chap. 7) Vincent, Norah, 1–2, 9 volunteering, 123, 202, 218, 225, 228 white-­collar employment, 3–4, 26, 29–32, 36–40, 42–55, 260nn4–7, 261n17, 262n5; white-­ collarization, 36–38, 48–49. See also salaryman working class, 7–8, 11, 37–38, 40–42, 51, 55–57 yakuza, 158, 162–163