Look for group unity when in alien nation

The sign said my plane was going to Japan and it did. But it
also wound up landing me, a white American, on the opposite side of
the social fence. This fence separates Japanese from a motley
collaboration of anyone who is not native-Japanese.

And it’s starting to get on my nerves.

I’m tired of people leering at me out of the corners of
their eyes. I’m tired of catching the tail end of the word
“gaijin” (a derogatory Japanese word for foreigner) as
I walk down the street, given that there are many other ways to
classify me. And I’ve only been here three months. What is a
lifetime of subtle, and sometimes not-so-subtle, social exclusion
like?

It’s frustrating.

People won’t sit next to me on the train. All other seats
will fill up and people will pass the seats next to me. They will
stand rather than sit near me as if I’m contagious.

And, though it makes my ride more comfortable (which is no small
condolence on the subway in Tokyo), it’s annoying. I catch
those sideways glances and imagine what people are saying.

“What’s that “˜gaijin’ doing
here?”

“Don’t get too close. You’ll catch
“˜whiteness.'”

In the long run, that kind of tacit discrimination is more
wounding than the more rare and overt forms of racial
intolerance.

Have you heard of the “Japanese Only” bars that dot
the landscape on the west side of the Pacific? I hadn’t until
one bartender raised my ire and her finger toward the door when a
group of UC students walked into her establishment. In heavily
accented but completely understandable English, she blurted,
“Japanese Only!”

Intolerance flowed out with her words, but the disdain in her
eyes was more telling.

Though instances like these are dramatic, it is the constant
social exclusion that is most frustrating.

Before becoming a cultural minority, I did not understand the
tacit sense of embattlement that can be seen among marginalized
groups in the United States. For an American in Japan, there is
something altogether comforting about speaking English, just as
there is in comparing stories of discrimination.

One incident includes being watched in a toy store. I was not
going to steal anything, but the hawk behind the counter would not
believe that. At another time, while at the Post Office, a child
derided a friend, calling him “hakudou” ““ white
creature.

I do not want to give a false impression of Japan. The vast
majority of Japanese people I have run across are extraordinarily
friendly and some are almost embarrassingly excited about the
United States and its citizens. And, as in the United States, the
young tend to hold more liberal ideas while the elderly hold the
political power, the money, and the stagnating ideas about
justice.

For the most part, the dynamics of discrimination are very
similar on either side of the Pacific. The most important point to
be made is that very few people in both the United States and Japan
actively abhor those across the social fence. After spending time
on both sides of this obstruction, it is easy to see that this
barrier is built not of hate, but of misunderstanding.

This misunderstanding is built on media images, historical
misinterpretations and a lack of constructive cultural interaction.
It breeds mistrust.

Unfortunately, in addition to the basic levels of
misunderstanding that evolve from different cultural practices,
many of the methods by which cultural minorities face exclusion are
misunderstood by mainstream America.

After being an outsider for a while, you can’t help but
want to be on the inside of something. So we Americans clad in
distinctive jerseys started to take the field in soccer tournaments
and plan a month early for an Independence Day celebration. (I
never considered the barbecue an important cultural symbol until
now.) Strength and kinship were found through a derogatory word and
plans for a public celebration of unity among individuals who feel
they are on society’s fringe. Sound familiar?

Such jerseys and elaborate Independence Day celebrations are
parallel to the African Student Union’s “Endangered
Species” shirts, Cinco de Mayo celebrations and St.
Patrick’s Day and Gay Pride parades. All aim to celebrate
culture. And all aim to show unity. And while some are more
politically motivated than others, all are purposeful
demonstrations of pride.

But, I think such demonstrations oftentimes confuse those on the
mainstream side of the fence. Certainly our jerseys attracted some
strange looks. We were misunderstood. Why, a Japanese friend of
mine asked, did we Americans want to flaunt our
“gaijin” status? (Though it’s tough for a
6-foot-2-inch Caucasian to blend in, most of my teammates were
Asian American and not as immediately noticeable.) My friend, like
me before my visit to Asia, did not understand what subtle
exclusion feels like. Hence, he did not understand the appeal of
overt displays of unity.

In the United States these demonstrations are sometimes
perceived as an overly confrontational flaunting of cultural unity
““ even superiority. But that’s not the case. Bold
displays of unity, from unifying jerseys to parades, are simply
opportunities for the excluded to celebrate themselves when few
else will.

And, though difficult for some on the mainstream side of the
fence to understand, that does not imply reciprocal exclusion by
cultural minorities. And while reciprocal exclusion no doubt
occurs, only the truly shortsighted practice such a blatantly
destructive ritual.

Exclusion is about misunderstanding and miscommunication across
the slowly shrinking social fence. Sometimes I am reminded of how
low that fence can be.

Last week I was walking alone through a street crowded with
Japanese individuals. Suddenly, from nowhere, I hear someone
speaking English.

“What’s up?” said an African American man
handing out flyers to passersby.

I paused, surprised. And then a look of understanding and
camaraderie passed between us.

Shaking his outreached hand, I said, “Not much, my
friend,” because that’s what he was.