Osaka

Difference has a cost.

I stood in line for the bathroom.

Our train was one of many that arrived Thursday night in the Shin-Osaka train station. Rochelle watched our suitcases as I scurried into the restroom. A woman stood in front of me and an elderly woman stood behind me. My turn. I used it quickly thinking of the long line outside the stall. But the elderly woman continued to stand waiting for a stall to open, despite my exit. Water rushed down my hands as I looked at her quizzically. She looked straight ahead and the women behind her showed slight confusion on their faces.

A young woman asked her a question in Japanese and she shook her head no. That same woman nodded and went into the stall I’d just left. Then another stall opened, a Japanese woman exited, and she walked into the bathroom. My hands dripped as I looked around noticing that every stall was exactly the same, and what I just observed was a very polite way to acknowledge otherness.

Micro-aggressions have been happening all my life, I’m no stranger to it, but the Japanese challenged me. My blackness had nowhere to hide, no shield to protect it. Everywhere I went people looked and then averted eye contact when I looked back. My large hair made me stick out like a sore thumb. I saw the wonder and understood that the diversity I was used to didn’t exist in this country. But even with that understanding, I’ve always been able to feel someone staring at me.

The first few days in Japan I didn’t take it personally that we were stared at constantly. Rochelle seemed to have a superpower, not noticing all the looks we were getting. I seemed to have a weakness, my perception made me notice everyone’s expressions and impression of us. I told myself to block it out, that it didn’t matter. I wore long sleeves in the hot weather, acknowledging the conservatism that permeated the culture. I looked at the signs, stood on the left side, and made sure to bow when needed. I refused to jay walk. I didn’t talk on the train and lowered my voice whenever I could. I even mimicked their flowy clothes, trying to flatten out the curves that shaped my body.

By the time we reached Osaka I was over the staring and over my annoyance at it. Chastising myself for paying too much attention to others, I decided to focus on my inner world. We were here for a short stay, only three days before heading to Kyoto. Osaka consisted of walking, shopping, eating, and going to the onsen.

I loved our hotel. It had an indoor onsen (Japanese hot springs) with free ramen at nine-thirty pm and free popsicles outside of the onsen’s changing rooms. While I knew the word “free” was used subjectively here, I bought into the marketing and excitedly awaited the treats. Osaka seemed more lively than Tokyo. The streets were filled, flashing lights were everywhere, and Dotonbori street was only a short walk away from us. It was lined with restaurants, bars, shops, and for some reason, Osaka seemed more grounded than the city we just left.

We had plans to go to a bar, so Rochelle napped and I took a walk to join the people. I was in search of salty lemon Kit Kat bars, something my eighth grade English teacher asked me to look for in Osaka. She now lived in Texas and I was willing to bring her back a taste of Japan. But, I was unsuccessful and entered our room as Rochelle woke up. She didn’t say this, but I knew going to a bar wasn’t her first choice of activity. So I told her that I didn’t really feel like it, and would rather go to the onsen and get ramen after. She was happy we were on the same page and laid back down. I got my things and walked to the elevator.

I’ve watched a fair share of anime and even though I’d seen hot springs displayed on the shows, I was still surprised when reading the rules of the onsen. The surprising part? Everyone is naked! But, there was no need to worry. The onsens were separated by gender and I knew no one would stare too long; it wasn’t polite. I stripped down, showered, and entered the water. An elderly woman scanned my body and when her eyes met mine, she turned away.

The water was the perfect temperature: hot enough to be slightly uncomfortable, but cold enough to not be unbearable. My lids were heavy as they closed and my body relaxed. It was wonderful, only a few of us were there, and I considered staying longer than I planned for. Then, sweat began to trickle down my neck and the thought of free ramen prompted me to exit the water. I got a blue popsicle and went to put on pajamas.

The next night my bun made my head hurt, but I didn’t want my hair to frizz up. Rochelle joined me and the relaxing atmosphere of the onsen shifted. Perhaps because it was a Friday, the springs were filled with women and children. All of us naked and attempting to relax. The register of voices told me the language I heard was Chinese not Japanese and the elderly women watched Rochelle with a vigilance that excluded me. Inward I went and sat in the water for a while, until Rochelle said she reached the limit of hearing her own thoughts.

As I waited to open my locker, two pre-teen girls saw me walk in and said in childlike wonder,

“AHHH.”

They smiled at me as their eyes roamed my body, stopping themselves short of touching me. My smile in response softened them and my patience deepened. Their mother stood to the side, rummaging through things, seemingly oblivious to the interaction. My bare body dried as water rolled down my legs. I turned to look at the mother, hoping she’d encourage the girls to curb their curiosity. She didn’t and it wasn’t until I began to get dressed that they walked away.

This time I got two popsicles, I deserved it.

When people asked my thoughts on Japan, I said how much I loved it. The culture, the efficiency, the architecture, and the landscape. However I didn’t fully buy into the idea that Japan was this mecca of success and what it meant to truly be a communal society. While it was clear that the efficiency of Japan relied on its polite people following unspoken social rules, it was also clear that in order to follow the rules, there needed to be a punishment. To me, that punishment was judgement.

This was confirmed by a bartender in Osaka who told us he planned on moving to London soon, where his girlfriend resided. When we asked why he wanted to move, he said that when you do something different in Japan everyone looks, but in London and New York it didn’t matter. He wanted that. Everyone in Japan did the same thing and looking at history, Japan’s homogeneity was not by accident. This bartender found a way to voice my experience clearly; I was different and everyone was looking. I wish it didn’t annoy me, I wish I could be less insecure and more empathetic, but I wanted to tell everyone that the things that made me different were still human.

However, it was my choice to enter their home, how could I ask them to act like everything was normal? I didn’t look like them, I didn’t sound like them, and as much as I joked about wishing white people let us be separate but equal, I wasn’t used to this level of sameness. With every train ride I realized I valued the difference New York City gave me. I have friends of all ethnicities and if I had to choose, I’d choose the individuality of American culture over the communal nature of Japanese culture. That is a hard pill to swallow because I value community, but if the cost is difference, I won’t take it.

Osaka reminded me of the grittiness the outer boroughs of New York City possess. Rochelle and I agreed it was way better than Tokyo and if we knew that we would have stayed longer. Instead, we got our bags and got ready to make our way back to Shin-Osaka to take the fifteen minute trip to Kyoto.

I used the bathroom before we left.