No matter how long I stayed in Japan, I would always have been an outsider. Even if I spoke perfect Japanese, observed every nuance of the tea ceremony, somehow mastered the art of Japanese social interaction, I would always be a gaijin – a foreigner.
I don’t point this out to be critical or negative. For me, being accepted as Japanese was never the goal. Japan was just the crucible to forge a stronger, more self-aware me.
But it was frustrating. Knowing that no matter how hard I tried or wanted, I would never be completely accepted. I could change my personality, my mannerisms, and even my voice, but I couldn’t change my body.
Growing up, I was taught that difference is only skin deep. I have come to realize that this is an astonishingly oversimplified way to look at it. Even within my own culture. But let’s start from there.
I came to Japan to find the universal humanity. That commonality hiding just below the surface of our different skin. But what I realized is that difference starts at the skin and goes all the way down to our very souls.
I did find commonality in Japan. A lot of it! But I also found differences in thinking, values, and ideals in even the most basic of elements of daily life. It was very interesting. I began to realize that there was no common seed of humanity. We were not all pines at our core, bur rather we were all trees, just different species. Some are oak, some pine, some maple, some ginko, some bamboo. We share the same simple needs – shelter, food, community – but how we achieve, interact, and value these can be vastly different.
And sometimes these differences can't be reconciled, just acknowledged.
Perhaps the clearest example of this came when I tried Kendo for the first and only time.
I was super excited. I had always loved pretending to be a sword wielder. As a child, I practiced with sticks, imagining I was Xena, Warrior Princess. I knew kendo would be very different, but I wanted to try. I wanted the experience.
I was decked out in the traditional uniform, handed the traditional practice sword, and given the most basic footwork.
You slap your foot down and make a few gallops forward. Only I couldn’t’ slap my foot. My sensei, bless his heart, showed me time and again. I could manage the moves well enough, but my slap was more of a stomp.
Turns out the problem was not in his instruction or my follow-through, but in my physical form. My feet were gaijin feet. They were long, bony, and high-arched. Japanese feet, on the other hand, are much more fleshy and flat. That explains all those stylish, flat shoes that killed my feet after a few hours.
No matter how hard I tried, I would never be able to master the kendo foot slap. Sure, I could still study and practice. In time I could become a respected kendo swordswoman. But I would always be a little different.
As I said, this isn’t a negative. In fact as an American, going about things my own way is kind of the heart and soul of my identity. I am not devastated that my physical body kept me from this and other Japanese experiences. I am not going to say I have always loved my feet, I haven’t, but that is another issue altogether. My feet are my feet. However, this experience reminded me that there will always be differences. I think these should be cherished, though. They make each person and culture individual. This might not be such a good thing to Japanese people, but for me it is. Our differences can bring us closer together if we let them.
I would love to end this story with something like my sensei and I both learned something that night, but I can’t. I am not sure what he took from the encounter. And I was a little too busy trying to remember the movements, positions, and shouts to really think deeply about it.
I can say it was an awesome experience. I was very lucky. Most Japanese kendo students will practice for years, making sure they have everything down perfect before they are allowed to participate in all the drills I was able to do that night. They would never dream of striking a partner after just 30 minutes of practice! I guess this was another difference I didn’t reflect on till much later.
