It's Candy Coated

I wrote the following for the upcoming issue of the JET publication in my prefecture, but I decided to post it here too...

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It’s Candy Coated
by Elwood Brown

At first I hesitated to write this piece, for fear of sounding too critical of a country that has, in its own peculiar way, welcomed me graciously. However, it then occurred to me that not writing the following paragraphs wouldn’t make me feel that my generalizations are any less true. Thus, here you have them…

The Japanese have rarely failed to impress me in terms of forethought and respect. Too, their attention to detail and awareness of their surroundings is second to none. However, the fact remains that after eleven months in Japan, I still feel rather unconnected. After nearly a year in the same small town, I know very few folks outside the educational realm, and have very little sense of the community. Now, don’t get me wrong, I have a plush life here, a standard of living that many in the world do not share. I, as I’ve been all my life, am a lucky man. Yet, most of my days seem to pass quickly, lacking thorough interaction and a sense of actuality. Existentialism is no longer just a big word, but now, ironically, holds some meaning. See if you follow me:

I’ve got a window seat on the shinkansen (bullet train). I speed along in comfort, with my elbow and good friend Yebisu resting on the windowsill, blankly staring at the incredible range of greens that is the Japanese countryside. The scenes unveil like pages of a travel magazine, though all with captions I can’t read. The ride is smooth and the same city with a different name goes by just often enough to break the monotony of the rice paddies. Once in a while I get a view of something stunning, like Fuji-san through the haze, but it always seems more like a photograph than an experience, and an intangible, digital photograph at that. A pretty lady with nice legs comes by ever so often to offer me bentos, and Pocky, and coffee or tea. If I flash her a smile, she’ll return a tiny one, but never with an open mouth, only just enough to be polite. The other people in the car are polite too, quiet, and well dressed, but they never, ever speak, or even smile. It often seems they’ve just had the worst day of their life. Life is taihen. My Japanese is proficient enough to ask the train conductor questions, and beg for help when a shoe falls between the train and the platform, and of course to ask the lady with the nice legs for another beverage, but not nearly good enough to have a in-depth chat with the suit next to me. Even was I able, most certainly would I feel intrusive in doing so. When I reach my destination, I quickly depart, without a feeling of having traveled anywhere. There was not a single bump, or even a fast stop. My journey seems no more real than the book I was reading on the train. When I arrive home, will I have anything more than a photo album of speed-blurred memories?

I realize it is erroneous to cast blame on Japan, or the Japanese, for my dilemma, for I am “immersed” in this culture on my own accord. The causes of my detachment abound, principle among them my own language deficiency and an overall lack of life direction, and yet still I am wont to fault the passive Japanese society for my exclusion. Despite all the aspects of Japanese culture I appreciate and admire, as well as my attempts to assimilate, the Japanese core remains hidden. It’s no difficult task to live comfortably here; order, convenience, politeness, safety, promptness, and cleanliness define daily life. Yet, I remain on the outside looking in, and often through smoked glass. In a society bounded by each individual’s various “uchi” (home or in-group), I find myself with no group of my own. I live in a void between the lines, or at best, in the margins of the page. I live alone, in an apartment building with imaginary tenants. I am a part of my school, without really being included. I reside in a community where most know I exist, and no one knows who I am.

During my welcome party last August, I remember being baffled by the conversation and interaction around me, and yet not caring that much. Food, drink, songs, and laughs were plenty enough; understanding, I assumed, would come with time. On the surface, much has changed since then. I have enough Japanese to wade through the enkais (office party), I know the names of those sitting around me, and I know how to keep my neighbor’s glass full. But, actually, little has changed at all. I understand little more than I knew then. The food, the drink, and the rituals are there, but I still have no idea what folks are talking about. I observe, fill my role, and do what is expected (luckily for the gaijin, the unexpected is expected), but never being rewarded with anything but transient relations.

The two questions I am most often asked by Japanese folks are: “Why did you come to Japan?” and “What surprises you most about Japan?” Neither am I ever able to answer, the first because I have yet to learn the Japanese word for curiosity, and the second, because I can never bring myself to tell them that Japanese people are much more reticent and diffident than I could have ever imagined.
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