Standing Out, Fitting In
Sophie Malloy
The girl skipped ahead, long black hair falling in a perfect sheet as she turned to the boy. They said something in Japanese, the language the rest of us were still wrapping our minds around. Syllables — or more accurately, mora — flew from their mouths in a comfortable mumble drowned out by the damp chaos of the dark Namba streets. We had missed the last train.
The sky felt close, heavy clouds hung low between the Osaka skyline. Neon light flooded our veins as we walked, charging up the excitement that only the edge of drunkenness could provide. The girl turned to me.
“Let’s go to the conbini first,” she said, taking my arm and pulling me into the warmth of the Family Mart on the corner.
Our group of three exchange students and two local students always threw off the energy in whatever convenience store, McDonald’s, Sukiya or Izakaya we were in. There was a visible shift in the workers’ posture, a tightening of their shoulders or look of worry in their eyes.
I felt the need to ease their stress, let them know we weren’t regular tourists, we were the good ones. Our Japanese, while clumsy, relieved the tension.
There was guilt in the pleasure I found from being accepted, like by assimilating I had left myself and America behind. But that wasn’t true. I couldn’t leave America behind because she walked ahead of me wherever I went, announcing our presence to the world no matter how Japanese I dressed or how Japanese I tried to act.
Shame came with disturbing the peace with my presence. No matter my effort, my existence in Japan made people uncomfortable. That’s why, when it was my turn at the register, I put my Asahi Super-Dry on the counter and recited the well-worn sentences I’d practiced ad nauseam.
「ファミチキ一つお願いします！」I said.
One Family Chicken please!
「お袋入りますか？」the cashier asked.
Do you want a bag?
「あ、大丈夫です」I said with a smile.
That’s OK.
It wasn’t. Like my face, my smile was just another way for America to announce herself.
There was no winning. Not when my options were constantly assessing how I was perceived and being perpetually anxious, or ignoring the culture, like the American frat bros we had seen earlier drinking Strong Zero on the train and yelling profanities.
I didn’t want to be like them. I wanted Japan to know how much I loved her, how much my heart ached at the thought of leaving. So I chose shame. I wouldn’t ever be a natural part of the landscape, but I could continue to try not to tarnish it completely.
