Room

While money and sex are more easily obtained by the gaijin masses (especially the male English teachers or unmarried Mazda apprentices), culture, or more specifically, the escape of their old and entrée into their new, still remains an unconquerable frontier. You can witness the seething frustration of no-access when a nihongo-fluent gaijin receives a persistent “nani?” as he tries to order his okonomiyaki with extra sauce or no bacon.

The general aversion towards the inclusion of outsiders may be unintentional, yet rarely weakens (like a sturdy tree trunk) even in the face of the resoluteness of an expert assimilator. Blending in, assimilation, social membership - it’s a tug of war in which we never gain leverage.

Being of a few ethnic backgrounds, the temptation to completely socially/cultually amalgamate was never worth pursuing. Fully blending (in most communities) was rarely an option and never an expectation or point of entitlement. This perspective was not the norm.

“You can only get in so far in Japan”, I overheard a sloppy NOVA teacher preaching on his barstool at Kulcha one crazy busy Tuesday night. “It's worst than pledging a Fraternity …like hazing or The Matrix with all the agents popping up at every social entrance point”.

He continued and I actually listened.

“Want to live here, agent at the immigration office. Want to date a Japanese girl, hah, there’s another Agent Smith. Want to start a new business, and there’s another one…all smiles and politeness as they insist on making you inch your way into being no more than some card-carrying resident alien”.

He was clearly frustrated, and yet while I usually wouldn’t give a second thought to a pontificating barfly, I did start to wonder what was at the root of this ‘let me in’ temper-tantrum.

Later that week as promised to myself, I went apartment shopping. My university had subsidized my 1LDK as part of my contract, but I was craving something bigger, better and illuminating a feel of possibly permanent residence. The university suggested I apartment-hunt through their affiliated realtors (keeping it in the family of course). A seasoned apartment-seeker, I knew exactly what I wanted, what was negotiable and what wasn’t. “A spacious (arms waving out like that swimming stroke) 2LDK, with lots of light, high floor (5 kai), tatami, in Naka-ku… ¥70,000 max”, I detailed to the agent.

The agent (no pun intended) was 32-years old, married and mother of two little girls ages 4 and 7 (I gasped at the first-child:mommy’s age math) and had only been to the US (Vegas) for shopping and a Celine Dion concert. I know this because she told me, which I later realized was a segway, a girl: girl bonding mechanism to uncover why I really wanted such a big apartment. It was not enough that I, a 35 year old woman without child, husband, boyfriend, lesbian lover or pet would require such space all to my self. There had to be a reason (like I wanted to teach kids classes in my LDK) or my parents were coming to visit for an extended stay. And if not, well I would only get to see 1LDK’s that were suitable for spinsters like myself – “besides, you can save your money for travel, shopping or wedding party”, she advised. What wedding party? I asked Gretchen, but she couldn’t focus beyond her annoying giggles to provide any insight. So, I asked Maho to play little Miss Interpreter and bring the foreign concept of women having more than one room of their own home.

We sat in their offices, for almost an hour – this time only looking at photos in their look book before heading out for a proper viewing. And then just when I thought I was about to cry, I saw the apartment I wanted. It was lovely, bright, 2LDK, south-east exposure, eighth floor, big… And then the cross-cultural exchange took a backward detour. Maho and the agent were engaged a quietly passionate discourse about my space requirements.

“But she’s not Japanese girl!”, Maho almost shouted. And after a shocked silence, the agent quirped back at Maho, “But you are.”

I got the apartment largely due to the exhaust your opponent technique, but I later felt was also at the expense of Maho’s cultural standing.

“It’s not like Maho is Koizumi or that lady from the Last Samurai or something – she’s not shamed or anything because she helped you score a grand shag pad”, Gretch consoled after rental papers were signed and the key was in hand.

I paused then thought out loud, “maybe they’re doing us a little favor my keeping some of those doors guarded?” “Huh?”, she questioned. I rambled, “Yeah sometimes it's such a blessing to be an outsider – I mean, there are things we can get away with simply because we’re not Japanese. In the States, I’d be stoned if I lived with my family past the age of 21. And if I got the smallest apartment possible to save for a possible wedding party or man to come and upgrade my life, I’d be locked up. And our whole lifestyle here…I mean who in the Western world gets to ride a bike to work or get three-month long paid vacations. And how many Japanese people do you know get to travel around the world for extended periods of time and actually experiment with an alternative to salary man-life?”

Gretch looked unimpressed, took a sip of coffee and muttered “duh!”

Lisa, a.k.a. Jane, also hails from NYC and teaches at a local university. While she has yet to be perceived as plain, she is quite known for her imaginative philosophical tales and ponderings. She is also an artist, ginger and wasabi junkie and admits to watching Sex and The City reruns to ease occassional bouts of homesickness.

Feel free to drop her a line here.