aisles of desks and cabinets that gave some order to the huge open office space. I had hoped that wearing the uniform would have at least helped me blend in, but instead I felt curious eyes watching me, and sensed people wondering, “Who’s that redhead in the uniform?”
The orientation schedule was meticulously organized into daily and hourly columns according to the twenty-four hour clock. Lunch at 13:00, a lecture at 14:30, and the end of the workday at 17:30. Each event on the schedule included a room number and a list of participants’ names.
Just as Mr. Yoshida had promised, the woman told me that the Personnel Department would help me get settled in Tokyo—set up a bank account, review company policy, and, most importantly, find a place to live. My understanding was that I would choose from two or three apartments found by the Personnel Department. I was familiar enough with the city to have an idea where I wanted to locate, but I had never looked for my own place so I was glad to have their help. As I was a foreign employee, the company would also pay my rent. I assumed there would be a ceiling on how much could be spent, so I asked the woman how much was allowed.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about the amount,” she said. “We’ve already found a place for you to live.”
“What?” I asked in English, hoping that I had misunderstood her.
“It’s all settled. We’ll go visit the apartment later this week,” she said and pointed to the schedule. “See here. ‘Visit apartment in Nerima.”’
I was stunned. Nerima was over an hour away from headquarters by train, including several transfers. But more than the location, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t have any choice in the matter—especially with something as important as my home for the next two years. The woman explained that another foreign employee had recently been transferred to a facility outside Tokyo and that I would be taking over the recently vacated apartment. It was obvious from her explanation that the Personnel Department had taken care of absolutely everything.
Honda’s intelligent building was like a self-reliant city. In addition to eight business floors, a cafeteria, and the Welcome Plaza on the first floor, the building housed a travel agency, a bank, and a dry-cleaning service. One floor had a health clinic including a pharmacy and dental office; there was an exercise room, a coffee shop, a VIP restaurant, a gift shop, and a formal Japanese tatami room.
What made the building intelligent was the internal computer system that operated like a network of nerves throughout the building. Communication between the intelligence network and the employees took place through a magnetically coded identification card. So that attendance and overtime could be monitored, every day employees ran their identification cards through an electronic sensor located on each floor. The network went up the center of the sixteen-story building like a spinal column. Other sensors throughout the building controlled air conditioning and lights. The cash registers in the coffee shop and cafeteria were also in the link, so all purchases were recorded on the identification card and then automatically deducted from the employee’s monthly paycheck.
The woman from Personnel who explained all this to me was Ms. Uno. She was in her mid-twenties and spoke cautious English, carefully articulating each syllable. She didn’t make the usual language mistakes like replacing the L sound with an R and calling me “Rora” or telling me it was time for “runch.” Often, before speaking, she would pause, and her eyes would dart around the room as though she were searching for the correct words spelled out on the walls.
I learned that Ms. Uno had been hired right out of college as one of the first career-path female employees at Honda. Unlike most women who were hired as clerks, she was trained along with the male employees. She spoke fluent French and English and, compared with the other women I had seen on the seventh floor, had an unparalleled flair for wearing polyester with style.
Ms. Uno patiently guided me through my first days of work. She seemed confident and well organized. My admiration for her grew, and like a friendless camper I attached myself to this knowledgeable counselor. Our first days consisted of a series of meetings with managers in the company who taught me about the history of Honda and company policy. My Japanese wasn’t good enough to understand the lectures, so Ms. Uno acted as a translator.
The first lecture was on the “History and Management Philosophy of Honda.” A man in his fifties from the Training Department met us in a large conference room on the fifteenth floor. We gathered at one end of a long table, the speaker on one side, myself opposite him, and Ms. Uno in-between but just out of the speaker’s direct line of sight. From the moment the meeting started I saw a side of Ms. Uno that disturbed me.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit here?” she asked the speaker, motioning to another chair that looked more comfortable. “Shall I order some coffee?” she asked him, waiting for his nod before placing the call. When we started the meeting, she sat somberly, as though banished from conversation, and quietly translated his words. She seemed to withdraw into herself, occupying the smallest space her body could possibly manage. When the lecturer stopped for a break she asked if she could clean his ashtray. Her comments were barely acknowledged with smoky nods. I couldn’t understand why he was treating her this way. The scenario was repeated every time a new manager showed up for a lecture.
During one lecture I stopped the speaker to ask a question. Not only was I curious, but I also thought that an informed question would show the speaker that I was interested in his subject. Later, Ms. Uno told me that I had been rude.
“When you ask a question you need to be more polite,” she said. “Next time use this phrase first: ‘Mōshiwake gozaimasen ga, chotto kikitai to omotte orimasu.’” She recited this phrase again: “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if I could ask you something.” It seemed as familiar to her lips as her own name. Over and over again I repeated her until I had mastered the unfamiliar sounds.
The apartment situation still concerned me. Even though I hadn’t even seen it, I wanted to resist it. I wanted a choice. Corporate authority already determined how to speak, what to wear, and how to behave. When would my opinion count? I was perfectly willing to give up space in order to live closer to the city. As long as I could find a place within the budget I didn’t think it was the company’s business where I lived. I couldn’t move into the Nerima apartment without at least voicing my dissatisfaction, so I had a talk with Ms. Uno and let her know that I was unhappy with the idea of living way out in Nerima. If this was the only choice, I told her I would look for an apartment on my own. She sucked in her breath and looked at me as though I had announced that I had decided to leave the country.
Ms. Uno looked distraught as I explained my feelings, but she agreed to ask her boss about it. She timidly approached a man sitting at a cluster of desks and bowed her head repeatedly as she spoke. The man hardly looked up from what he was doing. Ms. Uno’s shoulders were hunched, her head was down and her hands were clasped. Again I felt disturbed by her subservience. The man barked a few words and Ms. Uno retreated, walking backwards. She sat down at the table and reported his response in English. “You will take the Nerima apartment,” she said, shaking her head. “This is the rule.” Suddenly I noticed that the armholes of my uniform seemed unbearably tight.
It seemed like every time I approached the Personnel Department I left feeling disappointed. One day I asked Ms. Uno how to order my business cards. I had purposely delayed having a card made while I was still in the U.S. because I wanted one with both English and Japanese. She deferred to her boss for an answer. Through her he told me that I wouldn’t be needing a business card. None of the other women working in the executive office had business cards, so I wouldn’t get one either. I protested and tried to argue that surely in the next two years I would be in situations where having a business card would be useful. “What if someone gives me a card and I don’t have anything to give back?” I asked him. He handed me a few generic cards that said “Honda Motor Company, Ltd.” with a blank line underneath where a name could be written. “Use these,” he said.
In the evenings after orientation I returned to the President Hotel located just