We Are The Zulu Warriors of Japan

I don’t think we were actually lost. We knew more or less where we were, it just wasn’t clear where we would be next. Our walk from rural Japan to even more rural Japan had taken longer than we expected, and now the approaching evening brought autumn’s first nip to the air. All we wanted was to find the quickest way home.
However, according to the half hour consultation with the inevitably overly-helpful lady at the village office, my fellow JET Keith (who fortunately CAN speak Japanese, unlike his hiking partner) gleaned that our only option was the long process of taking a bus to the nearest city, walking across town to the train station, and from there catching the train home.
When the bus arrived it was completely empty of passengers, which was a blessing for me since this was my first time on a Japanese bus and I made at least three protocol mistakes before even getting into a seat. We sat immediately opposite the doors, and basked in the countryside that rolled by outside, keeping our eyes peeled for sudden flashes of “the Real Japan”; a hidden shrine here, an old woman in a colorful kimono there, and everywhere covert double-takes from people who noticed the two pale faces peering into their world from behind the bus window.
After a few stops without any addition to the short passenger list, we came to a stop that, from our perspective, appeared to be empty as well. But when the double doors to our left slammed open, we were instantly caught in the beam of 20 saucer-sized eyes gaping up at us. Ten knee-high, uniformed, speechless elementary school students stood outside, frozen in... in what? Not exactly terror, or interest, or confusion. Maybe it was a combination of all these, or simply a shock strong enough to shut down their brains for a second, like the deer in the headlights that pauses for a moment to contemplate whether it’s about to be raptured into deer heaven, be abducted by aliens, or hit by a truck. It’s a look that every foreign resident of Japan must learn to accept, and ideal even enjoy.
After a long moment the children managed to push one of their number up onto the bus stairs to test the waters, like penguins testing for seals. Keith and I had no intention of passing up this chance to fulfill our duty to “nurture grassroots internationalization,” and as each pair of saucer-eyes scurried by we let out a cheery chorus of “Hello!”, which caused each saucer-sized pair of eyes to upgrade to frying-pan-sized and sent them all diving for the very back of the bus.
As the bus moved on our attention was entirely shifted to the inside of the bus. And no wonder; we could practically feel the undivided attention focused on the backs of our necks. Keith and I started a conversation about the reaction we so effortlessly elicited, and tried to put ourselves in the tiny shoes behind us.
“Wow, they were really shocked! It’s just so easy!”
“Yeah, I wonder what’s really going through their heads....What do you think would cause us to have the same reaction to something?”
“Well, it’d have to be on our own turf, so say you’re nonchalantly getting on a bus back in America, and on the bus is sitting... what?”
“An alien?”
“Not really, it should be something that you knew existed, but you never expected to see, at least not there.”
“Someone from some very obscure part of the world, who looks very strange...”
“Like a Zulu warrior or something! Yeah, imagine you’re getting on the same bus you’ve taken every day for years, only this time the doors open and there’s a Zulu warrior in full regalia sitting there looking at you! That’d give me a few seconds pause!”
As we contemplated our presence in rural Japan as comparable to a Zulu warrior walking around New York city, the thought became both more humorous and more depressing. To a certain extent I think all of us enjoy the attention we get here, the celebrity of standing out in (and above) any crowd, feeling just a little bit famous. Last week I was swarmed by a group of my elementary school students who wanted my autograph, and one little boy who couldn’t find a piece of paper tore off his shoe and held it up to me with a pen. “Sign, please!” I’ve never felt closer to being a rock star in my life.
At the same time, the image of the lonely warrior wandering around New York underlines the fact that we are indeed far from home. We will never blend in, never be Japanese, and never stop getting pointed at and watched. There will never come a day when we are no long treated a little like aliens, for “alien” (at least in terms of nationality) is what we are, and Keith and I had the undivided attention of 10 huddled children to prove it.
Several stops down the road, we heard the children gathering their things and preparing to leave. Screwing their courage to the sticking post, one by one they marched by us. And low and behold, as easy student passed by, an exuberant “good-bye!” was bestowed upon us. When we responded in kind they laughed, and dashed happily off the bus, waving to us from the sidewalk.
There is certainly a lot to be said about the closed communities of Japanese society, the often dire lack of English ability, and the absence of awareness or sensitivity regarding anyone from “the outside,” and we who are from “the outside” often get fed up with it. After all, we are trying to be multi-cultural and multi-lingual, we are giving years of our lives to open up communication with these people who point and stare at us. And of course America especially is much more a melting-pot than Japan will ever be, full of multi-ethnic people who don’t consider it impossible for outsiders to become one of them. Try asking a Japanese person about how to understand Japan, and you’re likely to hear some variation of “impossible.”
Say what you want about this island nation, still one fact remains. Of course New York is a more comfortable and open-minded environment for a foreigner than rural Japan, but these elementary school students made me realize something about my own subtle feelings of superior multiculturalism. If I were to step onto my bus in New York and found a Zulu warrior staring at me, I’m sure I would exhibit the same bewilderment, staring, and rushing to the back of the bus as those 10 year olds. But when the time came to disembark, I really doubt that I’d have the courage to engage him with a wave and a friendly “good-bye!” For one thing, I certainly wouldn’t be able to say it in nearly perfect Zulu.