Coming to Japan 🇯🇵
"How did I give consent to this,
To be continent'ly adrift?"
Who I am doesn’t matter...
…continue reading and you might glean where I'm from, what era I was born in, and even what I look like. I simply offer you my words for consideration—without the pretension of a Casaubon, but with a love like Cordelia.
At the place I call home, I stared into the mirror, as the weight of my decision sank in. Adrift—continentally, emotionally—yet here I was, heading toward something I couldn’t quite define.
‘You got this’, I told myself. I put the toothbrush back in the cup on the sink, but then thought better of it, stepped on the bin pedal, and tossed the toothbrush inside. The taxi I had ordered to take me the short journey to the airport was humming idly outside in the early morning mist.
In the cab, I had two options: talk to the driver, or not. Some drivers like to banter, and you may want to engage, but, if you’re not the talkative type, you can curtly cut the chat, without being perceived as rude. The message that you prefer silence will be understood—loud and clear.
Taxi conversations are usually just time-fillers—often funny and informative, sometimes insightful. However, on the odd occasion, I’ve had a driver veer off-topic and embark on a sexist and/or racist rant, with me as a captive audience. I’m not a fan of sexism or racism, but it’s a reminder that we all live in our own bubbles.
“Get out of your echo chamber and into a cab!” isn’t quite an idiom yet, but perhaps it should be. Maybe it’s necessary, in a polarised world, to hear where the ‘other side’ are coming from. Maybe they just have out-dated beliefs, belonging to past generations, and it’s best to get out of that cab.
In the taxi, I decided to start the conversation. I can be very extroverted at times, and enjoy connecting with others. The simplest way to break the ice? Ask a question attached to the obvious. My indigenous driver looked like a jocular, middle-aged man who enjoyed a pint down his local pub.
- “Did you watch the match last night?” I asked.
- “I don’t watch any sports. They’re just a distraction. Like the gladiators in Roman times. Bread and circuses and all that.”
- “You don’t see sports as a way to bring people together, like the Olympics?”
- “Not at all. That’s an even worse circus.”
- “What do you watch then?”
- “I don’t watch anything through a screen… except a windscreen,” he guffawed. “That’s the only filter between me and the real world. This is me, in the flesh.”
He took one hand off the wheel and pulled up his shirt, exposing his hairy belly, to prove it.
- “I’m all the action, drama, thriller, and fantasy I need.”
- “Good for you. So you don’t watch ‘Gogglebox’?” I joked.
He stopped laughing at the mention of the inane, yet very entertaining, television programme, and turned his head to look at me.
- “Ya want me to watch people on the telly, watching other people doing stuff on the telly.”
I had to agree with him—it does seem quite removed from the action. I enjoy people-watching, in person and in public. At a café in some plaza or piazza, basking in the sun, watching all the people go by; checking out the individuals at the table next to me—seeing who’s checking who else out. Eye contact, leads to a verbal interaction, and an exchange of some kind or other.
Of course, I feel more connected with overseas friends through social media, and I use videocalls to connect with people who, for logistical reasons, I’m unable to meet physically. I wonder, though, how many people are becoming less inclined to opt for the effort of real human interaction when technology easily allows us to not engage. Watching people through screens changes how we connect—it creates something different in us. I’m interested to see how things progress in this regard. Will the future be like the more unnerving ‘Black Mirror’ episodes, or will it bring more opportunities for genuine connection IRL?
- “I told ya I don’t watch TV.”
- “Yeah. You did,” I nodded.
- “I had a mate,” he almost barked it out, “who was always reading and writing and watching classic movies and shit. What good did it do him?”
I said nothing. I believe his question was rhetorical.
The driver realised that it was up to him to restart the conversation if he didn’t want the tension to permeate the air of his cab. With a suitcase in the boot and us en route to the airport, his opener for me was a no-brainer.
- “Where are ya flying to?”
- “Japan.”
- “Is there a woman?”
He got straight to the point. I appreciate directness, but if there's a question I deem too personal, I answer that question with my own question that puts the onus on the asker to explain their 'excessive' interest:
‘Why do you want to know?’
Today, however, I wasn’t ready. I shifted in my seat, pulling at the seat belt that felt somewhat like a constraint.
- “Um-uh, yes, there’s a woman.”
Japan was not about her, though. Not entirely.
- “Is she Japanese?”
- “Um, yes.”
I braced myself for a remark about me having ‘yellow fever’, but I was wrong.
- “Well, if you like a type of food, you may as well go where they cook it, eh?”
With that insight, we were pulling up at Departures. I felt a flicker of shame for the thought I just had.
- “Now, get some of that home-cooked food into you. No more imported takeaway rubbish for you,” he laughed.
Was that last comment, though, xenophobic? I thought about not leaving a tip, but howandever. I got rid of all the loose change in my pocket and opened the car door. The driver swiftly exited himself and removed my suitcase from the boot.
- “Mind yourself.”
As he drove away, I stared at the airport terminal, watching an assortment of people disappear inside.
Upon the concrete, bag upon my back, a hefty suitcase standing at my side, I took a breath and fought the urge to turn—afraid I’d turn to salt, with parting doubt, frozen by all the ties that held me here. Yet still, with such sweet sorrow, I looked back at the fair city I was escaping now.
Sayonara, bitches!
To bitch, or not to bitch?
I feel uneasy using the word ‘bitch’ because of its lingering misogynistic connotations. Yet it does have a punchy ring to it: ‘Sayonara, bitches!’
Sitting in my window seat, I look out of the small plane window at the grey runway and the city's silhouetted skyline beyond the airport boundary. I feel a bit uneasy as one of the two plastic screens of the plane's window is missing a couple of screws and is hanging loose. In a short while, there will only be one thin sheet of plastic between me and the outside air 30,000 feet above the ground.
I press the call button, and when the flight attendant comes over, I inform her about the state of the window. She dismissively brushes me off. I call her back, telling her I feel uncomfortable sitting next to a broken window on a passenger aircraft. If something were to happen to the other flimsy looking piece of plastic, it would be my body that plugs the hole. As I'm sucked slowly and painfully out of the plane, the pilot has just enough time to bring the plane to a safer altitude for all the other passengers and crew, though I plunge through the air, presumably already dead, a hero.
The flight attendant huffs, rolls her eyes, and no doubt thinks I’m being overly dramatic. Someone else can be a hero, I think to myself, as she eventually shows me to another seat, muttering under her breath as she does so.
I feel uneasy using the word ‘bitch’.
I securely strap myself into my seat and settle in with a book that has been described as a “dark modern gothic classic”, but as the cabin crew start to go through the safety procedures, I recall a neighbour who had two female dogs. The Staffie was named Bitch, and it was quite unsettling for me to hear him call her by that name, even though, technically, she was a bitch.
- “Sit, Bitch,” he would command. “Come, Bitch… Leave it, Bitch… Bed, Bitch.”
The Bichon Frisé was called Karen. Despite being half the size of Bitch, Karen would snap at the bull terrier, hungry for attention, and often steal her food.
People, however, are different from dogs. And while those with XX and XY chromosomes are, in a categorical manner, different to each other, the inequality of sexism is not grounded in science. Yet, our language, beliefs, concepts, and actions have perpetuated its existence. Language evolves, ever vibrant and colourful.
The slang ‘bitch’ has a broader definition. It’s no longer reserved for women who are dominant, aggressive or unpleasant; but it’s also used to describe a man… behaving like a weakling woman!
In some quarters, the B-word carries the connotation of a slutty dog-in-heat. But within my circle of friends, there are those who have transformed that version into something affirmative and affectionate. Shoutout to all my ho-bags.
Slay, bitches!
Take it back, shake it up
I don’t know how this reclamation of derogatory names or insults works, but it seems that as long as you have been the target of such abuse you get a pass to use that term. I don’t know the fine details, as racism is simply too complex for me to grasp. It seems it is for racists too. A case in point was when I heard someone on the street shout: “Go back to China, you fucking Paki.” At least it was in the ballpark of the same continent.
Indians living in the West, typically wouldn’t self-identify with ‘Paki’, even if they’ve been called it all their lives, and likely the actual Pakistani people there wouldn’t either. Or maybe I’m wrong…
- “I’m a proud Paki. After a lifelong animosity towards the word, I’m now happy to reclaim it from its pejorative usage, but, more importantly, there isn’t the bother of two extra syllables when referring to myself or my people. We're all proud Pakis now!”
Having said that, racists no longer use derogatory terms—they just say the nationality of the people they don’t like in a certain tone or context and the racist rhetoric is quite evident. Racists, you know who you are. You, too, shithole countries!
Like sexism, racism isn’t grounded in any real science; it's a social construct rooted in power dynamics, so even the words ‘racism’ and ‘racist’ are blunt tools for talking about prejudice, bias, or oppression, as they fall short in capturing the full complexity of these dynamics.
I, for one, cannot talk about how a person should or should not react to abuse and oppression. For example, ‘Nigger’ is uniquely steeped in historical trauma and systemic violence for those now called African-Americans. Some reclaim it as an act of defiance or solidarity, but others wouldn’t dream of using the N-word—a reflection of the personal ways people navigate oppression.
What if some of those enterprising minds that reject the word could monetise it? Imagine an American black market of N-word passes, traded by those who abstain and snapped up by white kids to rap along guilt-free to NWA, Tupac, or whoever.What if some of those enterprising minds that reject the word could monetise it? Imagine an American black market of N-word passes, traded by those who abstain and snapped up by white kids to rap along guilt-free to NWA, Tupac, or whoever’s on their playlist. These kids may not understand the weight of the word, but they might feel a closer connection to the streets than to the bankrupt, broken system that was shaped by another trade altogether.
Anyway, during my eight-hour layover in Taipei, I was enjoying some respite from the heat of the sun in a lovely little tea house, when I heard a couple of people on the next table speaking in, believe it or not, Chinese. Now, I don’t understand that particular language, and, to be clear, I’m not African-American, but their continued use of an N-word 那个 ( nèige), made me feel like I should be getting offended on somebody’s behalf.
Despite being in a Chinese-speaking country and not being able to understand a word of the language—let alone any of its nuances—and despite, as I mentioned just now, not being an African-American person, it was very disconcerting. I knew that if I, as the only other person in the place, didn’t speak up, nobody else would. I didn’t want to be just a bystander, so I used Google Translate to confront them:
- “那个…那个…你刚那个事来着？”
Situations change, and certain things become no longer acceptable or appreciated—like my presence in that lovely little Taiwanese tea house. Many English speakers have stopped calling Indians ‘Asians’, and no longer refer to other Asians as ‘Orientals’. It’s an inevitable shift when you consider the absurdity of lumping people together based on the continental classifications of the eminently white European Carl Linnaeus.
Europaeus albus: European white
Americanus rubescens: American reddish
Asiaticus fuscus: Asian tawny
Africanus niger: African black
And that’s in the order of how good they are!
Now, Linnaeus did say that skin colour was an external factor produced by climate, but he also attributed certain negative characteristics to the peoples of an entire continent. Can you guess which (dark) continent housed the ‘lazy, sly, sluggish, neglectful’ types?
Events have shown us, humans haven’t needed much of an excuse to exploit or exclude other human beings. Even with our expanding knowledge of the world, whites stayed on top while blacks remained at the bottom. We did need a shake-up, regardless of what some Americanus albus might've said.
There was a conversation about statues during that shake-up. I don’t have a problem with the removal of a statue or few. To me they are essentially monuments of nationalistic propaganda—just don’t burn the books or art that are actually being preserved for cultural or historical reasons.
Nelson’s Pillar in Dublin, for example, was a symbol of colonisation for many Irish. The monument, once a popular tourist attraction, was blown up but its relics are now in museums for people to learn about its history—which is infinitely more interesting now.
In Germany, all traces of Nazism were dismantled but nations still remember the dangers of fascism without the constant reminder. That’s why there hasn’t been any wars or attempted genocides in modern times. Oh dear! My mistake. Maybe we should have left a load of Hitler statues about the place to remind us how it was better to be allied together.
In a museum in Dublin, a Japanese tourist asks her Irish Catholic guide a question.
- “Why is there fighting in North Ireland?”
- “Because Protestant loyalists don’t have the same beliefs as Catholic nationalists.”
- “What’s the difference?”
- “Well, for instance, Protestants don’t believe in the blessed Mother of God, or the holy Eucharist when the transubstantiation of the bread and wine occurs.”
- “Eeh! Trans what?”
- “Transubstantiation—let’s just call it the T-word for now. It’s when the bread and wine… It’s when we receive the life-saving body and blood of Christ.”
- “T-word… I see.”
- “And they take away some books of The Bible, and they add to the Our Father, the prayer Jesus gave us as a model.”
- “What do they add?”
- “Something like, ‘For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever’… Obviously, it’s a more complex issue than that.”
- “I see.”
I’m praying I can get away from all the debates—whether statues should be torn down, which religion is right, or who has the right to a certain soil; away from complaints about history being re-written, when History has always been subjective since the beginning of its recording.
Now, as my plane safely lands in the Land of the Rising Sun, in the Far East, a lot further east from where I started, in a country where the Oriental people have a deep culture and a long history, I’m excited to experience another worldly perspective.
Let’s see what’s going on here then!