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I sat silent on the tatami. The blood had
long ago stopped circulating beyond my knees,
and a dull ache throbbed in my joints. Only,
up until this point, I hadn’t noticed. While
my co-workers had chatted amongst themselves,
the warm, golden beer had kept me company;
now, in its absence, I stared through the bottom
of my glass at the mahogany table. I didn’t
dare move to pour myself some more beer (I
had heard it was considered rude to help yourself).
I forced myself to hold the seiza pose, terrified
of accidentally detonating one of the implicit
rules that, for outsiders, comprise the minefield
of Japanese society. All I wanted was some
more alcohol. All I wanted was to be intoxicated
enough so the night would pass smoothly, so
I could tune out the conversations I couldn’t
understand and focus instead on my private
contemplations. All I wanted was to forget
my foreignness.
When the enkai-which celebrated my arrival
to Japan as well as the junior high school’s
successful undoukai-began, I felt honored.
Some teachers had previously arranged origami
pandas and a name placard, written in kanji,
around my seat. Another teacher stood to toast
and, to my elated surprise, said in English,
“Hello. I like hiking and history. I look forward
to speaking English with you.” In my mind,
an unknown and unexpected friend had emerged
from the confusion of my recently uprooted
life.
But now, I was alone. An array of incomprehensible
sounds crowded my senses. The first stages
of my inebriation had begun to dissolve, and
even my own drunken, self-absorbed fantasies
could no longer amuse or pacify me. I felt
sick at heart, keenly aware that I was completely
out of my element.
Suddenly, a man’s voice burst above the din.
Everyone grew silent and listened to his story.
I watched him talk, watched his lips move and
studied the way they formed sounds, utterances
imbued with meaning, words. I envied and even
resented his ability to communicate. I thought,
“The only reason he can do that is because
he was born here. He’s lived here his whole
life. It’s not a special talent. I’m not an
idiot.”
 I
envisioned home, the United States. I saw the
oceans and countries between that land and
me, and the small archipelago known as Japan
formed inside my mind-lush green against slate
blue. And I realized where I was in the world:
somewhere within that little cluster of islands,
somewhere below the atmosphere, in a mountain
village where everything closed at 7:00 p.m.
and the one stoplight started blinking yellow
by 9:00. Sure enough, I was in Japan. And I
was ashamed of myself, of my language, of my
heritage.
Three months later, I walked down the aisle
of a Shinkansen, which had made a cursory stop
at Shin-Osaka before shuttling down the tracks,
bound for Okayama. I was returning to Shimane
after saying goodbye to my boyfriend at Kansai
International Airport. I felt strangely defeatist
and exhausted.
After two weeks of traveling around Japan,
I had discovered that it is perhaps one of
the most difficult countries to explore, particularly
if its allure has tarnished, and here I was,
enmeshed firmly in it for another year and
a half. I was lost in life, and I couldn’t
stand my inability to locate the source of
my discontent and find happiness. I was falling,
and the winter weather only weighed me down
further. I hated the two and a half feet of
snow that encased my car. I hated the kerosene
heater that kept me warm only if I sat directly
in front of its blaze and fumes. But, more
than anything else, I hated the barriers that
sustained my alienation.
I observed everyone I passed, studied their
features, compared them with my own. I wanted
my blonde hair to turn black, my blue eyes
to turn brown; I wanted to lose five inches
and twenty pounds. I wanted to blend. I wanted
to melt. I wanted to disappear.
I found my seat and glanced at a chatting couple
behind me. I heard no words, only the sound
that issued from their mouths. I edged my seat
back slowly, stretched out my legs and leaned
my head against the window. My eyes closed.
My brain turned off.
Then, like a steady drip of water in the sink,
something started to reverberate inside my
mind. The couple had begun talking louder.
I figured they were probably drunk and attempted
to ignore them. But, suddenly, I realized they
weren’t speaking Japanese but rather an unfamiliar
language. Parts of it reminded me of a song.
I listened intently to the sound?such a beautiful
melody, so full of life, passion and joy. It
expressed things in fresh ways and made me
want to hear more.
Slowly, I started to recognize patterns and
hear words. I could understand what these people
were saying to one another. I could unite with
them in a very bizarre way. I could eavesdrop!
And, in that moment, I fell completely in love
with my native tongue of English. I reunited
with my past, my memories, and my history.
I found an all-new respect for myself. I came
to see my difference as something intrinsic
to my worth. I was unique because I had just
happened to be born in the United States. I
was special because I had just happened to
be an American who spoke English as her first
language. I was other and that was good enough.
tatami - a rice straw mat commonly used in
traditional Japanese homes
seiza - traditional Japanese sitting position
(on knees)
enkai - a drinking party, usually sponsored
by an office or place of employment
undoukai - a school’s Sports Day
shinkansen - Japan’s famous bullet
train
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