Dear Community,

It is with some regret I must announce that, due to other obligations, I have to step down as a Rekuru blogger. I’ve really enjoyed my time here, and if even one of you enjoyed one of my articles, I consider it time well spent; I think this is a cool site and I’m proud of my fellow bloggers. But since my defining trait is to be unable to stop talking (or, that is, writing) I’ll leave you with a few thoughts.

I take everything seriously, even humor. The sort of writing I do is dense and highfalutin. It may seem like at times, I’m looking down on people who take a sort of naïve view of Japan; but I really, really don’t, since I too once basically thought it was a country where schoolgirls piloted giant robots and ate sushi. But if I hadn’t first loved it in that way, I never would have learned more about it. And people who have lived there for years must consider me naïve. Sure, if you love Japan, it can be embarrassing when you realize you’re not the only one. But even liking one J-Pop artist can lead to learning more about another culture.

Above: Zen rock garden in Kyouto

The Japanese term for someone who’s rooted in more than culture is kokusaijin. I can hardly claim that title for myself. But at the risk of sounding grandiloquent, I feel like the future of humankind lies not in one “race” or “culture,” but in people who can adopt more than one cultural perspective. A friend of mine in Japan, a Korean-American Japanophile, once said to me (also a racial mongrel): “We’re like the dogs of the earth, aren’t we? We’re not Asian and we’re not White. We don’t belong anywhere.” Yes—but potentially, and with hard work, isn’t it possible that we could belong anywhere?

Above: Crossing outside Shibuya Station

When I talk about the host family I lived with in Japan, I tend to paint an idyllic picture. Of course it wasn’t all like that. When I first got there, I ran up their stairs so fast my fingernails left scratches in their soft plaster walls. I used my host mother’s eyebrow trimmer to clip my beard; because in my family we share everything. I couldn’t explain to them that I wouldn’t kill the cockroach in my room for humanitarian reasons, and not because I considered it “their job.” If you’ve seen the Borat movie, it’s hardly comic exaggeration; if you’ve lived in another country, you’ve lived that movie, whether you realize it or not.

Above: My host father and sister

They were ordinary people, just a young couple with a young daughter trying to make it in the suburbs. My host father could be kind of rude; he once asked me, to my face, why Americans “loved war.” But most of the time they were amazingly patient and kind. And I would go out and drink; the Japanese term for staying out all night is asakaeri, and one day, staggering back home at four in the morning, and wondering what they would think, I felt such a deep and pervasive shame I can’t express it.

Above: My host mother

Late in my study-abroad, one of my white friends got kicked out of his homestay. His host family suddenly announced a “family trip” without warning him in advance, and he had to find someplace else to stay on a week’s notice. Now, no matter how obnoxious he was (and knowing him, it might well have been largely his fault), that was pretty shabby of them. But when I said (that saddest word in the English language) Goodbye to my host family, I could reflect with a sort of pride that they hadn’t kicked me out. Maybe it was because, no matter how big a jerk I could be, they realized that I loved them, and that I would do anything for them.

Above: If you can source the anime reference, five points

One night, I remember, I offered to help them put together a new bookshelf they’d bought (to replace the one I broke when I tripped and stumbled into it). My host father and I set at it and, being guys, we got everything wrong; glued pieces on backwards, and he put a hole through one panel with his hammer. And my host mother just stood there and laughed and laughed. Then as we were finishing, she went to the convenience store around the corner and bought us some beer. The night before I left, I started crying at the dinner table. They asked why, and my Japanese had improved enough to be able to say “must be allergies.”

Above: The Byoudo-in in Uji

I can’t help but get sentimental at times like this, and I have to say: the only important thing in life is connecting with people, going to where they’re coming from, and loving them, unceasingly, no matter what they do. Everything else is just…nonsense. It doesn’t matter how silly or ridiculous it seems; if it’s done sincerely, it’s the right thing to do. Some of my friends here, who want to go to Japan, worry about fitting in; one blonde girl even wanted to dye her hair black. You’ll never “fit in.” Just go somewhere and be yourself and talk to people. Something amazing might happen.

Cheers,
Jacob Ritari