On Tuesday of next week, it will have been one year since I first set foot in the Land of the Rising Sun. I wanted to take this opportunity to reflect a little bit on the experience and how it's changed me and the way I see the world, in part to convince myself that I'm not wasting my time here.
The most obvious thing that comes to mind is that I'm better on a bike now than at any other point in my life. Even when I was really young, like 10 years old, and the bike was my primary means of transportation, I couldn't do all the cool things my friends could do, like ride with no hands. Now, I'm proud to say that not only can I ride a bike with no hands, but also while holding an umbrella, texting on a cell phone, and avoiding old ladies who don't bother to look when they step out onto the sidewalk directly into my path.
The second is that while I'm by no means proud of my Japanese, I speak considerably more than I did when I came. And I can understand far more than I can speak, as I'm sure is often the case. My main regret is that I didn't start seriously studying the language sooner, so I wasted a lot of time trying to absorb Japanese through osmosis when I could have been going to my Kumon/conversation lessons every week from Day 1. Unfortunately, Japanese isn't quite like Spanish or Italian, which people living in those countries tend to "pick up" after spending a certain amount of time there, and it takes considerably more time to become proficient if you don't start hitting the books right away. Indeed, the only foreigners I know who have excellent Japanese either 1.) studied it previously in college, or 2.) have simply lived here for a long, long time. Since neither is true in my case, I should have been more serious about learning the language from the beginning. But hindsight is always 20/20, as they say, and I'll just have to work doubly hard from now on to catch up.
The third thing is that I'm much more aware of the seasons. This mostly has to do with the fact that you're exposed to the weather to a greater extent than back home. The lack of insulation or central air and heating means that you're hotter in the summer and colder in the winter, which of course is the natural order of things. This stands in direct contrast to America, where we frequently turn up the a/c so much during the summer that we have to put on jackets while indoors. Also, certain fruits and vegetables, as well as certain items on restaurant menus, are only available during specific times of the year. Now I know, for example, when eggplants are cheapest, when not to buy grapes, and when nabe will be widely available at restaurants.
Fourth is that Katie and I have made quite a few friends in a year, both foreign and Japanese. We didn't really start hanging out with the local kids in earnest until this spring, so we missed out on a lot of good times. Now she and I are more socially involved and we frequently find ourselves booked solid the entire weekend (and often during the week when we have no previous plans). This has been the most welcome change from how we spent the majority of our time at the beginning of the year.
Fifth is that I've managed to do quite a bit of traveling in the last year. Domestically, I visited many places and got to see quite a bit of the western part of Japan. I was also able to visit Korea, Malaysia, and Singapore: three places I never thought I'd ever be able to visit, but which living in Japan has made accessible and convenient. This summer Katie and I are going to Hokkaido with her family as well as to Vietnam, so opportunities to get out and see the world continue to appear, though with gas prices being what they are, such opportunities are getting pricier. Hopefully it won't prove too detrimental to our insatiable wanderlust and we'll be just as active in the coming year as we were in the past one.
Sixth is that I've been able to save a substantial amount of money. With little in the way of expenses, and with no debt between us, both she and I are making the most of our situation. I need to become more financially savvy, as right now most of my money's sitting in a Japanese bank accruing very little in the way of interest. That will be one of my goals for the coming year.
Seventh is how I've changed physically. I'm now a morning person, and I can't seem to sleep past 8 AM anymore even if I try. Katie and I often cook for ourselves using fresh ingredients, so we tend to eat well. We also go for a morning run three times a week, which combined with my twice-daily 40 minute commute by bike, has served to whip me into half-decent shape (though the daily biking has given me quite the embarrassing farmer's tan). The other weekend I found myself spending Saturday climbing up approximately 1400 steps - the equivalent of a 70 storey building - to visit a shrine, only to spend the next two days cycling 75 kilometers across an island chain in the Inland Sea. A year ago, if you told me I'd do something like that, I'd ask you what you were smoking, and if you could bear to part with any. There's so much to do in Japan in the way of outdoor activities - hiking, skiing, etc. - that you're really doing yourself a disservice if you stay cooped up all the time.
There are plenty more to mention, but since seven's a nice number, I'll stop there. I'm definitely looking forward to seeing what this next year in Japan has in store. Whatever happens, it certainly won't be boring.
-Bob
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Moderation
Some Japanese people react very strangely to summertime. There are two major types of people (and I see them on a daily basis):
The first type is the ganguro girls, who look somewhat like a stereotypical California girl. They are not American. They are Japanese. Somehow they have convinced themselves if they grow their hair very long and then bleach, and perm and tease it, it will look like they have naturally curly blond hair. Actually, when you perm and bleach fine, straight black hair, it turns out an orange mess. They also tan excessively so their skin kind of matches their hair. They wear shorts that are about the length from my outstretched thumb to my pointer finger. Their shoes are about that same height. The strangest part is that they put white eyeliner all around their eyes and sometimes down the middle of their nose. In the summer they like to hang out at the beach, wearing bikinis with lots of extra padding on the chest, where they can get their photo taken by creepy middle aged men who walk around the beach with giant cameras and photograph any mildly attractive girl.
The second I like to call the beekeepers. These are women, usually aged 30 and above, who are petrified of getting a suntan. Most women in East Asia dislike suntans because it looks like they've been out working in the sun or something else low-class. Elbow length gloves or long sleeves are de rigeur, even when it's 100 degrees out. The grandmas are the most extreme. When I go jogging at 6:30 am, I often see lots of older people out exercising. The women wear long sleeves or long gloves with their short sleeves, and a hat. The really hardcore ones wear long pants and long sleeves, with gloves, of course. They put a towel on their heads (covers the back of the neck) and put a hat (very long brim, naturally) on top of that. Then they pull the ends of the towel around to the front of their face and clip it with a clothespin. Now it's time to go for a walk! At 6:30 am there is no way there is enough UV to change your skin color. They literally look like they were taking care of their bees, and then suddenly decided to go exercise. That's how much skin is exposed. I think perhaps the Taliban was more lenient, I think during their regime you could at least show your hands as well as your eyes.
I'm not sure who scares me more.
The first type is the ganguro girls, who look somewhat like a stereotypical California girl. They are not American. They are Japanese. Somehow they have convinced themselves if they grow their hair very long and then bleach, and perm and tease it, it will look like they have naturally curly blond hair. Actually, when you perm and bleach fine, straight black hair, it turns out an orange mess. They also tan excessively so their skin kind of matches their hair. They wear shorts that are about the length from my outstretched thumb to my pointer finger. Their shoes are about that same height. The strangest part is that they put white eyeliner all around their eyes and sometimes down the middle of their nose. In the summer they like to hang out at the beach, wearing bikinis with lots of extra padding on the chest, where they can get their photo taken by creepy middle aged men who walk around the beach with giant cameras and photograph any mildly attractive girl.
The second I like to call the beekeepers. These are women, usually aged 30 and above, who are petrified of getting a suntan. Most women in East Asia dislike suntans because it looks like they've been out working in the sun or something else low-class. Elbow length gloves or long sleeves are de rigeur, even when it's 100 degrees out. The grandmas are the most extreme. When I go jogging at 6:30 am, I often see lots of older people out exercising. The women wear long sleeves or long gloves with their short sleeves, and a hat. The really hardcore ones wear long pants and long sleeves, with gloves, of course. They put a towel on their heads (covers the back of the neck) and put a hat (very long brim, naturally) on top of that. Then they pull the ends of the towel around to the front of their face and clip it with a clothespin. Now it's time to go for a walk! At 6:30 am there is no way there is enough UV to change your skin color. They literally look like they were taking care of their bees, and then suddenly decided to go exercise. That's how much skin is exposed. I think perhaps the Taliban was more lenient, I think during their regime you could at least show your hands as well as your eyes.
I'm not sure who scares me more.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Through fresh eyes
After you've been living in a place for a while, you tend to forget the things that shocked or amused you so much when you first arrived. You take for granted the fact that, in Japan anyway, there are cigarette vending machines on every corner. You understand that you don't have to tip at restaurants, and the displayed price for the convenience store candy bar is exactly what you pay at the register - you don't give it a second thought. You think nothing of the teenage kid decked out in his punk-rock finest, hair dyed red, a skull-n-crossbones patch safety pinned to his black bowler hat, strolling arm in arm with a girl in full kimono, a Louis Vuitton clutch dangling at her side. So nothing amuses me more than going to all my favorite locations accompanied by people who are seeing Japan for the first time in their lives through fresh eyes, wide and bright from the adrenaline rush that comes from actually being in a place to which you never thought you'd have the opportunity to travel.
So it was that Katie and I were called upon by our Japanese surrogate parents, the Masaokas (to whom we are indebted forever for all the help they've given us over the past year, not the least of which involved guiding us through the labyrinthine entrails of Japanese hospitals and American insurance companies when Katie had her emergency appendectomy last August), to come to Kyoto Station to meet our predecessors - the people who had my same job and lived in my very house two years ago. We knew precious little about Ned and Megan: they were from Washington State and had translated the menu at the Chinese restaurant next door which we frequent into English. That's about it. So we were excited to meet them and, selfishly, were excited to have any excuse at all to go to Kyoto.
When we got to Kyoto Station (Ned refers to it as the Death Star because it is the largest and most futuristic-looking building you'll ever set foot in), we saw Mr. and Mrs. Masaoka surrounded by a group of foreign kids; they looked like high school students. "Oh no," Katie said, "Mrs. Masaoka found a group of high school kids on a school trip and has probably taken it upon herself to personally show them around for the day." Such behavior would be totally normal for Mrs. Masaoka, which goes to show you the kind of person she is. She was dressed in summer kimono, which we suspect she does for the benefit of the foreigners she meets (when Katie's family came in March she showed up to our house dressed like that, for example). As it turned out though, Megan and Ned are both teachers back in Spokane and Ned had brought along some of the students from his Japanese class - apparently he teaches mainly social studies but also beginning Japanese on the side. So Katie and I go down to meet 12 more people than we had originally expected to, and we didn't quite know what to make of the situation. As it turned out, the kids were all really nice and subdued from the jet lag, so we were mercifully spared the horrific fate of keeping tabs on a bunch of teenagers running amok around the Old Capital.
Ned and Megan were incredibly nice people and a lot of fun to talk to; they knew the area around our house quite well as they had lived there, of course, so we talked about that quite a bit. Ned's students seemed to be quite mature and responsible as it turned out, so Katie and I were able to talk to them and answer their questions about living in Japan. The best part, of course, was just watching their reactions to things we simply take for granted living here: the ubiquitous vending machines, the lack of public trash cans, the fashion, just to name a few. To watch them taking pictures of the most mundane objects and shouting excitedly about stuff you see on your way to work every day energizes you and makes you feel privileged to live here. I often felt the same way when I was working downtown in DC and would walk down Pennsylvania Avenue on my lunch break past the White House, passing groups of tourists pointing and taking pictures. I was so fortunate, I thought, to live in such a place. I've no doubt my friends currently scattered across the globe experience the same when they spy a group of out-of-towners talking excitedly to each other, bedecked in backpacks and walking shoes, cameras at the ready, able to see things they'd long since forgotten through fresh eyes.
So it was that Katie and I were called upon by our Japanese surrogate parents, the Masaokas (to whom we are indebted forever for all the help they've given us over the past year, not the least of which involved guiding us through the labyrinthine entrails of Japanese hospitals and American insurance companies when Katie had her emergency appendectomy last August), to come to Kyoto Station to meet our predecessors - the people who had my same job and lived in my very house two years ago. We knew precious little about Ned and Megan: they were from Washington State and had translated the menu at the Chinese restaurant next door which we frequent into English. That's about it. So we were excited to meet them and, selfishly, were excited to have any excuse at all to go to Kyoto.
When we got to Kyoto Station (Ned refers to it as the Death Star because it is the largest and most futuristic-looking building you'll ever set foot in), we saw Mr. and Mrs. Masaoka surrounded by a group of foreign kids; they looked like high school students. "Oh no," Katie said, "Mrs. Masaoka found a group of high school kids on a school trip and has probably taken it upon herself to personally show them around for the day." Such behavior would be totally normal for Mrs. Masaoka, which goes to show you the kind of person she is. She was dressed in summer kimono, which we suspect she does for the benefit of the foreigners she meets (when Katie's family came in March she showed up to our house dressed like that, for example). As it turned out though, Megan and Ned are both teachers back in Spokane and Ned had brought along some of the students from his Japanese class - apparently he teaches mainly social studies but also beginning Japanese on the side. So Katie and I go down to meet 12 more people than we had originally expected to, and we didn't quite know what to make of the situation. As it turned out, the kids were all really nice and subdued from the jet lag, so we were mercifully spared the horrific fate of keeping tabs on a bunch of teenagers running amok around the Old Capital.
Ned and Megan were incredibly nice people and a lot of fun to talk to; they knew the area around our house quite well as they had lived there, of course, so we talked about that quite a bit. Ned's students seemed to be quite mature and responsible as it turned out, so Katie and I were able to talk to them and answer their questions about living in Japan. The best part, of course, was just watching their reactions to things we simply take for granted living here: the ubiquitous vending machines, the lack of public trash cans, the fashion, just to name a few. To watch them taking pictures of the most mundane objects and shouting excitedly about stuff you see on your way to work every day energizes you and makes you feel privileged to live here. I often felt the same way when I was working downtown in DC and would walk down Pennsylvania Avenue on my lunch break past the White House, passing groups of tourists pointing and taking pictures. I was so fortunate, I thought, to live in such a place. I've no doubt my friends currently scattered across the globe experience the same when they spy a group of out-of-towners talking excitedly to each other, bedecked in backpacks and walking shoes, cameras at the ready, able to see things they'd long since forgotten through fresh eyes.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Update 6/9
Well, yet another week begins, with Monday and Tuesday leaving me very little to do aside from my Japanese lessons. This past weekend was a lot of fun: on Saturday we had some of our new Japanese friends over for Korean food. One of them brought her 5 year-old daughter who's enrolled at a local international school and thus speaks English relatively well. We taught her how to play Life (the board game), the Japanese version of which Katie found at the local recycle shop for a measly 300 yen. For dinner we made sam gyeop sal, or barbecued pork grilled alongside various toppings which you then roll into a sesame leaf and eat with your hands. It tasted exactly the same as what we ate in Busan, which pleased us - and our tummies - greatly.
Sunday I really wanted to get out of the house, having spent Saturday cleaning up, going grocery shopping, and helping to prepare dinner. Katie and I decided to go to the Osaka aquarium, which we had heard was a great way to spend an afternoon. After the obligatory Sunday breakfast of blueberry pancakes (the packet of frozen blueberries we bought at Costco several months ago are still going strong), Katie tended the garden for a bit, then we headed downtown. Admission to the aquarium was outrageously expensive, so we decided to buy a day pass which, in addition to covering the aquarium's entrance fee, would allow us to ride the subway as much as we wanted for free. The aquarium itself looks like a giant modern art installation, sitting on Osaka Bay. Inside we saw all kinds of fish in an incredible array of sizes, shapes, and terrifying-ness. The main attraction is the whale shark which easily dwarfs the next biggest fish in the entire aquarium several times over. The best part of the whole thing, though, wasn't what lives in the water, but what spends most of its time above it. Katie and I spent a lot of time at the otter, penguin, seal, and sealion tanks. It helps that those animals are the cutest ones, but there you are.
After the aquarium we rode the subway to Shinsaibashi in South Osaka to eat at an Ethiopian restaurant we had heard about. It was expensive (and we were the only ones eating there, which worried me a little), but the food was so damn good. It made me miss Mesob in Charlottesville so much, and filled me with regret for all of the great Ethiopian restaurants in DC I neglected to try when I lived so nearby. At the bar sat two barrel-chested and bearded Ethopian fellows - I could tell they were authentically Ethiopian because of their narrow-bridged noses. Otherwise, it would be safe to assume they were Nigerian, since those are really the only black people you see in Japan on a regular basis. They spoke a bizarre pidgin of English and Japanese, and chatted away over their beers unperturbed by the conspicuous lack of customers on a Sunday evening. Sometimes Katie and I wonder how it is that these places we love - a Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall in Nishinomiya, a pizzeria in Osaka that serves up pizzas blessedly unadorned with creative Japanese topping like corn and mayonnaise, any number of Turkish restaurants in Kobe, etc. - manage to stay in business when we seem to be the only ones patronizing them. I like to think they're all fronts for the Yakuza.
After the aquarium we rode the subway to Shinsaibashi in South Osaka to eat at an Ethiopian restaurant we had heard about. It was expensive (and we were the only ones eating there, which worried me a little), but the food was so damn good. It made me miss Mesob in Charlottesville so much, and filled me with regret for all of the great Ethiopian restaurants in DC I neglected to try when I lived so nearby. At the bar sat two barrel-chested and bearded Ethopian fellows - I could tell they were authentically Ethiopian because of their narrow-bridged noses. Otherwise, it would be safe to assume they were Nigerian, since those are really the only black people you see in Japan on a regular basis. They spoke a bizarre pidgin of English and Japanese, and chatted away over their beers unperturbed by the conspicuous lack of customers on a Sunday evening. Sometimes Katie and I wonder how it is that these places we love - a Vietnamese hole-in-the-wall in Nishinomiya, a pizzeria in Osaka that serves up pizzas blessedly unadorned with creative Japanese topping like corn and mayonnaise, any number of Turkish restaurants in Kobe, etc. - manage to stay in business when we seem to be the only ones patronizing them. I like to think they're all fronts for the Yakuza.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Outside looking in
As you know, I try to keep up with current events as much as I can, and the fact that I have loads of free time at school means loads of time to read the news religiously. I have a few favorite websites - Drudge Report, Fark.com, CNN, BBC - but for all things Japan-related, I turn to JapanToday.com. Japan Today's journalism isn't as good as the other major English language newspaper in Japan, the Japan Times, but it does give its online readers the opportunity to comment on articles. So I mostly read the comments, truth be told.
Anyway, today I clicked on an article - well, more a poll than an article - that asked readers if they thought the word gaijin was a racist term. This particular topic is one of frequent debate among foreign residents and visitors of Japan, but for those of you unfamiliar with it, here's a little background:
Gaijin, 外人, literally means "outside person", and is commonly used to refer to foreigners. It's an abbreviation of the more "official" term gaikokujin, 外国人, or "outside country person". Most foreigners overwhelmingly prefer the latter term, because they consider the former to reinforce the idea that they, as individuals (regardless of their country of origin), are inexorably "outside" Japanese society. Which is true, but nevertheless, it takes the edge off when you refer to someone as being from a foreign country rather than label them as a foreigner.
Further, while you could translate gaijin as "foreigner", it doesn't mean the same thing to the Japanese as it means to most of us. For non-Japanese, being a foreigner usually means being in a country other than the one you come from. So while someone from France would be a foreigner in the U.S., an American would be a foreigner in France. To the Japanese, however, being a foreigner means being something other than Japanese. So, a Japanese would consider her American neighbor to be a foreigner (non-Japanese), but when she goes on vacation to Hawaii, she finds herself surrounded by "foreigners" (again, non-Japanese). It sounds funny to us to hear a Japanese person, when vacationing abroad, say, "Look at all the gaijin!". But we must remember that it's not some weird insular provincialism at work here (at least not entirely), but rather a simple difference in how Japanese and non-Japanese conceive of "the outsider".
Anyway, a lot of my fellow expats get miffed when they hear that particular term, staging a mini protest every time (it's gaikokujin, thank you very much). Others bandy it about quite liberally, in some instances ironically (hey, look at the dumb gajin over here!) and in others quite earnestly. The word definitely means different things to different people, but I personally think it has a lot to do with the context in which the word is used, and the intent of the person who uses it. Obviously an drunk densha otoko yelling, "Get out of Japan, gaijin!" means it in a racist way, but your buddy Takeshi who says, "I have a lot of gaijin friends," doesn't. It's all about context, you see. I have always believed that no object in this world has meaning other than that which we impart to it. In other words, words mean what you want them to mean. As my former boss was so fond of saying, "Perception is reality."
That quote's a pretty good end to this entry, but I feel like I could write so much more about the relationship between foreigners living in Japan and the Japanese - and indeed, dozens of books have already been written about that very subject. But for now, I'd like to leave you with a handy guide to what I call the "Hierarchy of Foreigners" which will help you locate your place in Japanese society, should you ever wind up living in or visiting this island nation behind the sun. It goes like this:
1. Japanese - all strata of Japanese society, from the Emperor on down to the burakumin, people descended from the lowest caste who face discrimination even today. As long as you have pure Japanese blood, you're in this group. Welcome to the club!
2. Japanese returnees, halfus, Ryukyuans, Ainu - maybe you're Japanese, or half-Japanese, but you've spent some time in a foreign country and have, as a consequence, picked up some weird habits. Maybe your Japanese language ability has suffered a bit. Unfortunately, when you come back to Japan, you'll be bullied accordingly until you can properly "fit in" again.
3. White people - the Japanese look up to you and look to your European heritage as a source of inspiration. They don't necessarily want you living in their neighborhoods or marrying their daughters (though most are probably OK with it these days), but they're more than happy to practice their English on you and appropriate your food and fashion.
4. Black people - you're considered cool, and many Japanese will try to emulate your music and fashion (albeit with hilarious consequences), but to many Japanese, you're incredibly scary. Be prepared to face this grim reality, though you might win some points if you casually mention that you know Beyonce (and you probably won't be the one who brings it up).
5. Chinese and Koreans - you are blessed, or cursed, with the ability to blend in - at least until someone starts talking to you and you don't understand what they're saying. The Japanese find you to be quite disturbing because they think of themselves as being special and unique, but yet you, a non-Japanese, managed to fool them into thinking that you were one of them. Also, their contempt for you has well-established historical roots, and don't be surprised if they regale you with tales of how they "liberated" your country in WWII.
6. All other Asians - same as #5, but unlike many Chinese and Koreans, you lack the ability to blend in as well as they. The historical stuff still applies, though. Good luck!
-Bob
Anyway, today I clicked on an article - well, more a poll than an article - that asked readers if they thought the word gaijin was a racist term. This particular topic is one of frequent debate among foreign residents and visitors of Japan, but for those of you unfamiliar with it, here's a little background:
Gaijin, 外人, literally means "outside person", and is commonly used to refer to foreigners. It's an abbreviation of the more "official" term gaikokujin, 外国人, or "outside country person". Most foreigners overwhelmingly prefer the latter term, because they consider the former to reinforce the idea that they, as individuals (regardless of their country of origin), are inexorably "outside" Japanese society. Which is true, but nevertheless, it takes the edge off when you refer to someone as being from a foreign country rather than label them as a foreigner.
Further, while you could translate gaijin as "foreigner", it doesn't mean the same thing to the Japanese as it means to most of us. For non-Japanese, being a foreigner usually means being in a country other than the one you come from. So while someone from France would be a foreigner in the U.S., an American would be a foreigner in France. To the Japanese, however, being a foreigner means being something other than Japanese. So, a Japanese would consider her American neighbor to be a foreigner (non-Japanese), but when she goes on vacation to Hawaii, she finds herself surrounded by "foreigners" (again, non-Japanese). It sounds funny to us to hear a Japanese person, when vacationing abroad, say, "Look at all the gaijin!". But we must remember that it's not some weird insular provincialism at work here (at least not entirely), but rather a simple difference in how Japanese and non-Japanese conceive of "the outsider".
Anyway, a lot of my fellow expats get miffed when they hear that particular term, staging a mini protest every time (it's gaikokujin, thank you very much). Others bandy it about quite liberally, in some instances ironically (hey, look at the dumb gajin over here!) and in others quite earnestly. The word definitely means different things to different people, but I personally think it has a lot to do with the context in which the word is used, and the intent of the person who uses it. Obviously an drunk densha otoko yelling, "Get out of Japan, gaijin!" means it in a racist way, but your buddy Takeshi who says, "I have a lot of gaijin friends," doesn't. It's all about context, you see. I have always believed that no object in this world has meaning other than that which we impart to it. In other words, words mean what you want them to mean. As my former boss was so fond of saying, "Perception is reality."
That quote's a pretty good end to this entry, but I feel like I could write so much more about the relationship between foreigners living in Japan and the Japanese - and indeed, dozens of books have already been written about that very subject. But for now, I'd like to leave you with a handy guide to what I call the "Hierarchy of Foreigners" which will help you locate your place in Japanese society, should you ever wind up living in or visiting this island nation behind the sun. It goes like this:
1. Japanese - all strata of Japanese society, from the Emperor on down to the burakumin, people descended from the lowest caste who face discrimination even today. As long as you have pure Japanese blood, you're in this group. Welcome to the club!
2. Japanese returnees, halfus, Ryukyuans, Ainu - maybe you're Japanese, or half-Japanese, but you've spent some time in a foreign country and have, as a consequence, picked up some weird habits. Maybe your Japanese language ability has suffered a bit. Unfortunately, when you come back to Japan, you'll be bullied accordingly until you can properly "fit in" again.
3. White people - the Japanese look up to you and look to your European heritage as a source of inspiration. They don't necessarily want you living in their neighborhoods or marrying their daughters (though most are probably OK with it these days), but they're more than happy to practice their English on you and appropriate your food and fashion.
4. Black people - you're considered cool, and many Japanese will try to emulate your music and fashion (albeit with hilarious consequences), but to many Japanese, you're incredibly scary. Be prepared to face this grim reality, though you might win some points if you casually mention that you know Beyonce (and you probably won't be the one who brings it up).
5. Chinese and Koreans - you are blessed, or cursed, with the ability to blend in - at least until someone starts talking to you and you don't understand what they're saying. The Japanese find you to be quite disturbing because they think of themselves as being special and unique, but yet you, a non-Japanese, managed to fool them into thinking that you were one of them. Also, their contempt for you has well-established historical roots, and don't be surprised if they regale you with tales of how they "liberated" your country in WWII.
6. All other Asians - same as #5, but unlike many Chinese and Koreans, you lack the ability to blend in as well as they. The historical stuff still applies, though. Good luck!
-Bob
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
