I was not a cute baby. I came into the world looking very much like our ancestors the Neanderthals. At 12 months, I was still hairless but had completely embraced my mother’s culture by freakishly resembling a sumo wrestler. All photos from that period of my life have disappeared except for one in which there is so much flesh I cannot tell if the picture was taken inside or outside. I am the foreground and background. Despite the weight problem, I sat proud in my stroller, my chubby legs splayed out on the sides of the contraption, me on my throne of dignity. I shouted defiantly the only words I could, “akachan!” and “hana!” I took a comment made by a complete stranger, “what are you feeding your child???” with stride-she was only jealous I was stealing her thunder by being my cute self. But with a limited vocabulary that was useless in an English-speaking country, I decided to communicate with the public with my stare, which my grandfather fondly nicknamed the “whammie.”
While I have since learned that it is quite impolite to stare at someone, no matter how disfigured, uncouth, or foreign they may be, as a mere infant I was way too uninhibited for such futile social norms. I would stare at anyone in any location-my stare escaped social and racial boundaries. However, this was not a cute look of curiosity accompanied by the sweet coo of a little person discovering the world around her. No, this was what some may call an evil eye, a death stare, a “what are you looking at” that may make most receivers of this stare cringe or at the very least, avert their gaze and reassess their sheer existence on this earth. Some thought I was strange, some may have thought it was a vacant look resulting from the food coma I was in from 1986 to 88 when my brother was born and there was another mouth to feed. A few brave souls took up the challenge and stared back: my first official staring contest occurred when I was a mere infant who had caught the attention of an innocent man in an airport. Yet he was so overly confident in his staring capability that he informed my parents that he was taking me up on the silent offer. I don’t remember who won.
If there is one thing on this earth that I find some solace believing in, it is karma. While my Zen Buddhism professor last semester informed us that there is no such as good and bad karma, only karma, I would like to believe otherwise to help keep my sadistic tendencies to an acceptable level. As a half-Japanese with strong Western features, I stick out like a festering, bleeding, football-sized thumb here in the outskirts of Tokyo. When I step out of my apartment and face the world, I know I will encounter stares of the worst kinds at an average ratio of 1 for every 5 eyes I pass. Most look at me with a look that can only be described as “who the hell are you?” The more daring will stop in their tracks, on foot, bicycle, or car-mode of transportation does not matter. Double takes are everyday occurrences, as are the sneaky stares and fixed stares while walking-the Japanese have amazing peripheral vision. Occasionally the stare has commentary, such as the Japanese equivalent of “amazing!!” or “fabulous!” as in “what an amazing view!” and “this meal is just fabulous!” Depending on my mood, I may ignore or stare back with all the intensity I can muster. Sometimes I soak in the celebrity, too busy and famous to even notice a million eyes. Other days I lower my brows and return the gaze, cursing myself for not toting around my Japanese passport to wave in the faces of compatriot haters. While there may be no such thing as bad karma, every time I pass by a stare so intense I can sense it from any direction, I can’t help but think that karma truly is a bitch.
