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Lost in subversion: 730 days in Japan – Part 1: Rise of the
expatriates
Story and photos by DAVE DIERKSEN
KRYPTON EXPLODES
Allow me, if you will, to construct an analogy. Consider the
story of Superman. Superman was a guy who would've grown up
completely average had he stayed on his home planet of Krypton.
But his folks sent him abroad to escape Krypton's imminent destruction.
He lands on earth, realizes he has these superhuman powers,
yadda yadda, and now he's got his own show on the WB. Are you
with me so far?
On Sept. 11, 2001, my Krypton went KAPLOW! And thankfully, like
Superman, I wasn't there when it happened. I, too, was living
life as an alien, halfway around the world in Japan. I was stuck
in the Japanese version of Smallville – Iwate prefecture,
northern Honshu. It's the second biggest prefecture in Japan
(next to the island of Hokkaido), and it's the second lowest
in English proficiency among Japanese high school students.
It's akin to West Virginia.
Unlike Superman, I was not alone. There were more than a hundred
of us who'd ended up in Iwate under dubious English teacher
guises. Most of us didn't know the language. Most of us had
never taught before. That didn't matter to the government guys
who hired us; they cared more about the idea of cultural exchange.
That is, we would hopefully all learn something about each other's
cultures and everyone would benefit and be happy. The problem
with that theory was that not all of us were welcome at our
respective schools. And even those who were didn't necessarily
have the power to influence the existing system. Some of us
were mere icons – token foreigners. We were curiosities;
legal aliens who often served little more purpose than providing
a source of entertainment for both the teachers and students
we were there to instruct.
On one hand, it was disheartening to realize that many Japanese
would never fully accept us as part of their society. But some
of us got wise to the rosy corollary – they would also
never hold us to the same standards as one of their own. In
essence, we could get away with a lot more. This was the source
of our expatriate superpowers, and this is the story of how
we used those powers for better and worse.
WE WERE GOOD IN THE BEGINNING
I remember one of the most terrifying days of my life. It was
just a week after arriving in Japan. For that first week, I
had been inundated with orientation seminars, jetlag, partying
and the awe of being someplace so new and strange – all
this time, of course, I had been in the presence of other foreigners.
Eventually, though, my supervisors came to take me away, and
I finally ended up at my new apartment in the city of Morioka...
alone.
That's when I freaked out. I needed food. I needed to figure
out the bus system. I needed to learn the convoluted 3-mile
bike route to my school. It took all of my will power just to
step outside. When I did, I felt like everyone was watching
me. They probably were. In Tokyo, foreigners are a dime a dozen.
In Morioka, a city of 300,000 in the middle of rural Japan,
they were much harder to come by. A week before, I had been
a white suburban punk from Texas, and now I had to come to grips
with being a minority.
For the first month, I did my best to remedy the awkwardness
by trying my damnedest to be as Japanese as possible. I ate
whatever food was shoved in front of me. I flashed the peace
sign whenever a camera was stuck in my face. I talked low. I
bowed low. I took great care to work hard. I studied Japanese
every day. I did whatever I was asked to do. Most importantly,
I suppressed my personality, which is big and boisterous and
not typical of most Japanese.
After a month, my spirits were dampening. The students wouldn't
talk to me. Most of the teachers were afraid of me as well.
Some of them were finding excuses for me not to go to class,
and they were better than the teachers who only utilized me
to operate the tape recorder in the classroom. To add insult
to injury, the language wasn't coming easy either. My depression
quickly became resentful, and later escalated to anger.
"THE JAPANESE WAY"
So that I don't come off looking insensitive or prejudiced,
I feel the need to preface everything I say with the word "generally."
For instance, GENERALLY, the Japanese people are some of the
kindest, most generous people I have ever met. They are eager
to share their culture and inform you of their ways; they want
to include you in their customs. But generally – GENERALLY
– if you are a foreigner, more often than not, you will
eventually come up against a wall if you try to assimilate completely.
GENERALLY, the Japanese are not often responsive to change.
I was working in a high-level academic high school where the
system in place was perceived as successful. Thus, changing
their mode of teaching to accommodate a loud-mouthed American
wasn't high on their list of priorities. Needless to say, I
hit my cultural wall pretty quickly.
The point was hammered home in a seminar I attended called "The
Japanese Way." The audience consisted of both foreign and
Japanese teachers; it was supposed to be a frank, open discussion
about the Japanese way of thinking. The speaker, who was Japanese,
was asked about a Brazilian-born soccer player named Alex Santos,
who in 2001 became a Japanese citizen. Specifically, did the
speaker consider Santos to be Japanese, even though he was not
of Japanese heritage? The speaker refused to answer the question,
stating that the subject was too sensitive to talk about in
front of his Japanese colleagues. So much for a frank, open
discussion. His lack of response, however, spoke volumes.
THE TURNING POINT
The 9/11 attacks occurred about a month and a half after I arrived
in Japan, at a time when I was feeling frustrated and maybe
even a little doubtful about my decision to take this gig. The
day after the attacks, I was a wreck. My friends and co-workers
were sympathetic, and I felt appropriately helpless and a little
guilty for not being at home to help bear the burden of the
aftermath.
The day after that, however, was business as usual in the office,
as it probably was most everywhere else. The way I saw it, I
could force myself into fear and depression out of loyalty to
my country. Or I could consider myself lucky for being in an
environment where things WERE business as usual – where
I could watch events unfold with a perspective that wasn't influenced
by perpetuating fear. I chose the latter option. If I could
avoid living in fear, then I was going to, even if it meant
distancing myself from my homeland.
At the same time, I decided to stop breaking my back to conform
to Japanese standards. I willingly became a man without a country,
a situation that some people might find frightening. Not me.
The sense of freedom accompanying my newfound autonomy was intoxicating.
Loyalty was no longer an obligation, and I was free to choose
my own battles and fight them as I saw fit. I found others who
felt the same way as they became increasingly disillusioned
within Japanese society. For the next two years, we would live
by our own standards on the fine line between recklessness and
confidence, embracing what we loved about Japanese culture while
attempting to subvert the rest. (To be continued in Part 2:
The Sordid Lives of Gaijin) |
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