Chapter 8: Japan

I got accepted into one of the most prestigious universities in Japan with ease—because they had a department tailored for English-speaking students.
The entrance exam was just an essay: Why do you want to study here?
It was nothing compared to the grueling tests Japanese students had to endure.

Growing up, I always wondered why so many girls in manga and anime looked Western–blond hair, big eyes, and yet they spoke perfect Japanese.
I figured it had something to do with Japan’s inferiority complex.

So when I saw real-life blond girls with blue eyes speaking flawless Japanese at orientation, I was fascinated.
It felt like Sailor Moon had stepped off the screen and come to life.

I’ve always been tired of the so-called compliment: “Wow, your English is so good!”
It sounds so condescending–like they couldn’t believe someone like me could sound so white. As if fluency came with a skin color. 

Then I overheard one of the real-life Sailor Moons complaining to another:
“They were like, those gaijin…” She was talking about Japanese people who treated her like a foreigner.
So it goes both ways, I realized.

Moving to Japan turned out to be an unexpectedly interesting experience right from the start.
I hadn’t anticipated that–because I thought I already knew what it was like here.
I’d visited several times before. It was clean, organized, customer service polite and thorough to the point of perfection.
Everything was so efficient, so seamless, it almost felt boring.
I was always more drawn to “exotic” places–Africa, India, the Amazon rainforest.
Since I was little, I’d been influenced by my father and his backpacker friends, with their endless stories of adventure and wonder.
During community college, my father told me about a cruise that travels around the world, run by an NGO called the Peace Boat.
I could’ve paid for it with my savings, but the idea was quickly shut down by my mother.
After that, I started fantasizing about going to Bhutan, intrigued by its reputation as the happiest country in the world. I wondered–if I went there, could I experience happiness too?

Soon after I moved in, my uncle passed away from the lung disease he’d been battling for years.
Then, just a few months later, my grandfather passed away from old age.

He was my favorite person in the family.
Whenever I visited, we’d bike to the big park nearby, paint with watercolors, and stop at a retro café for coffee.
He had a gentle spirit—and, in many ways, he seemed like the black sheep of the family.
My uncle and my grandmother were always picking on him. I felt bad for him.

But when they died, I didn’t feel sad.
And I wondered if there was something wrong with me. 

Within just a few months, it felt like my brother and I had stepped into the roles our uncle and grandfather had left behind.

Grandmother favored my brother.
Whenever he did anything, she’d beam and say, “Otokonohito ha sugoi”–Men are impressive.
But when I did anything–anything at all–she would snarl.
Once, I lightly pulled the cord to turn on the ceiling light, and it broke.
She snapped: “Onna no kuse ni.”
It’s hard to translate exactly, but it means something like:
“Who do you think you are, acting like that–as a woman?”
The phrase is soaked in contempt, the kind that tells you you’re out of line simply for existing too boldly in a female body.
I was baffled. Aren’t you a woman yourself?
It would’ve made more sense if a man had said it.
With her, I didn’t feel like a granddaughter.
I felt like a daughter-in-law–like she was competing with me for something I couldn’t even name.

One day, she held up a dusty cloth to scold me for not cleaning the floor.
But when she saw me scrubbing the toilet or vacuuming under the sofas, she’d yell,
“Are you trying to say I’m not doing my job?”
I thought I was doing her a favor–those areas couldn’t be easy to clean for someone in their eighties.

I tried to cook for her, I offered her money for rent without being asked. I tried to do everything a responsible adult should. But nothing seemed to matter to her.

I ate a lot as usual–but not to the point of getting a stomachache.
Maybe it was because I couldn’t taste anything anymore.
For the first time in my life, I gained weight.
I looked at my reflection and didn’t recognize the person staring back.
My period stopped, too.
I told myself I was better off without it.
But when it didn’t come for nearly a year, I mentioned it to my mother and ended up seeing a gynecologist.

After my brother moved out, I stayed behind–mostly for my dad’s sake.
But when my grandmother made a comment implying I should be grateful just to live there. That was it. I was done.

I moved to a shared house in Chiba, even though it was farther from my university, because it was only 30,000 yen–about $300 a month. I couldn’t afford much more. Even though I had some savings, I was covering everything on my own, from tuition to daily expenses. As a full-time student, I could only work when I didn’t have class.

In Japan, it’s common for university students to treat those years as a break–sandwiched between the intense cramming of mandatory education and the grind of adult working life. University itself is often easier to coast through than it is to get into. But I had to keep my grades up to continue receiving financial aid.

My first part-time job in Tokyo was also my shortest-lived. It was at a chain restaurant that served Japanese meal sets–Japanese food at its worst. The kind of place I hadn’t even known existed, and would never choose to eat at myself. Everything was premade, frozen, and must be loaded with artificial flavoring.

While I was cutting the tofu into cubes, I was told to chop it more finely. I guess that technically made it look like there was more tofu in each bowl–if you could actually count the crumbs–but it just looked sad and unappetizing. Even the miso soup came out with the press of a button.
The customers were often sloppy, leaving behind messy trays and half-eaten meals.
The real wonder was that the place got busy. 

The second job was the polar opposite.
One winter day, my dad and I were walking when a woman called out to us, offering a warm cup of amazake–a naturally sweet rice drink made from the byproduct of sake brewing. My dad bought me a cup. The first sip lit up my face; it was so delicious I couldn’t hide it. That’s when I noticed a sign: they were hiring, and employees got free meals. I applied on the spot. 
Since then, I’ve tried amazake at other vendors, but none of them come close to the taste of theirs.
The job was at a family-owned soba restaurant tucked along a picturesque path that led to a famous temple. The restaurant got especially busy on weekends and holidays. A well-known movie series had been filmed in the area, so tour buses full of fans arrived regularly. It was especially hectic around New Year’s, when people flocked to the temple for hatsumōde–and to eat soba, as tradition dictates.
But the owner wasn’t the one to cut corners because it was a tourist spot. Everything was handmade—from the buckwheat noodles to the delicate seasonal tempura.
I came to love soba, too. I hadn’t cared for it before, but now I could eat it every day.
My job was to clean, take orders, and serve. I worked on Sundays. The owners often asked me to come in on Saturdays too, but I couldn’t–because I needed to work another job that paid better, even if it was only a few hundred yen more. I knew they couldn’t imagine the kind of financial strain I was under. Most university students in Japan have their tuition and living expenses covered by their parents.

On Saturdays and after class, I worked as a contract waitress at historically famous restaurants and hotels. The pay was better, but the work was soul-sucking. Most of the staff were cold, snobby, or bossy. The worst was when I was told to help out in another ballroom, only to get there and be sent right back.

The food was complimentary, but it was the blandest meal I’d ever had—numbing, tasteless, just enough to keep us running. And what stung more was watching how much perfectly good food was wasted at the buffet.

I became self-employed for two reasons–one of them was out of principle. The contractor deducted 10% from my paycheck, and the only way to get it back was by filing an annual tax return with my expenses. He told me no one bothers because it’s too tedious. But for me, not filing wasn’t an option.

The second reason was more practical: I had become a student member of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club of Japan and started freelancing as an interpreter and translator.

I chose to major in Japanese politics after meeting a professor who specialized in the field. I learned how a small number of elite families have ruled the country for generations through the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), which has long pushed to amend Article 9–the clause in Japan’s constitution that renounces the right to wage war. Despite its ultranationalistic stance, the party remains deeply dependent on US foreign politicy, making its posture both conservative and militaristic. 

The whitewashing of history textbooks has long been a point of controversy for those concerned with historical accuracy. It’s no wonder many Japanese people are unaware of their country’s role as an aggressor in such an inhumane war.

Around that time, I learned that the LDP was trying to revise the Fundamental Law of Education to make it more nationalistic. When I went to the Diet Building to join the demonstration, I was surprised to see that most of the protestors were elderly. I did meet a few people my age and joined some study groups.

What struck me even more was how the media handled it. The major newspapers barely covered the protest. Even Asahi Shimbun, considered the most left-leaning paper, featured a large, full-color photo of a Japanese baseball player debuting in the US on its front page. The protest report was buried in small print near the back.
Realizing that news isn’t reported according to importance, I was compelled to make a difference by entering the field myself.  

Ironically, my first gig as an interpreter was for a British journalist interviewing a Japanese film director–whose documentary claimed that the Nanking Massacre was a lie.