Japan Parade — Blog 1 — JapanCultureNYC

This year renowned dancer, dance educator, and choreographer Sachiyo Ito has been serializing her memoir on JapanCulture•NYC with monthly installments, each chapter revealing a different aspect of her early life in Tokyo and career in New York City.

Ito offers of a profound exploration of the experience of dedicating herself to traditional Japanese dance at an early age, arriving in New York City during the tumultuous ‘70s, and making a successful career in the arts. Each chapter offers a glimpse into the complexities that shaped her journey. It is a literary examination of not only Ito Sensei’s life, but of how New York City’s culture evolved over the decades and what sacrifices one must make to achieve a thriving career in the arts.

The memoir is an invitation to delve into the layers of a creative life and career that has spanned more than 50 years. As a work in progress, it is also an invitation for you to offer your feedback. Your insights will contribute to the evolution of this extraordinary work.

To read all the chapters, please click here. For more information about Sachiyo Ito, please visit her website, dancejapan.com.

AFTER 50 YEARS: JAPAN PARADE AND MY 1970s

Welcome, May – the beautiful season of green leaves, and Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month!

A very important springtime event for the Japanese community is the Japan Parade, which has been held annually on the second Saturday of May since 2022. My company participated in the parade for the third time on May 11, 2024. I must say that participating in a parade as a Japanese classical dance company would have been totally inconceivable when I arrived in America from Japan in the 1970s!

Sachiyo Ito and Company at the 2024 Japan Parade. Photo by Jon Jung

Last year’s parade was a very gratifying moment for me; it seemed emblematic of how far we Japanese had come in American culture. Fortunately, my company was in the first group of the parade, and from my vantage point on our float’s highest spot, I had a perfectly unobstructed view of an incredible sight: the black and white horses of New York Police Department in front of us, leading the way.

There are two things that the parade highlights about the difference between the New York City of today and the New York City of the ‘70s when I arrived here: the recognition of the Asian and Japanese community in the city, and how much safer the city has become over the years. Even though Asians still deal with racially motivated attacks, it is certainly safer now than it was in the ‘70s. I noticed the beginning of this change in public perception when, during his term as mayor, Mike Bloomberg held receptions at Gracie Mansion in honor of what was then called Asian Heritage Month, culminating with the 2022 organization of the Japan Parade.

Sachiyo Ito with Mayor Michael Bloomberg in 2006

In this chapter I would like to talk about the culture shock and the dangers I encountered in 1970s New York, not to dwell on negative experiences, but to provide a contrast that allows us to appreciate and support the current direction toward a peaceful community, a melting pot of cultures.

Culture Shock

My first stay in the U.S. in 1972 was spent in a dormitory at Connecticut College during American Dance Festival, where I made my American debut. The first thing I experienced was taking a shower instead of taking a bath. The bath ritual is a very important one for the Japanese. Not only is bathing privately in the home significant, but public bathhouses are as well – they function like a social center to the local community. When I was growing up, everyone in the neighborhood hung out at the public bathhouse. They spent time catching up with each other, discussing what their families were up to, exchanging personal news.

In the U.S., bathing is almost never communal, and the act of regularly sitting in a bath itself is somewhat unusual. I used to joke with my friends, “Well, I never took a shower in my life, until I came to America.” Then they would look at me and say: “Oh, really? That doesn’t sound clean…”

Another shock was the manner in which college teachers were addressed. In America, students called teachers by their first names. In our culture, this would be considered a sign of disrespect.

This manner of addressing others led me to an enlightening book, Tate Shakai no Kozo (Personal Relationship in the Vertical Society) by the cultural anthropologist Chie Nakane. According to her, Japanese society is a hierarchical society, and an individual is nothing but an attribute. Therefore, an individual’s first name is less important, while the last or family name, which often indicates rank and/or title, is sufficient and indicates where we are in the hierarchy of our community. Thus, Japanese people will give their family names before their given names.[i]

Conversely, calling my friend Mary Page “Mrs. Alford” (mentioned in Chapter 2) made her upset. Since we were close friends, she felt we should address each other by our first names. Once she remarked on this, out of respect and love, I began addressing her as Mary Page. I recognized that addressing someone by their first name reflected friendliness, though in the beginning it seemed to me to be disrespectful.

Yet another shock occurred once I began my master’s degree at NYU, when I saw my classmates sitting on the floor of the dance studio during discussions and lectures. Many sat with their legs open and even did leg and body stretches during the teacher’s talks. I thought to myself, how rude their manner is! In Japan, we must sit properly on the floor with knees bent, and women should have knees tightly closed. This is how I discovered ‘stretching’ at the beginning of dance class!

Undeniably, being Japanese in American society has created a perplexing situation where a balance is difficult to strike. I am “too American” when I am in Japan and express “yes” or “no,” or “white” or “black” clearly, something I had to learn to do once I lived in America. On the other hand, when I am in America, I am “too Japanese” – too understated and ambiguous in my way of speaking. This manner of expression and communication is also reflected in our dance form as “subtlety,” which I talk about when I teach my workshop “Japanese Culture Through Dance” in schools.

I want to share an insight from the ideas I discovered in another informative book. My experiences, particularly in the ‘70s and ‘80s, were a good example of amae, as explained by the psychoanalyst Takeo Doi. It means "to depend upon and presume another's benevolence." Amae is, in essence, a request for indulgence of one's perceived needs. Doi cites the example of being offered tea in an American home. In Japan, if tea is offered upon visiting a friend’s home, a Japanese person is likely to say “No, thank you,” as a show of politeness, but the tea would be prepared anyway. Whereas in America, “No” is “No,” so alas, the tea would not be prepared![ii] This situation must be familiar to other Japanese here in the USA, and conversely the other way around, to Americans visiting or living in Japan.

Speaking of my culture shock in my early days in America, here is an episode. In today’s New York, there are hundreds of Japanese restaurants, but in the early 1970s, that number could be counted on two hands. In 1974, to promote my concert at Japan House, I was visiting Japanese restaurants asking if they would allow me to leave flyers for my performance for their patrons to take. (One restaurant, Edo, located in Union Square, seems to be the same establishment that I visited back then, though I’m uncertain if it is even possible for a restaurant to stay in business that long.) As I swung open the door with a cheerful greeting prepared in my mind, all of the customers, who were all men (really!), looked up at me. Meanwhile I was frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, looking at their chopsticks and the dish called Donburi which many of them were eating. I stood spellbound for a few seconds. Nowadays, such a scene would not be at all unusual, but back then, seeing about a dozen Japanese businessmen in suits with chopsticks made me utter, “Oh, Japanese food!” I should add that I had not had a chance to dine at a Japanese restaurant since my arrival, for eating at such an establishment was unaffordable for me. I suppose the surprise was not so much about the food, but rather about seeing only Japanese men, all in suits, as is commonly seen in Japan. The population of Japanese people in New York City then was mostly businessmen working for Japanese firms, whereas now there is a wider Japanese demographic, including people in independent professions and the arts, and of course, more women. Back then, the predominant population of men reminded me of Tokyo, where 80% of the population was male at the beginning of the Edo Era (1603-1868). I felt as if this scene at the Edo restaurant was a “time tunnel” in New York!

Dangerous City in the 1970s

I experienced three different robberies in those early days, one of which was particularly frightening. I used to live in the West Village, which was close to NYU, where I studied, and in later years, where I taught. While crime was rampant in the city at that time, the West Village was not the worst neighborhood. However, that didn’t mean that I was safe. In the first incident, during which the robber found me in my apartment and tried to strangle me, the policemen who were sent by the 911 dispatcher looked at me up and down and then said: “Good! You are alive!” and then left, without even taking notes on the attack or the attacker’s description. Obviously, as I soon learned, robberies were nothing but small incidents for this city. For a few weeks after the robbery, with my neck and shoulders still bruised, I felt as if I saw the man who had robbed me whenever I saw anyone who even slightly resembled him. I was robbed two more times during my stay in the Village, but they only rummaged through the things in my apartment as I did not own anything valuable enough to steal.

I was also mugged four or five times. One mugging occurred on a rainy day in Central Park, just off 5th Avenue near 72nd Street, in the afternoon. Even then I knew that it was a dangerous area to walk through in the rain, and I should not have been walking there, even though it was light rain. But I was distressed and not in a frame of mind to think of my surroundings — I simply wanted to walk across the park to Central Park West to my friend Miriam’s home, where I was staying briefly. The mugger tore my coat and took my purse, which contained an important letter that was also the cause of my distress. The policeman who came to take my statement on the mugging only added to the trauma of the situation, as he paid less attention to the report he was writing than to flirting and touching me in a suggestive manner. I must say I was shaken by both experiences. Miriam came home that evening, but I did not mention what the policeman did to either her or to my other friend who came to comfort me; I told them only about the mugging, not about the sexual harassment. The important letter in my purse had come from the Immigration and Naturalization Office, denying the appeal by me and by NYU to extend my H-1 visa. What an irony it was, come to think of it now, that I wanted to stay in a country where I could easily be mugged in broad daylight, and harassed by the very people meant to protect me.

“Homelessness Time”

The 1970s were hard years for New York; they were difficult for me personally, as well.

I had a brief period which I used to call my “homelessness time.” Although I was not living on the streets, I did not have a permanent address; perhaps it may be better to call it a “base-less time.” During this period, I had to move almost every week. I tasted the harshness of staying at the YMCA on 34th Street, at the Martha Washington Hotel, and at other hotels for transient residents. One of the sad scenes I witnessed was a woman who screamed at a certain time every evening in the bathroom, hitting the tub, which you could never imagine stepping into due to its filthiness. I felt only pity for her, wondering what put her in that extreme state. I felt a little sorry for myself as well, sighing as I watched the few pedestrians walking through the blistery northern wind through the YMCA window. The iron bars on the window made me feel as though I were trapped in a prison. I had no words while I gazed outside.

It was a complicated situation that had landed me in such a place.

Before leaving the States to begin my doctoral research in Japan, I gave up my rental apartment in Long Island City, and purchased an apartment in Woodside, Queens. The real estate agent assured me it was a good building, one of the buildings owned by Frank Trump. I never asked why it was good, but I suppose the broker wanted me to know that the premises were run by a well-known real estate magnate. Upon returning, I found out that the deal was a scam. I had no place to live. Losing my down payment was but a small part of the ordeal; far more devastating was not having a place from which to operate my life.

To add insult to injury, several of my planned performances were then cancelled. I had taken a train to my friend’s home in Pennsylvania where most of my things were kept, in order to pack costumes and props for these performances, which was no small undertaking. Upon returning to New York, with everything ready, the cancellation notice arrived.

My sojourns in the transient hotels were the opposite of glamorous. I worked hard to keep my space tidy, but sometimes fate would work against me. After moving into one of these hotels, I opened the medicine cabinet and about two dozen cockroaches came pouring out. The toilet area was so filthy that I tried not to look at it until I finished cleaning it. One day, I was trying my best to get rid of the carpet’s bad smell by vacuuming, and the phone rang. It was my friend, Jun Maruyama, a photographer. He specialized in documenting folk festivals, which were a passionate pursuit of mine in the 1970s. Whenever I was back home, I made trips to visit folk festivals – to learn the dance forms, or to conduct interviews and take photos for documentation. He said he had come to New York to photograph the New York City Marathon. It did not sound like his kind of work, but perhaps the travelogue magazine he worked for as a freelancer might have sent him to write an article about New York. He said he would like to meet for dinner. What a big surprise it was to receive a call from Jun out of nowhere in this worst of situations!! “What shall I wear?” was the first thing I asked myself, for none of my kimonos were with me. Nonetheless, I put myself together and we met at a restaurant on the Upper East Side. I was shocked to see how sick he looked, having lost nearly 20 pounds. Between my dismay and his lack of talkativeness we didn’t have a very engaging conversation; I decided not to tell him about my housing situation.

It was raining, just like the night when I first met him in Akita, in the north of Japan. The raindrops on the window and on the pavement were very beautiful, glistening in the lights from the restaurant and streetlamps. I had the feeling that he must be suffering from cancer or AIDS, and that he had come to see me before he died.

A year or two after this meeting, I was back home in Tokyo. I visited the building where his office had been to try to find him, but in vain – his office did not exist anymore. At the travelogue publisher’s, I was told they did not know where he was. From time to time, whenever I had a chance to visit Hibiya Library, I would look in Who’s Who in Photography to see if maybe I could find his name there and find out whether he had passed away or not, while silently hoping that he had just dropped contact with me and was continuing his work.

So many years have passed since then, but the manner of his greeting, by raising the brim of his hat with a smile, is still as vivid in my memory as if it were yesterday. And it was raining… Sometime, sooner or later, I know I will meet him, up in the sky, and call out to him, “Hi, Maruyama-san! What’s up? When is your next trip to photograph a festival? I want to go and take photos with you!”

Nishimonai dancers. Photo by Jun Maruyama

Why have I stayed in New York despite these difficult situations? For one thing, my life’s philosophy is that difficulties occur wherever you are, so it is up to you to cope and to decide to go forward and carry on your life’s mission. Another thing that has held me here are the supporters and friends I’ve met since my arrival, the artists with whom I have had the good fortune to collaborate, and the performance opportunities I have received which allowed me to realize my dream.

All of the unfortunate circumstances I have discussed above make the good times shine much brighter by contrast. My life in the 1970s wasn’t all bad; far from it! I had some very fortunate experiences as well, which led me to realize my mission and dreams.

Pacific Overtures: Broadway Show

In 1976 I gave a workshop for the cast of Stephen Sondheim’s Pacific Overtures. The workshop was an unofficial one, given at the request of the directors, and I don’t quite recall how it came about, but I do remember I was facing the chorus, actors, and dancers in a big studio. Two dancers from the cast became my students. One of them, Leslie Watanabe, later joined the Pearl Lang Dance Company and now is the assistant director of the dance department at the University of Oregon. I remember his performances in my productions, as well as those with the Theater of the Open Eye and at Japan House, quite well. He danced Oni Kenbai with the traditional devil mask as well as a lock of my hair, which he said would be a talisman of spiritual support and would bring him good luck while performing. Pacific Overtures stayed in my thoughts long after I gave that workshop. Inspired by the song “Chrysanthemum Tea” from the musical, which so fittingly reflected my experience of seeing an incredible sunset on the West Coast, I choreographed a dance entitled The Sunset. I never dreamed of actually working with Mr. Sondheim himself, but a decade later, I was requested to work on the 1984 off-Broadway revival of Pacific Overtures as a Kabuki consultant.

St. Croix, USVI

In 1977, I gave a concert and workshop on St. Croix, sponsored by the Virgin Islands Council on the Arts and Theatre Dance. It was my first time in the Caribbean; I had never seen such beautiful turquoise water until I visited the island. The humidity was so high that I grew nervous about the state of my costumes, worrying that they would be damaged even in the short week that I stayed there. The director of Theater and Dance, Atti Bermudez, welcomed me with her sunshiny smiles and warm hospitality. I was invited again the following year to give another workshop. It was a unique opportunity to introduce Japanese classical dance to the islanders who had never seen it. I also met a Japanese man there, and my performance was the first time he had ever seen Japanese dance in his life!

He was the manager of the Citizen Watch Factory. We were introduced by friends at a party and had dinner together once after that first meeting. What a big surprise for me when he later wrote a letter to me with a marriage proposal! After I left St. Croix, he came to see me one night in New York on very short notice. It was snowing that night. I was wearing a shawl covering my head and kimono collar. The sky was pitch black; against it, pure white snowflakes were falling on us. He needed my reply right away, on the spot. All I could say was, “I’m so sorry, it’s just too sudden…,” although it would have been nice to live in that paradise. The next day, he flew to Tokyo to meet the woman whom his parents had arranged for him to marry through the practice of Omiai, which is similar to arranged marriage. I believe my reply worked out well for him, for when I visited the island again to teach, I met him, his wife, and child at a dinner party thrown by our mutual friend. And there another baby was on the way! I was very happy for him.

Looking at the photo of Wisteria Maiden that I danced at the theater on St. Croix, it’s hard to believe I wore three layers of kimono in the island’s hot weather!

University of Hawaii at Manoa

In 1978 there was a Pan-Pacific conference of dance scholars held at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. It was such an honor for me to give a demonstration for one of the great Japanese scholars, Masakatsu Gunji, a prolific writer on the Japanese performing arts, especially Kabuki and Kabuki dance. Some years later, I was invited to his home in Tokyo, and I had a chance to show him videos of my performances in New York. I remember his comment, “You are the Japanese dancer in New York.” This sent my thoughts into a whirl: My dance is not good enough to express the beauty of this art; it is not enough to study the art (of course, I need to learn feverishly to continue my mission!). My ability to dance, both my interpretation of the classical dances and my own choreography, had evolved by living outside of Japan. I had to consider: Am I good enough to allow myself to introduce the art of Japanese dance to foreign audiences? Furthermore, there is the matter of the way an art form is changed by being performed by a human who is constantly changing with their environment, a question that goes beyond technique and authenticity of presentation of tradition. I asked myself: What can I do? The answer was to do the best I can, to seek the teaching and advice of mentors and authorities like Dr. Gunji seemed to be the only way going forward.

Philadelphia Museum of Art: Isamu Noguchi Retrospective

An invitation to perform from the Philadelphia Museum in 1979 was a great honor for me because it was a performance for the Isamu Noguchi Retrospective. Mr. Noguchi was pleased with my performance at his retrospective opening, particularly my choreography for the dance Haru no Umi, and he invited me to his studio in Long Island City. When I visited him, I took my friend, writer Ernestine Stodelle, who was writing a book on Martha Graham, for whom Mr. Noguchi had created many backdrops and artworks. Ernestine was so happy to be able to meet Mr. Noguchi, although she asked only one or two questions, as we had agreed beforehand not to bother him too much. There was an enormous number of sculptures in his studio and garden, and it felt to us as if we were walking through an endless trunnel of sculptures. I still don’t know how an artist of his stature had time to spare for us, me a humble Japanese dancer, and my friend who tagged along.

Dublin Theatre Festival

Also in 1978, I was invited to Ireland by the playwright Ulick O’Connor to create choreography for the production of his three Irish Noh plays. Titled Homage to Zeami,[iii] the trio of plays were presented as a part of the Dublin Theater Festival. William Butler Yeats had created Noh-influenced plays, including At the Hawk’s Well, in 1916, and I was pleased that the centuries-old Japanese tradition of the Noh Theater that inspired Yeats was carried through to this modern Irish playwright.

Ulick was the third playwright to write and produce plays inspired by Noh theater after Yeats and Padraic Colum. Ulick showed a spirit of challenge when I met him at the Chelsea Hotel – a famous haunt of many artists. Already considered a controversial figure in the theater world, Ulrick was eager to subject his audiences to a theatrical experience unlike anything they had seen before. We both knew that the pendulum of the public’s opinion could swing hard in either direction, both positive and negative. It is not easy to incorporate the subtlety and grace of Noh’s acting style into western theater, in which the execution of gestures and delivery of speech may be large and bold. Noh’s acting also requires movements accompanied by chorus and music, which is unusual in Western theater. A provocative performance was expected, as the Sunday Times noted and asked: Would the audiences accept the plays, would they say yes – or no – to Noh. I was happy to accept the challenge and the experience. Having never really worked with actors particularly, a fascinating discovery for me was their delivery of speech. The cadence of their speaking was amazingly beautiful, almost like music. On the other hand, guiding them to move in rehearsals was an uphill battle. They were trained in delivering speeches eloquently, but many had only minimal body discipline. Worse yet, with masks on, they lost the ability to use the facial expressions they normally relied on as a tool to bring their characters to life; hence, body and hand gestures, all very subtle, had to come into play. All in all, it was very fulfilling to instruct them on incorporating stylized movements into their acting.

At the beginning of the project, I was worried that out of O’Connor’s three plays, two would give me trouble. I was not sure if I could work with Submarine, about a ghost, or The Grand Inquisitor, about an archbishop. But as I worked on staging and coaching the actors, I found that all three plays were tied into the theme of “haunting” and that Noh’s compressed, suggestive, and understated approach to dramaturgy turned out to be quite fitting. The mask maker, Gay Dowling, did a tremendous job, creating mysterious effects very well, which pleased everyone in the production. The third play, Diedre, based on the Irish fairy tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows, tells of the romance of Deirdre and her lover and ends on the note of pine trees. After the lovers were buried across a lake from each other, pine trees grew on either shore, and decades later their branches were united. The idea of connecting pine branches as a symbol of the eternal love of two people was inspired by the shape of branches commonly seen in Japan. While visiting scenic areas on the outskirts of Dublin, I found that there, the pine trees stood straight up to the sky, unlike those in Japan. I had to smile at the twist to the ending in the fairy tale; the different kind of Irish pines that was Ulick’s invention.

All in all, the experiences I had during the 1970s, both good and bad, negative and positive, taught me valuable lessons. They helped me to learn about life and gave me the tools to find my way forward on the path that I would walk for the next four decades. They have also served as a source of inspiration for the creation of my dances. Our experiences make us who we are, and I am grateful for every single one of mine.

[i] Tate Shakai no Kozo (Personal Relationship in the Vertical Society), Chie Nakane, 1972.

[ii] Amae no Kōzō (The Anatomy of Dependence), Takeo Doi, 1971, Kodansha International Tokyo.

[iii] Zeami is the actor/playwright/author who established Noh theater with his father Kann’ami in the14th century. He is the father of Mugen Noh (the Fantastic Noh).

The posting of this chapter to JapanCulture-NYC.com was paid for by Sachiyo Ito and reprinted here with her permission. Susan Miyagi McCormac of JapanCultureNYC, LLC edited this chapter for grammatical purposes only and did not write or fact-check any information. For more information about Sachiyo Ito and Company, please visit dancejapan.com. ©Sachiyo Ito. All rights reserved.

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SACHIYO ITO’S MEMOIR: Chapter 5