Not Becoming a “Signboard Only” Professional

 

I am a doctor—though as a pathologist, my work is evaluated quite differently from that of clinicians.

Still, when I look at medicine as a profession, I am constantly struck by how wide the differences in individual ability really are.

 

It goes without saying that doctors cannot be treated as a single, uniform group.

Passing the national medical examination is only the starting point. After that, career paths diverge endlessly: internal medicine, surgery, obstetrics, pediatrics, pathology. Some move into basic research; others into government or administration. Even within the same specialty, areas of expertise differ—and within those, there are doctors who are highly skilled, and those who are not.

I work at a specialized hospital and have spent many years in this particular field. I am approaching retirement now, which means I have been involved in this discipline for more than thirty years.

Within this field, I am regarded—at least formally—as a specialist. Even so, there are many moments when I feel I can no longer keep up. There are countless individuals far more capable than I am, and I often find myself thinking that had they been in my place, they might have contributed far more to the advancement of medicine.

Even now, I still frequently seek advice from senior pathologists. It feels humbling—sometimes even embarrassing—but it remains necessary. At my current hospital, I have managed to work hard enough not to lose the trust of clinicians. Still, I can sense that I am nearing my own limits.

This is not something unique to medicine. It applies to all professions.

A profession is, in a sense, a signboard. Anyone who carries one must be careful not to become a “signboard only” figure—someone whose title outweighs their substance. I do not need to be a showpiece, but I would like, at the very least, to remain someone who can stand at the entrance without shame.

In the upcoming general election, it seems that several candidates with medical licenses are running for office. There are no qualifications required to become a politician. Anyone can run; those who win become lawmakers, and those who lose return to being private citizens.

There are limited ways to judge what such candidates truly stand for. That is why I want to listen carefully—to campaign speeches, to policy statements—and cast my vote only after considering whether their signboard reflects reality. I do not want to lose that discernment, even at the ballot box.

When Japanese Quality Fades, the World Loses More Than a Product

Walking through a supermarket the other day, I noticed a large figurine from a Japanese anime that had been hugely popular when I was a child.
Out of nostalgia, I picked up the box—and was surprised by how light it felt.
Inside was what seemed to be a large molded plastic object.
It wasn’t made in Japan, so I put it back.

That small moment stayed with me longer than I expected.

 

When I was a child, toys like that were usually heavy—often made of die-cast metal, solid and reassuring in the hand.
Looking back now, those lightweight plastic products feel somehow misleading, as if something essential has been quietly removed.

Some time ago, I asked someone in the automotive industry why inexpensive electric vehicles sell so well.
His answer was simple.

“They’re like home appliances,” he said.
“You buy a cheap refrigerator or washing machine, and when it breaks, you replace it. Cars are becoming the same—buy, break, replace. Over and over.”

That made sense.
If the price feels right, people will keep buying.
A car powered by a motor is relatively easy and inexpensive to manufacture compared with one built around a complex internal combustion engine, so the cycle of production and consumption accelerates.

I once heard a former Toyota executive say that the internal combustion engine is a concentration of technology—and that such technology must be preserved.
I believe he was right.

About six months ago, I bought a phone charger.
It broke after a short while, so I replaced it.
That one broke too.
In half a year, I’ve bought three chargers; including my wife’s, probably five or six in total.
All that remains is a growing pile of waste.

You rarely see products like this made in Japan.
Even brands with Japanese-sounding names often turn out, on closer inspection, not to be Japanese at all.
When products are not made in Japan, their quality is often too low to be truly usable.

Japanese products are known for high quality—and for not breaking.
But because they do not break, they do not need to be replaced, and therefore they do not sell as well.
No matter how good the quality is, if products are not replaced, the business model struggles.

Still, we consumers are not blameless.
We buy inexpensive products online with a single click, without ever touching them, guided by price rather than substance.

What worries me most is not the decline of Japanese products themselves, but the decline of the global standard of quality that Japan has long helped to uphold.
If that global standard falls, there is no easy recovery.

Consider what it means for the world to lose the quality standards once carried by the world’s second-largest economic power.
The answer does not take long to reach.

What is most frightening is that Japan itself may begin to accept this lower level as normal.
The world is quietly losing a precious asset called Japan.

If we continue to be driven only by price, the world may lose that standard of quality forever.
We must recognize this—because for now, at least, it may still be possible to stop it.

How to Cross a Street: Kamakura vs. New York

 

At the entrance to Dankazura in Kamakura, there stands a large torii gate known as the Second Torii.
The pedestrian crossing at this intersection is oddly arranged, with a slightly skewed layout and a pedestrian-only signal phase.
For visitors unfamiliar with the area, it is often unclear when exactly one should cross.

Most Japanese pedestrians—perhaps seventy percent or so—do not cross the street when the light is red.
In most places, ignoring a red signal simply does not happen.

At the crossing in front of the Second Torii, local residents know that the traffic signal for cars crossing Wakamiya Ōji is active, so they patiently wait until the light changes.
When they see visitors step forward without realizing this, they often watch with a look of mild disbelief.

Traffic crossing Wakamiya Ōji is usually light, but occasionally a motorcycle speeds through unexpectedly.
It is a small crossing, but caution is still necessary, and from time to time someone narrowly avoids an accident.

Japanese tourists who make this mistake usually stop or turn back, looking slightly embarrassed.
Foreign tourists, on the other hand, may cross even when they know the light is red—as long as no cars are coming.

In New York City, the situation is completely different.

Even at a red light, pedestrians will actively attempt to cross if there are no cars.
Some will cross even when cars are approaching.
The moment there is a gap in traffic, people lean forward, check quickly, and step out—as if failing to cross would be a missed opportunity.

I sometimes think there is no need to hurry so much.
If everyone is in such a rush, perhaps leaving home a little earlier would help.
It almost makes me want to suggest a change in lifestyle habits.

That said, New York streets are remarkably dirty, and not places one wants to linger.
Perhaps people simply want to escape as quickly as possible to somewhere warm and clean.

Seen from that perspective, a group of dozens of people standing neatly in front of a small crosswalk—one that takes only three steps to cross—must look quite strange to a New Yorker.

It is said that Japanese people will not cross a street if the pedestrian signal is red, even when no cars are in sight.
This tendency may be one of the forces that maintains order in Japan.

But then, how was this national character cultivated?
Traffic signals were introduced only in the Taishō era.
Before that, what kind of shared standard guided people’s behavior?

 

The Same Players, the Same Game—Once Again

When I was a student, I was deeply into mahjong.
The players were almost always the same.
We traded small amounts of money, argued over who was strong and who was easy prey, and repeated the same games again and again—
a small world, with small stakes.

Yesterday, news programs showed a televised debate among party leaders ahead of the general election.
My first thought was simple: the same players again.

They all spoke in unison, repeating nearly identical policies.
This time, it was all about tax cuts—tax cuts everywhere, and little to distinguish one party from another.

Since 2016, there have been eight national elections in just ten years:
four upper house elections, and now four lower house elections.
At this pace, it almost feels like an annual event.
Given that, it is hardly surprising that the faces remain the same.

But after ten years of repeated elections and supposedly heated debates, one question remains unavoidable:
Has this country become better?

The answer, frankly, is no.

I have no particular affection for pandas, but we have been overtaken by the country famous for them—and even they seem to have lost interest in us.
They take what suits them, while apartment prices in central Tokyo quietly exceed one hundred million yen.

One hundred million yen.
Even with a steady income, that is not a sum most people could repay in a lifetime.

Add rising prices and stagnant wages, and the picture becomes even bleaker.

So what exactly are those familiar faces debating so passionately?
If politicians speak of the “judgment of the people,” then under that judgment, they could work together to improve the country.
But they do not.

Instead, it feels as though they are merely performing politics on a stage.
And when the curtain falls, they wait for the next election—
much like a mahjong game that ends with,
“Win or lose, let’s do it again next week.”

 

Walking Really Is Good for the Body

It is cold again today, though the wind seems a little calmer.
Heavy snow is falling along the Sea of Japan coast, and I can only hope it does not turn into a serious disaster.

Extreme weather is exhausting, wherever it happens.

 

My daughter’s city, New York, is also buried in snow.
It seems to have fallen throughout the night, to the point where commuting in the morning may be difficult.
Northern parts of the United States are facing severe snowfall as well, and that too is worrying.

 

Yesterday, I walked the Gionyama hiking trail for the first time in quite a while.
The course takes about an hour and a half in a loop from my house.
It is nothing like walking on flat ground—there is plenty of elevation change, and I worked up a good sweat.
It was solid exercise.

When my children were small, I used to walk this trail with ease.
This time, narrow paths along the cliffs felt tighter than I remembered, and the ups and downs more demanding.
I could not help but feel my age.

 

Still, it was refreshing.

The number on the scale, which has been creeping upward lately, somehow managed to stay in the 76-kilogram range.
That alone felt like a small victory.

Having such a lovely companion as Ann, my dog, and not taking her out often enough feels like a real waste.
I would like to walk with her more, but in this cold, it is not so easy.

I find myself wishing for warmer days to come soon.

Different from University Professors

A professor of dermatology at the University of Tokyo was arrested on suspicion of bribery.
According to reports, he lived lavishly—so much so that the party offering the bribes eventually reported the matter themselves.

He is 62 years old, the same age as I am.

 

On social media, it was said that he was rarely seen on campus.
Perhaps his evenings were simply too busy, leaving him unable to wake up in the morning.

For someone like me, who checks the clock every day and rides a crowded commuter train to work, it feels like an entirely different world.

This made me wonder:
why do people become university professors in the first place?

Ordinarily, one would assume the answer is research.
But perhaps some are also drawn to what comes along with the title.

There are unspoken rankings for lectures and conference chairs—
so much for a professor, so much for an associate professor.

I once heard that a substantial portion of a professor’s income comes from such side earnings.
The so-called “perks” of the position can be quite remarkable.

Because he was a professor at a national university, the issue of bribery became a serious public matter.
Had he been at a private university, it might not have attracted quite the same level of scrutiny.

I have lived a life mostly unrelated to titles like “professor.”
And I have certainly remained untouched by late-night entertainment and lavish hospitality.

That may not be such a bad thing after all—
or is that simply sour grapes?

 

Are Politicians Working for the Country—or for Their Own Lives?

I sometimes wonder whether politicians are truly working for the country, or simply for their own livelihoods.
Politics, after all, is also a profession. And like any profession, it comes with incentives, anxieties, and self-interest. 

I do not believe that most politicians place the nation or its people first.
At best, those things come second.
Their own lives and stability come first.

Of course, not all politicians are the same.
Some are born into wealth, and personal survival may not be their primary concern.
But politicians who are involved in creating slush funds or hiding money likely fit this pattern rather well.

There is a saying: poverty dulls the mind.
Without a stable livelihood, it is difficult to think clearly or act responsibly.
So I do not think politicians should be poor.
Still, there must be a reasonable limit.

What troubles me is that politicians seem far more occupied with election campaigns than with their actual work in parliament.
That may only be how it appears from the outside, and I am sure many of them study their respective fields seriously.
Yet, that effort rarely becomes visible.

Perhaps this is an inevitable consequence of parliamentary democracy.
No individual is meant to stand out too much.
Within such a system, maybe this is what politics inevitably looks like.

In this election, we will finally hear about their achievements.
So let us listen carefully.
What, exactly, have they been doing?