Month: March 2017

“Where Are You From?”: The Unanswerable Question

Posted on by Kai Raine

After Japan, I lived in Buffalo, NY for a few years. I moved at the end of May, and from September, I attended 9th grade at a Catholic girl’s school. On the day of freshman orientation, the teachers emphasized how people were coming to this school from all sorts of places. “We even have someone from Japan,” they said. I saw some faces peering around curiously for a glimpse of the Japanese girl. Their eyes slid right over me.

A thread of irritation went through me: at the school for giving a statement so easily misconstrued, and at my schoolmates for assuming they would be able to tell who I was just by looking. But by then I was used to it. It was a small annoyance, easily forgotten. And forget I did, within a day or two.

So it was a surprise a few days or weeks later, when I was getting to know a smiling, long-haired classmate and she asked me what middle school I’d attended.

“I didn’t go to middle school,” I explained. “I was in school in Japan, and-”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “So you’re the Japanese girl!”

I stared, confused, and asked what she meant.

“They were talking about how there was someone from Japan at orientation.” Now that she mentioned it, I did remember that.

I tried to explain that I wasn’t Japanese. She countered with the observation that I had come from there, hadn’t I? I had to agree. I was already tired of the conversation. I felt that she didn’t have any concept of the complexity of the subject as she simply tried to fit me into a box to suit her worldview. Yet at the same time, I quite liked the idea of getting to be Japanese, at least for a little while.

I attended that school for two years. Some things became easier. In the beginning, some things were impossible for me to do in English. We started out doing logic in math class, and I simply wasn’t used to step-by-step reasoning in English. It took me an excruciating amount of time to do one page of homework, because trying to reason out the problems as they were made my head spin. I would translate the question into Japanese, reason it out, and then translate it back into English. Sometimes, the answer still wouldn’t make sense, and I’d have to start again. After a few months, this problem was a thing of the past. I learned who Britney Spears was and learned to use slang intermittently. I learned that Orlando Bloom’s name meant that you stood up and screamed.

(A lot of the “cultural knowledge” I gained at the time I find slightly disturbing in retrospect. It’s not the knowledge itself, but the fact that I was dropped into the middle of a culture where a lot of information was already assumed to be known to people my age. So for instance, in a seminar about how to spot eating disorders in your friends, I was getting a crash course in what an eating disorder was, why I might like to try it, what people use to spot it and getting ideas how to hide it effectively. Fortunately, eating disorders weren’t for me. I gave up after a week of trying and failing to develop one.)

The more I learned to pretend to be a part of the culture, the less I felt like a part of it. In part, I’m sure it was your average dose of teenage angst: the “no one understands me” mindset. Maybe, had I continued to live there, I would have grown to feel like a part of it. But two years later, I was moving to Hyderabad, India, and there was a whole new set of rules all over again.

By the time that I started university in Alaska, I was answering the dreaded question based on my mood and the people present at the time. If I was in a group of Americans, I would claim to be from India or Japan. Among Indians, I would claim to be American or Japanese. Among Japanese, I would claim to be American or Indian (but with the claim that I grew up in Japan). This fluid answer worked well for me for years.

Eventually, I grew tired of having to think every time I answered so basic a question. By the time that I was in graduate school in Europe, I was defaulting to “I grew up in Japan.” I would have to explain myself afterwards, but I could get by with a succinct explanation. For a time, I thought I had finally found a single, simple answer.

But again, years went by and my last visit to Japan fell further and further into the past. By the time that it had been 7 years since I’d last been to Japan, I was starting to feel that even my current answer was no longer the truest explanation. One day, I tentatively answered that I was American. There was no reaction but acceptance. It was easy. My mind rebelled against the idea of settling into that identification just because it was simplest, and the next couple times I met people, I went back to the “I grew up in Japan” response. Then, eventually, I started calling myself American consistently.

This was only a problem when I was talking to Americans, because this would inevitably lead to a discussion of where in America. The only place in America I could speak with any confidence about was Fairbanks, Alaska, and even that was limited to college life. If I said I was born near Boston, I was met with talk of people and places I’d never heard of. But I so rarely had this conversation with Americans that this was largely a non-issue. When I had to, I would smile and nod if I did not feel in the mood to explain my entire life story.

By the time I visited Japan again, I was in my mid-twenties and hadn’t so much as visited in 9 years. I was terrified to go back, by then. What if I no longer had anything in common with my friends? What if my Japanese was no longer quite native—what if I could no longer follow a conversation? What if this last one place that I still sometimes could think of as home no longer felt like home at all?

It isn’t uncommon that I get caught in a maze of what ifs in my own head. Generally it’s a colossal waste of time, and this time was no different. Japan was easy in a way I’d forgotten life could be easy; comfortable in a way that I’d forgotten any culture could feel comfortable. It didn’t matter where I said I was from, I realized. There is no longer a path of least resistance. Whether I call myself American or Japanese (or Indian or German), there tend to be puzzled looks and follow-up questions. I no longer occupy my time thinking about how to answer the question. I give the answer that strikes me as best at that time.

The Quirky Hostel Manager (Pt. 3)

Posted on by Kai Raine

On the last day of the conference, a few fellow conference goers asked me about where I was staying. We were talking over lunch at an affordable Chinese place not too far from the fancy hotel that served as the conference venue.

“It’s a hostel that’s filthy and smells like pot,” I responded. “And it’s a mile downhill from here. And for a floor of twenty plus rooms, there’s one shower, one toilet, and one bathroom whose lights don’t work, making it useless. The only way I ever shower or use the bathroom is if I’m up at an odd hour of night. Which I am. Because I’m still jetlagged.”

“Ugh,” one of them grimaced. “Sounds awful.”

“It’s not, really,” I shrugged. “It was the cheapest private room I could find, so I wasn’t expecting much. And the guy who runs the place? He’s awesome and makes it all worth it. I love talking to him.”

“Sounds like someone has a crush,” one of them teased. I rolled my eyes.

“The dude’s like sixty.”

“An old man crush, then.”

I struggled to explain, then, how much I relish it when I meet another person able to have random conversations unbound by the tethers of reality and preexisting social constructs. I tried to demonstrate by starting to talk about dragons. One of my companions joined that conversation briefly before it devolved into a discussion of whether a dragon would melt Elsa (from Disney’s Frozen) or Elsa would freeze the dragon. (I maintain that the dragon would melt Elsa.)

I was really looking forward to talking with Ricardo* again. Every conversation we’d had had been so much fun.

So, of course, the day that I left, all our interactions were run of the mill. I took my suitcase down to check out and store it in the office just as it was opening. I had gone to sleep too early the day before and had woken up at midnight and been unable to go back to sleep. I probably looked a bit like a zombie.

By the time I came back from the post-conference class to reclaim my suitcase, I was feeling lightheaded with exhaustion and weak with hunger. I think we may have had a short discussion in which the suitcase was a hostage, but I don’t quite remember.

It was an underwhelming goodbye to what had been a very entertaining acquaintanceship.

*Not his real name.

Self-Awareness (So Easily Said and So Difficult to Actualize)

Posted on by Kai Raine

The most central part of my journey, and central to every sub-section of this blog series, is self-awareness.

The first step was learning to know when I’m in a depressive phase. Believe it or not, I’d been having depressive phases for the better part of a decade before I learned to recognize them for what they were. It took even longer to be able to identify an episode while I was in it.

I’d have a hard time trying to pin down why, exactly, it was so difficult to reach such a basic point of self-awareness. The most simple part of the very complicated answer is fear. It’s frightening to admit to depression. There’s no cure and a lot of stigma attached to the notion. It affects how certain people view me; some people even act as though it’s a thing I should have been able to do something about. Even if they weren’t speaking to me, a conversation about someone else’s anxiety or depression (even if not mentioned by name) would feel like an accusation directed at me: “Why aren’t you able to control your own mind?” I’d hear. In depressive phases, I get badly anxious; I would become anxious about being called depressed and it became easiest to avert my eyes from the whole idea altogether.

In my case, over time, I eased into the realization. As it grew harder to deny, I became readier to admit to it.

The second step is learning how to help yourself get out of a depressive phase. This is extremely tricky, because by definition, one has very little energy or will to do anything in such a phase. It isn’t always even possible.

A “solution” that was often presented to me was the notion that I should  exercise more. This did not work for me. I couldn’t explain how counter-effective this was until one day I stumbled across a video on YouTube. Nycea talks about a variety of issues, including her own experience with PTSD and weight loss. In the video I watched, she explained how she had anxiety and couldn’t “just exercise,” because effects of exercising felt too much like an anxiety attack and would trigger an actual anxiety attack. This, I realized, was exactly the problem I’d been encountering. So exercise was decidedly not the solution.

It did, however, help me to be able to verbalize why this didn’t work. The people who had been convinced that exercise was the answer continued to be convinced that I should be exercising. The ability to explain the problem made it possible for me to ignore this opinion, because I knew that it would not work for me.

In the worst depressive phase I ever had, I kick-started my recovery by finding the energy to call a friend. This was a friend who also suffers from depression, and I felt certain I could trust her to understand what I was going through and help me. I told her that I needed to get to a doctor to get meds but didn’t have the energy or the will, and the world outside was terrifying. She was calm and encouraging and pushed me gently (just enough), reminding me why to care. She was with me the whole time, first on Skype then over text. I had to wait for hours to see the doctor and had to go to 3 different pharmacies to find one that had the correct medication in stock, but I managed. And this friend made all the difference.

If you wonder, “Why not call a friend who could actually come and be there physically?” the answer is because I didn’t trust anyone in reasonable geographical distance with my psyche as much as I trusted this one friend. I judged that it was better to call a person I felt certain I could trust to help me find the strength, than to try to call someone I trusted less in the hope that they wouldn’t say something that would send me crawling back into bed to hide away for another week or three. In this case, I chose correctly. (But that doesn’t mean that if faced with a similar situation again, the same solution would work.)

The third step is learning to identify oncoming depressive phases before they begin, and counteract them. This is far more easily said than done, even more so than either of the first two steps. But having said that, it is my experience so far that it’s easier to counteract a shallow oncoming depressive phase than it is to crawl out of a deep, full-on episode.

For myself, one of the easiest signs that I am on the verge of a depressive phase is when my mind jumps straight to blaming myself for things I can’t help. When I find myself getting caught up in guilt over a memory, I know I need to do something. (This isn’t the only sign, and it isn’t always present when I’m on the verge of a depressive phase, but it is a common one.)

The solutions that help me are rarely the same thing twice. Once, I just started exercising more and a few days later was feeling better. Another time, I set off on a road trip to hike and visit a friend and was feeling better by the time I reached her place. Sometimes I change what I eat or how I eat. Sometimes I increase my social interactions; other times I cut out planned social interaction and make sure I have alone time to read and write and take it easy.

Largely, I find that I have to do a fair amount of soul searching to figure out what I need, or what would help me. My first attempt to recover sometimes makes it worse, and I need to work all the harder on the second attempt. Frequently, the solution that I require is neither the most obvious nor the most convenient.

Once, in the middle of a ski trip, I hit a mild depressive phase. I was feeling no enjoyment or excitement no matter how fast I skied: this state was not only alarming for my mental health, but also for my physical health. Having paid for the ski rentals and the accommodation for a certain number of days, I hated the idea of not skiing. But, in fact, a day or two of not skiing and just sitting inside writing was exactly what I needed. After that day or two, I went back to skiing and was capable of enjoying it again. (Though there was admittedly a numbed quality to the enjoyment, it was coming back.) To this day, I occasionally catch myself wishing I could have spent more of that trip skiing—and I remind myself how badly I needed to not ski at the time, and that had to take precedence.

The fact is, it’s very easy to say that one should be self-aware, but it’s extremely difficult to actually be self-aware. There is no self-help book and no other person who can teach you how to look into your own mind and truly know yourself. It is an excruciating process of trial and error. And that process of trial and error will always be ongoing, because there’s no one cure that fixes it, and no end point in this journey.

“Where Are You From?”: When I Became Japanese

Posted on by Kai Raine

In the third term of fourth grade, I was transferred out of public school and into a small private school. Everything changed. I was extremely culturally confused and had a temper that flared up at very inconvenient times and places that I myself couldn’t explain…and yet I made friends. I had had friends in public school, of course. I had two wonderful friends with whom I still remain friends to this day. But it was entirely different at this new school. All of a sudden, I had people who would come over to my apartment to play with my hamster and try to photograph ghosts. Some of the kids were harsh, and there were certainly classmates with whom I argued all the time, but no one ostracized me.

There was a girl who told me that there were, in fact, English-language shows on Japanese TV. She told me the channel and the time, but once I started watching, I didn’t like the show. Instead I started flipping the channel and discovered Inuyasha. Shortly after that I had discovered Detective Conan and One Piece, and a variety show called Sekai Marumie. My father had to impose TV restrictions on me, declaring I was only allowed up to 2-3 hours a week. This wasn’t a thing that had ever even been discussed in our house before.

I had always been an avid reader of English-language novels. My father had attempted to buy me Japanese novels on a few occasions. Some I had read and some I had not, but I’d never picked up reading Japanese for pleasure the way I had with English. Now, it was like a mental block had been removed: I devoured Japanese books. (I even voluntarily tried to read Harry Potter in Japanese, though I abandoned that after two pages of reading forced me to realize that the humor didn’t translate at all. A subject for a future blog post, perhaps.)

I didn’t realize that I was integrating at the time. All I knew was that I was happy. Suddenly, nationality didn’t matter. I belonged here, in this class, with these people. There was nothing else that mattered. My classmates knew that I was American; and I was the only totally foreign girl in our class. But there were other foreign students in the school, and other foreign-looking students in our class. I grew more secure in my identity, which had nothing to do with any country, after all.

But five years of cultural drifting doesn’t just go away. I continued to have crises from time to time over the notion of where I was “really from” or where I belonged. Yet where previously my default state had been to say “I’m American” and feel sorry for myself being the fish out of water that I was, my default state was to now feel irritation at the unwitting soul who had just dared to assume that I didn’t belong here simply because I looked different.

In sixth grade, the last year that I lived in Japan, there was a young boy, maybe four years old, who would be waiting for the bus on my way to school. On the first day that I walked past him, he shouted, “Mommy, look, a foreigner!” I didn’t think much of it until the next time that I walked past him and he did the same thing. His mother hushed him half-heartedly every time, but with the air of a parent who has more important things to worry about.

Avoiding this child became a matter of routine for me. It wasn’t a big deal, but it wasn’t pleasant, either.

Similarly, I completely stopped trying to understand when people spoke to me in English. On one occasion, a friend (half-Japanese and half-English) and I were lap swimming in a public pool, using the center of the lane instead of one side so that people could pass us (as we were supposed to). A life guard came up to explain the rules to us. He did so in English so accented and long-winded that I didn’t understand a word. When I looked to my friend beside me, she looked as confused as I felt.

“Could you please speak Japanese?” I asked in Japanese.

The life guard turned bright, bright red and explained to us that we had to swim on one side of the lane in one concise sentence and left.

My Japanese, I had realized by then, sounds absolutely native. I grew up learning and socializing as a Japanese child, and it shows in my command of the language. But it didn’t hit me how much my cultural identity had changed until my class trip to Hiroshima.

My school had (and still has) a tradition for sixth graders. They spend the first half of the year learning about Japan’s role in World War II, culminating in the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. The whole school then contributes to the folding of over 2000 paper cranes, which we hang by the statue of Sadako along with a pledge to work toward world peace, that such a tragedy might never happen again. It is educational and somber, but also extremely fun: it is, after all, a class trip.

We went to the park and the museum of the bombing in Hiroshima. I cried, as did a few of my classmates. That night, when we got back to the hotel, I received a letter from my mother. It was a long letter, and I’m sure it was very moving, but I only remember one thing. My mother told me how ashamed I must feel to be American and part of the country that did this. But until that very moment, it hadn’t even occurred to me. I went on a brief but intense emotional roller coaster (much to the chagrin of the teacher who had to sit with me through it, I’m sure), in which I went from “Oh no, I’m a terrible person to not have thought of how I’m a part of the country that did this” to “Wait, why do I have to be considered American at all?” and finally to, “Ugh, who cares? The bomb is upsetting enough without adding an identity crisis into the mix.”

It was the first time that I realized that I no longer identified as American.

In another world, I would have accepted that fact and gone on to middle school in Tokyo. Sometimes I wonder if that wouldn’t have changed everything: maybe my family would never have moved and I would have grown into adulthood in Japan. But, of course, that’s not what happened at all.