Forever a Princess – for me, the Japanese Imperial Family will remain Empress Michiko

It’s April 30 in Tokyo as I write this, and just a few hours from now, Emperor Akihito at age 85 will abdicate and bring to an end the Heisei era, with the new Reiwa era beginning on May 1st as his son Naruhito ascends the throne. I left Japan in 1989, just months after Emperor Hirohito had died, ending the tumultuous Showa era.

Emperor Akihito’s Enthronement Ceremony in 1989. (Imperial Household Agency)

In the middle of the June rains, just as the first coins marked 平成元年 (Heisei Year One) had begun entering circulation, I bought my last cucumber rolls at the Narita Airport sushi restaurant and boarded a 747 for America. I have not returned in 30 years.

LAX, 1984

Despite spending my formative years in Japan from birth to the age of 15 (I’ve written before about the sense of displacement and alienation I felt visiting American military bases, and how I identified with Japanese sumo wrestler Chiyonofuji as my childhood hero), the names and personalities of all those men in stiff suits mean nothing to me compared to the beauty, grace, and kindness of one woman.

Crown Prince Akihito and Crown Princess Michiko after their wedding in 1959

Miss Michiko Shoda, a commoner, met her future husband on the tennis court in the resort town of Karuizawa in 1957. Thirty years later, the Crown Princess and Crown Prince Akihito continued to spend part of each summer there, traveling by motorcade from the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. They also sometimes spent time at the Hayama Imperial Villa near Kamakura, traveling southwest from Tokyo through Yokohama, right past our house.

When we heard on the news that the Imperial Family would be traveling through Yokohama, we would wait for traffic to begin backing up on our street as the police escort stopped all traffic on the roads for kilometers on either side of the motorcade. My brother, the neighbor kids, and I would all walk down to the sidewalk next to the Hodogaya Bypass and stand in a row to wave at the black cars as they whizzed past.

But the year after our first in Yokohama, the second time we watched the police escort roar by on their motorcycles, we noticed that one of the great big black cars was slowing down. As it approached where we stood by the side of the road, a heavily tinted window began to roll down. Just as the car drove past us, a single, white-gloved hand extended from the window and waved. Behind that hand, we glimpsed the Crown Princess beneath a pillbox hat.

Each year thereafter, we lined up next to the bypass whenever the Royal Family traveled between Hayama and Tokyo. Without fail, the Crown Princess made it a point to acknowledge this strange assemblage of American and Japanese children furiously waving handmade flags by the side of the road.

In the years since, Emperor Akihito has forged a path of peace for himself, visiting former enemies and expressing profound regret and sadness for the horrors of war inflicted in the name of his father upon countless millions around the Pacific rim — a far cry from modern Japanese politicians like Prime Minister Abe, hellbent on erasing the lessons learned from the past and re-militarizing the Japanese nation-state. Unlike far too many of my fellow Americans who seem to long for kingship, I’ve never been particularly interested in royal-watching — I never shared my mother’s obsession with Princess Diana, for example. I deeply object to the cost of maintaining an aristocracy at the expense of everyday people, no matter how bound to national identity or tradition royalty may be.

And yet, there’s something to be said for the example set by symbolic, apolitical heads of state like Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko. Despite my objections to the very idea of royalty, I have profound respect for both Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko as fellow human beings. One can hope that Crown Prince Naruhito will follow a similar, modernizing path as he ascends the Chrysanthemum Throne on May 1st.

Empress Michiko with Emperor Akihito and President Barack Obama in Tokyo in 2014, with PM Abe in the background

As I write this, I’m one month away from my first trip home to Japan in 30 years — the exact span of the Heisei era. Japan will always remain my true homeland, no matter what I look like on the outside and no matter how long I spend away from the country of my birth and childhood. I’m incredibly excited, but also somewhat fearful of the change I’ll find. As I sit at sushi and ramen counters here in the US and chat with sushi chefs and noodle cooks, I hear about how so much Tokyo in particular has changed since they’ve come to the US themselves, often in just a few years compared to my three decades. What will Harajuku and Meiji Shrine look like nearly 45 years after my first visit?

Meiji Shrine, Tokyo, 1975

Perhaps there is indeed something beautiful in the existence of royalty in modern democracies like Japan, Sweden, and Great Britain where their powers have been constitutionally circumscribed by elected representatives of their erstwhile subjects: Royal households provide cultural continuity that no term-limited politician can, while retaining enough respect and moral authority to influence positive change in their countries and abroad.

I wish their Imperial Majesties a long and happy retirement. And if I can’t wish for the abolition of the Imperial institution, I can certainly wish for a peaceful and prosperous Reiwa era led by good, kind people like their predecessors.

The Emperor and Empress with children and grandchildren in 2013

My first book is on store shelves now: And it’s a Star Wars book!

I tend to keep my LEGO hobby fairly compartmentalized — with a handful of exceptions, I don’t write much about little plastic bricks here on Andrew-Becraft.com. Topics here on my personal/professional website tend more toward science (archaeology in particular), poetry, software design methodology, and occasionally the convergence of multiple interests after I have some kind of late-night epiphany.

But writing and LEGO have converged today with the release of my first book, Ultimate LEGO Star Wars. Written together with Chris Malloy, one of my team members from The Brothers Brick, Ultimate LEGO Star Wars is a coffee table reference book from British publisher Dorling Kindersley (DK). You can read more about the book itself and our experience writing it in an interview over on The Brothers Brick, but I thought I’d reflect here on my personal experience today as the book begins hitting store shelves.

Andrew at Third Place Books

First off, and this really does deserve all-caps, I WROTE A STAR WARS BOOK! As someone who still holds to some modicum of hope that I’ll get published again someday as a “serious poet,” I tend to minimize this achievement quite a bit. I tell myself things like, “It’s really just a LEGO book — nothing serious or artistic. And it’s only a reference book, the result of a collaboration among co-authors, the DK editorial team, and their designers.” But then I slap myself and realize again, it’s A FRICKIN’ STAR WARS BOOK! Put another way, Chris and I literally wrote the book on LEGO Star Wars, the most popular line from the best-selling toy company in the world. That’s some hardcore geek cred. But it’s not High Art.

Ultimate LEGO Star Wars book from DK

Despite those self-deprecations about the pop-culture subject matter, the book represents a huge accomplishment for the whole team who worked on it, and I’m humbled to have been asked to write some of the book’s text. And there’s something intensely satisfying about going to my closest bookstore and seeing a book I wrote on the shelf, available for anybody to buy. Of course, the book is also available online, and it’s been fascinating to watch it climb Amazon.com’s rankings in a variety of categories, based on pre-orders. As of the day of release, it’s moving through the mid 2,000s for all books on Amazon.com, and already the #1 new release in Collectible Toys and Product Design.

I stopped by a big box book store while I was in downtown Seattle earlier today, but that particular location hadn’t received their shipment yet. After I got home, I called Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park to ask if they had the book in stock. The guy who answered the phone asked if I’d like him to set aside a copy for me, and I explained that I was one of the authors and just wanted to see it “in the wild” for myself. He laughed and asked if I’d like to come in and sign their copies for them, so I was there in under 15 minutes — would’ve been 5 but for rush hour traffic on Bothell Way.

The team at Third Place Books was very kind with this overly excited new author, and after I’d signed the store’s copies and they put “Autographed” stickers on their covers, they even offered to take a picture with the book on a neatly rearranged shelf, alongside my friend Rod Gillie’s own LEGO book. We talked about doing an event with both authors, and I told them that DK’s marketing team would be in touch to make the arrangements. My people would call their people. It was all rather surreal — certainly not something I would have expected to be experiencing a year ago, before we started working on the book.

Now, I’m off to hit Refresh on the Amazon.com page like the insecure, self-obsessed writer I’ve apparently become…

Four discoveries that redefined human history in just one summer

Growing up in a more literarily and theologically inclined family, much of my paleoanthropological education came from back issues of National Geographic and outdated editions of Encyclopædia Britannica. I read Mary Leakey’s article about her discovery of the footprints at Laetoli in the April 1979 issue, and pored through earlier issues to find articles about her work at Olduvai Gorge — articles like one from October 1961 by her husband Louis S. B. Leakey titled “Exploring 1,750,000 Years into Man’s Past: A Noted British Archaeologist Tells of Dramatic Discoveries at Olduvai Gorge.” I desperately wanted to be a young Leakey boy like (future paleoanthropologist) Richard or (future statesman) Philip, seen with his parents in this photo from that article. Frankly, I’d have settled for being one of Mary Leakey’s ever-present dalmatians.

Photo: National Geographic

It seemed like every issue in the 60’s and 70’s highlighted some amazing discovery that reshaped our understanding of how our species emerged in Africa. As I’ve re-engaged with archaeology and human evolution over the last few years, at no time has there been such a rapid sequence of major announcements from across a spectrum of disciplines, based on work happening all over the world, as there seems to be right at this very moment.

With stacks of books about Neanderthals representing decades of perspectives as a lens into the historiography of paleoanthropology, I’ve most enjoyed learning about how our understanding of human evolution has itself evolved over the past century and a half. Erik Trinkaus and Pat Shipman’s The Neanderthals: Changing the Image of Mankind from 1992 provides a solid overview of that history, beginning with rivalries between French scientists like Georges Cuvier and Jean-Baptiste-Pierre-Antoine de Monet, Chevalier de Lamarck. (Your automatic response is likely to take the side of a regular-sounding guy named Georges over someone with four hyphenated first names and two de‘s, but you would be on the wrong side of scientific history.) Trinkaus and Shipman fail to arrive at the current scientific consensus that Chris Stringer and Clive Gamble elucidate in In Search of the Neanderthals just a year later, while somehow missing entirely the decades-long rivalry between François Bordes and Lewis Binford. Nevetheless, The Neanderthals is still the most comprehensive history of the subject I’ve read, superseded recently by Dimitra Papagianni and Michael A. Morse’s excellent (but much briefer) The Neanderthals Rediscovered: How Modern Science is Rewriting Their Story (2015).

Armed with a vaguely monomaniacal overview of the chronology of discoveries in paleoanthropology from Engis (the first, then-unrecognized Neanderthal skull) to Rising Star (Homo naledi), I’ll reiterate my assertion above that the last few weeks have seen a series of major discoveries at a previously unprecedented pace.

In May, Lee Berger and his team at Rising Star in South Africa finally announced direct dates for their Homo naledi fossils, placing them between 335,000 and 236,000 years ago, just short of the 195,000-year age for the oldest-known Homo sapiens fossils from Omo Kibish in Ethiopia. This raises the likelihood that small-brained H. naledi and our big-brained Homo sapiens could have co-existed as part of a diverse range of related hominin species in Africa during the Middle Stone Age.

Photo of Homo naledi reconstruction and skeleton (links to National Geographic video)

(I can also heartily recommend Berger’s up-to-the-minute new book Almost Human: The Astonishing Tale of Homo naledi and the Discovery That Changed Our Human Story published alongside the journal article in May.)

Less than a month later, a team including Jean-Jacques Hublin upped the ante with new dates based on thermoluminescence tests of fire-heated stone tools associated with the Jebel Irhoud Homo sapiens fossils excavated in the 1960s. Dates ranging between 315,000 and 286,000 years ago place anatomically modern humans more than 5,200 km across the continent from Omo Kibish, a hundred thousand years earlier. These new dates fundamentally change our understanding of when, and potentially where, anatomically modern humans may have evolved within Africa. Much debate remains, of course, on anatomical modernity vs. behavioral modernity, but the new dates have fascinating implications.

Homo sapiens jaw from Jebel Irhoud
Homo sapiens jaw from Jebel Irhoud (photo credit: Jean-Jacques Hublin)

Africa may be the cradle of both our genus and species, but discoveries that shed light on our species’ evolution and dispersal aren’t limited to Africa itself. Last week, Chris Clarkson and his team at the Madjedbebe rock shelter in northern Australia presented dates of 65,000 years or more (with even deeper layers containing artifacts potentially as old as 80,000 years) for tools used by early Aboriginal inhabitants.

Meanwhile, Aboriginal rock art in Kimberley, Western Australia has been dated to over 60,000 years ago, predating the great Aurignacian art of Chauvet by thousands of years. Both these dates challenge the generally accepted exodus from Africa a mere 50,000 years ago — the first Australians may have needed boats to get from Sundaland (the Malay peninsula, Sumatra, Borneo, and Java) to Sahul (New Guinea and Australia), but they certainly didn’t have airplanes to travel from Africa straight to Australia quite so quickly. (The picture of random individuals floated across 90 km distances accidentally clinging to palm tree logs is frankly just racist…)

Finally, for the moment, research on a new mitochondrial DNA sequence (only the eighteenth Neanderthal individual sequenced so far) place the date for Neanderthal-Homo sapiens interbreeding far deeper in time, as early as 270,000 years ago. Like the new dates for the Jebel Irhoud fossils announced in June, it pushes back the timeline for the very existence of Homo sapiens as a species, as well as our potential dispersal from Africa and interaction with Eurasian Neanderthal populations.

From “Deeply divergent archaic mitochondrial genome provides lower time boundary for African gene flow into Neanderthals” (Posth, et al 2017)

Now, I’m no Clive Gamble, one of the greatest minds working in paleoanthropology today. In Settling the Earth: The Archaeology of Deep Human History, Gamble takes all of the data then available (2013), from nearly two centuries of archaeology and paleontology across the world, throws it in a blender, and presents a work of academic molecular gastronomy. Gamble is nothing if not an iconoclast — one of the first traditional concepts he dispatches is the very concept of prehistory. As the title of the book itself articulates, there is deep human history beneath the shallow, post-Neolithic veneer of the past five to ten thousand years through which we see the world of even older pre-sapiens hominins.

Gamble also takes a global view to the question of how hominins and humans dispersed across the world, eliminating regional and continental boundaries to create five “Terrae” that defined the limits of hominin expansion at various stages over the last 2 million years, from the first emergence of the Homo genus in Africa to our first steps away from our home planet today. For example, lower sea levels during multiple cooler periods (not just the last Ice Age that ended 12,000 years ago) exposed huge expanses of land that enabled dispersal — Sunda in modern Southeast Asia, Doggerland in the North Sea, and of course Beringia familiar to American school children as the “land bridge” between Siberia and Alaska. These were not simply “land bridges” to get between modern geopolitical entities, but expansive, ecologically rich biomes in their own right. Gambles ideas challenged my preconceived notions about population dispersal as well as the intellectual and cultural capabilities of our ancestors, both archaic and modern.

Even without Gamble’s genius, it’s tempting to formulate hypotheses and what-if scenarios that synthesize the discoveries of the last few weeks. If humans were in Australia by 65,000 years ago, the first broadly successful dispersal could not have happened as late as 60,000 years ago. Might the “unsuccessful” population of modern humans excavated in the caves at Qafzeh and Skhul in Isreal who left Africa as much as 120,000 years ago and allegedly died out by 80,000 years ago (replaced by a Neanderthal population from the north, only to be joined by more modern humans from Africa again later) have been partially successful after all? Since modern humans were perfectly capable of building boats to colonize Australia, might the humans of Jebel Irhoud have also built boats to cross to Gibralter, thus providing the basis for the interbreeding evidenced by the German Neanderthal woman from 270,000 years ago? I’ll await the next Grand Theory of Paleoanthropology from the likes of Clive Gamble, Chris Stringer, Ian Tattersall, or Robin Dunbar.

This much we do know: We are a much older species than we thought we were a month ago, by as much as a hundred thousand years. We also ranged farther, earlier than we thought we had barely a week ago — farther across Africa, much earlier to Australia, and maybe even into Neanderthal Europe (at least with people carrying our genes).

What discoveries remain to be shared with the world throughout the rest of 2017 — or even just the rest of this summer?


I’ve linked above mostly to primary sources in journals, but as a lay reader I’m indebted to the excellent science reporting in the Guardian as my starting point. “Via” links follow:

At home in the Holiest of Holies

I’m reading archaeologist Gregory J. Wightman’s The Origins of Religion in the Paleolithic, and thinking hard about how we humans evolved over the past several million years with a “God-shaped hole” in our psyches. I haven’t found the answer yet, but Philosopher Alain de Botton suggested in a recent interview that it is culture that can serve to fill that genuine sense of void that many of us sometimes feel in our modern lives.

You only have to look at the architecture of libraries and theaters and universities that were built in the age of declining religion to understand that our ancestors sought to fill the gap by creating temples of art, temples of culture, temples of learning, where we would congregate as we had previously done in the temples of religion.

National Gallery & St. Martin-in-the-Fields

I have certainly sensed the numinous in the great museums of the world, among the graves of poets, composers, and scientists, and deep inside a Neolithic passage tomb.

Entrance stone at Newgrange

Culture and the knowledge that it’s built on — but, most importantly, the processes and methods that increase, transmit, and store that knowledge — represent all that is good and holy about our species. While museums that house our art and science are certainly worthy of reverence, for sheer density of knowledge it’s hard to find a better temple of culture than a library.

The Guardian recently published a gorgous photo essay (though I’m unable to re-share their photos) of the most beautiful libraries in America. I’m proud to say that two of these libraries are right here in Seattle. In fact, for the first three months after I started up my previous company’s new Engineering hub, my team and I met each Friday at the Seattle Central Library, designed by Rem Koolhaas and Joshua Prince-Ramus.

Seattle library main branch overhead

I haven’t yet visited the Suzzallo Library at the University of Washington, but its Gothic Revival architecture certainly evokes European cathedrals, proving Alain de Botton’s point about 19th-century architects of secular institutions.

MK03235 University of Washington Suzzallo Library

Since appending “5 more museums to visit before I die” to my list of favorite museums back in 2009, I’ve visited several of them (the Met in New York, the Prado) and it may be time for a new list that includes museums I hadn’t anticipated loving so much (MOMA, Museo Arqueológico Nacional in Madrid).

And the Guardian has provided a convenient list of new places for pilgrimage I hope to visit in my lifetime.

Remembering Chiyonofuji, my childhood hero (1955-2016)

Contrary to the perception of many westerners, sumo is a game of speed and strategy, in which wrestlers assess their opponent’s weaknesses — psychological as much as physical — and attempt to outmaneuver quickly in order to get the upper hand. All sumo wrestlers are incredibly strong, but many also bulk up in order to give themselves an advantage in the ring. Not so with Chiyonofuji (千代の富士), who began his career in the early 1970s and retired in 1991 — spanning all the years I spent in Japan as a child. Some of the first foreign wrestlers came to prominence during that same time, Takamiyama (from Hawaii) and Konishiki (a Hawaiian born Samoan), but I always identified more with the little guy in the black mawashi.

8d44833f

The month before my family left for the States, I watched my last sumo tournament in Japan, during which Konishiki handily defeated Chiyonofuji by shoving him out of the ring with an “oshidashi.”

And it was hard not to root for the American-born Konishiki when he beat the already legendary Yokozuna during their first match in 1984.

But it was all the smart moves he had made during the previous 15 years that left such an impression on me, often employing his much-feared “uwatenage” (literally “upper hand throw”).

As an American kid attending a local Japanese school, I was different from my Japanese classmates in both obvious and less-obvious ways. Children all over the world can be incredibly cruel to anybody who’s different, and I was the frequent victim of schoolyard bullies. Chiyonofuji proved that being bigger and stronger did not always result in victory — outthinking your adversary is far more important.