Gaijin by Ron
Rogers
It's July 27th,
1979, and the Friday morning crush of Japanese
salarymen propelled me along Yokosuka train
station's small platform into an open carriage.
Boarding is always a frantic last-minute rush in
Japan- why arrive early when the trains are
obsessively on time?
My train car
filled rapidly with businessmen in neat dark
suits, impersonal and immersed in their clever
quarter-folded newspapers or pornographic hentai
anime magazines. Interspersed were clusters of
dark-haired, dark-eyed school kids, boys in their
military-styled five-button gakuran uniforms, the
young girls in pressed white blouses and pleated
navy-blue skirts rolled at the waist to expose
more leg: Incongruous Lolita figures shoehorned
with adults engrossed in lolicon porn. Although
tightly packed, there was no hint of unwashed
bodies or heavy perfume- this is Japan.
The ninety-minute
ride from Yokosuka's U.S. Navy base to sweltering
summer-time Tokyo wasn't just unpleasant but
miserable. The old Japanese National Railway
trains lacked air conditioning and offered hard-backed
bench seats reminiscent of an elementary school
bus. The Japanese passengers were unfailingly
stoic, but the ride during warm weather usually
left me with a wet back and numb butt. However,
Tokyo's vibrant Akihabara district was filled
with futuristic electronics, stereos, 35mm camera
gear, digital watches, and very pretty salesgirls,
so "All Aboard!".
With the train
loaded to near-capacity, the white-gloved
conductor in crisp uniform performs his shisa
kanko safety pantomime; we leave the station for
Tokyo precisely on time. On this trip, I'm lucky
enough to snag a window seat because, even though
I've lived in Japan for almost two years, I still
enjoy the scenery: Everything is so foreign. The
quiet Japanese passengers politely ignored me
except for discrete glances reflected in the
train's windows. They're curious, but only a
little.
The seat next
to me is empty, always, because I'm gaijin.
Foreigners in Japan can either let their feelings
be hurt or enjoy the extra legroom. Although I'll
never "fit in," I try hard not to be
the Ugly American. I like Japan and its culture,
and I know it's expected not to call attention to
yourself in public. Keep a low profile. Follow
the rules. Easy enough, right?
Outside the
train, cities, towns, and rice paddies race past,
but the air inside the car is hot and immobile.
Inevitable sweat forms and slides uncomfortably
down my back. The miles 'clack' by, the train
sways on its narrow-gauge rails, and my thoughts
drift in the heat:
Crap, if I
could open my window...
Open a window. No, that's impossible; they're
sealed. Except it sure looks like they're
designed to open. Looks-kind-of-like-windows-on-a-bus.
I wonder if anyone would notice if I just
squeezed this clasp and...
Click. Whoosh!!!!!
I'm sitting on
a train filled with hot, sweating people, and I'm
the only one with an open window! Guiltily I look
around me, but no one will meet my gaze- they are
all pretending this isn't happening. My plan to
follow the rules is in tatters, but nearby
passengers are now shifting discreetly to take
advantage of 'my' breeze. No uniformed authority
arrives to berate me.
Behind me, I
hear a window slide open. And then another. As we
arrived at Tokyo station, there was not a closed
window in our carriage.
Venerable Japanese proverb: "The nail that
sticks up gets hammered down." But not today;
‘going ronin’ instead offered
refreshing benefits. The windows on our train
weren't locked- instead, they had been sealed
shut so we perspired together in social harmony.by
culture and tradition. It was nearly impossible
for someone Japanese to break the status quo,
On the return
trip to Yokosuka, the windows were closed. I
thought briefly about the importance of 'fitting
in.'
Click…
Gaijin
by Ron Rogers
Copyright April 2023 – All Rights Reserved
|
