Fall Frustration

This afternoon, I trudged out in the rain to do some grocery shopping. 10 minutes later I’m in the checkout line, with my basket empty except for some veggies and take-out sushi. Yes, it is the day before payday and my stomach and wallet are a little depressed. Nevertheless I am waiting patiently, staring into space a la starved model, deer in headlights look. My left hand grips the basket, and I have to stop myself from digging into the sushi before it is rightfully mine. Thoughts of my imminent meal are suddenly interrupted by an older man’s voice behind me. The gentleman proclaims, “すてき,” as he stares into my eyes. I ignore the compliment and nonchalantly stare back down at my sushi as I curse this country and myself. He obviously doesn’t think I can understand him. I wish I couldn’t, for I can’t help feeling that if I was one of a countless number of my co-workers, oblivious of this world and its language, life would be rainbows and butterflies.

I am doing everything right. I am silent, my feet are together and pointed slightly inwards, my basket is pushed up to the customer’s in front of mine. My wet umbrella is in its plastic condom so that it does not drip all over the supermarket floor. My wallet is already out, my coin purse unzipped. Even so, in this moment I feel ridiculously “gaijin,” or dare I say, like the monkeys I sympathetically locked eyes with at the Ueno zoo a few months back. I muster up the courage everyday to speak this language to the best of my ability and try to abide by all cultural and social expectations. I try to suppress my American outbursts of excitement or frustration when in public and have even ceased my walking with Starbucks latte in hand tradition. I rarely step foot in Roppongi, aka gaijin central, except to see English speaking docs. I date Japanese men and read Japanese fashion magazines. Even though I really try to immerse myself in this culture, which is my prerogative as a citizen and admirer of Japan, it has become an exhausting nuisance more than anything else.

My existence here has no permanence in my eyes. I am a born complainer. I do not have a cute girly laugh. I am not a size 2 with perfect skin and hair. I like to cross my legs, which is considered an overtly sexual way of sitting here-haha! I am entitled to my opinion despite being a woman. I do not need my tampons in an opaque, dark plastic bag, which drugstore clerks insist upon, nor do I need to conceal my choice of literature on the train in a bland book jacket. I miss my fold-up umbrella-which is ridiculously discriminated against and the occasional nauseating yet delicious culinary treat from Taco Bell. I can’t even get the retort I desire from giving the finger or shouting expletives. Long story short, last weekend at a club in Tokyo, a Japanese man speaking bad English called me a liar for telling him that I was from here. Granted, I do not look completely Japanese but this guy quickly turned into a bonafide jerk. I eloquently gave him the finger and he returned the favor, accompanied by a blank look and shrug of the shoulders. I walked away, baffled by the lack of emotion, as I was pushed and shoved by hundreds of Japanese swaying to techno music. As I start my 10th month here, I realize that absence truly makes the heart grow fonder. What keeps me up at night is whether I can go back to the life I left behind with open arms, ready to embrace it for all its own faults and shortcomings.