Hinkaku: Maintaining One’s Dignity

“Hinkaku,” or dignity, has gotten some bad press as of late. Perhaps it has something to do with the runaway bestseller of 2006, Kokka no Hinkaku (“The Dignity of the Nation”), written by ultra-conservative mathematics professor Fujiwara Masahiko. In this book, the author rehashes a number of platitudes about the need to turn back to Bushido (warrior ethics) and other staples of the intellectually bankrupt but still popular Nihonjinron (theories of Japanese uniqueness) genre. Or perhaps it can be explained by looking at the flood of hastily written Hinkaku-related texts that were published in the wake of Fujiwara’s commercial success—the dignity of women, of parents, of men, of Sumo champions, ad nauseam, each of which attempts to explain how readers can get back something invariably “lost” in today’s Japan. There is even a popular and growing sub-genre that parodies and pokes fun at all of this Hinkaku-theorizing.

Whatever the reason for its current renaissance, Hinkaku is a useful concept to reconsider if one hopes to live or do business in Japan. After all, there is at least a modicum of truth in what most commentators have to say—namely, that today’s society is becoming more crass and crude, lacking in refinement and propriety, not only in Japan but elsewhere. It goes without saying that maintaining a sense of dignity and self-respect in such a hostile, oftentimes degrading environment is crucial, whether it be in Japan or anywhere else.

When I think about the meaning of dignity, a certain professor that I had the pleasure of meeting last year immediately springs to mind. He was a very unassuming man, in his eighties, who taught part-time at my university after formally retiring. I had seen him on several occasions, mostly in the hallway, and upon passing one another we would stiffly bow and then go our separate ways. One day, for some reason, we had the chance to speak and I discovered that he was fluent in English, had spent his career teaching British literature, and—despite his expertise in Victorian literature—was now teaching a few “conversation” and test-preparation courses. But what fascinated me was what he said next.

He told me that he was finally putting the finishing touches on a book that he had been laboring on for decades. He had little hope that it would be published, much less read, and he seemed almost apologetic when he told me that it represented his “life’s work.” I wasn’t sure how I should respond to the man, or what to make of his comments; however, when I later thought about what he had said, I realized that he had taught me something very valuable, something that I had learned long ago but had forgotten: the dignity of labor, of work for its own sake, not as a means to some other end, but as an end in itself.

The first time I had heard this (or, better yet, seen it, since it was not put into words as such, but instead demonstrated by example) was when I worked on a farm while a teenager. The manager and head caretaker were Italian immigrants who had come to the US with “Old World” values, very much on the wane among my generation. They taught me about the pleasure and satisfaction of doing “a good job,” of performing one’s work to the best of one’s capacity, and of doing the job correctly, the first time, rather than rushing and working sloppily only to later have to do it all over again. I could see how they took pride in their work. Even though they didn’t technically “own” the farm or any of the property that they so lovingly cared for, they nonetheless had as much (if not more) invested in terms of their emotions, their sweat and labor, than did the actual owners.

When I met that professor, who had spent an entire career writing a book that might never be published or read, I sensed the same quality—but not at first. I remember thinking at that moment, when he told me about his life’s work, that he had wasted a great deal of time and effort. I actually felt sorry for him, and shuddered to think that I would one day end up like him. Only after returning to my office did it dawn on me that there was something beautiful and noble, dignified, in what he had said and done; something that might not mean a lot to others, but something in which he had found meaning: a true labor of love.

Taking pride in one’s work and performing it with a sense of respect for the work itself, regardless of any ulterior motives or ends (profit, fame, etc.) seems to me to be a very noble (and increasingly rare, by today’s standards) attitude to adopt in today’s workplace. And it is a courageous person who can persevere even without any sense of hope, in the face of the impossible. I recently read a good definition of courage, contrasting it with heroism, which went something like this: facing a mighty foe in battle, for example, is heroic, whereas continuing in the face of the impossible, day-in and day-out, is truly courageous.

Regardless of how you define it, this kind of courage and nobility is something that you often see in Japan. Despite the recent trend of cutting-corners and false labeling it is very much still alive, all around this country—pride in one’s work, professionalism, a certain sense of style or, in a word, dignity. The love and respect that one has for the work or the process itself, regardless of the final result. Perhaps in this way it comes close to what I previously wrote about gambari, about the outcome not being as important as the effort and sincerity put into the preparation. These may or may not be Old World or traditional values (Japanese or otherwise), but in any case I sincerely hope that they will not fade away anytime soon. And I look forward to reading that professor’s book, or even—drawing inspiration from him—someday writing my own.