How Many Suitcases, Karen?

A curious thing happened to me this summer when I was getting ready to go to the USA for a long overdue visit.  The first hint that something was amiss bubbled up most unexpectedly right there in the middle of a casual conversation with my American friend who also lives in Japan.

“Hey, Pamela,” I said.  “How many suitcases are you taking home to USA when you visit this summer?”

“Are you kidding,” she gasped, her eyes wide and bulging (honestly I thought they were going to pop right out...).

I wasn’t kidding.  I was thinking I’d make my trip simple simple this time… only the basics….maybe even just go with a knapsack…a carry-on…you know, light.  But by the extent of how far her eyes had protruded from the sockets by my question, I could see some major back-tracking was in order.   Somehow I had broken the rules of my expat club membership and yikes, oh, man, they were going to kick me out!  I was missing something and something big!  

“I am going home with at least three,” she said narrowing her eyes and backing slightly away, “and two of them will be empty.”

“Empty”?  I asked, still clearly still not getting it. 

“Of course! Are your daft?  How else are you going to bring ALL THE STUFF BACK?”

“Ohhhhh!  All the stuff!  Yes, of course,” I said nodding quickly and smiling.  “Yes, all the stufffff.”  And with that utterance I could see that for now, my membership was safe.  But I was still thinking, “Do I need to bring so many suitcases?”

In past trips back to the States, an extra suitcase or two to be filled or rather stuffed to the brim with anything and everything that was USA, was a no-brainer.  After all if I was going to Americanize Japan than I was going to need a lot more space.  Everyone knows America does not fit into a knapsack.  But this time, somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to me to bring more.   What had changed?   Well, I have been in Japan now for 15 years and had not visited the States for three.  So what “stuff” did I really want to bring back?  Nothing?  The very thought made my skin tingle and then a disturbing mantra popped into my mind and I struggled to breathe at the very thought: 

You will be assimilated.

Resistance is futile. 

You will be assimilated. 

Resistance is futile.

You will be assimilated.

Resistance is futile. (Okay, so maybe I watch a too many Star Trek repeats)

Had I been assimilated?  Is it possible that the fact that I didn’t need any suitcases mean that, gasp, I had become JAPANESE?  Had they finally “gotten” to me? 

Ok, ok, calm down.  First of all, are you sure “assimilation” is the right word to describe what’s going on with you?  According to Wikipedia (where else would I go)  “Assimilation usually involves a gradual change and takes place in varying degrees; full assimilation occurs when new members of a society become indistinguishable from older members.”  Oh dear, have there been some gradual changes? 

Over the years, it seems I have struggled with my native culture verses my new.  At times I have fought with determined passion.  It seems my American culture, is so deeply ingrained, so utterly a part of me that it if you cut me my blood would very likely flow red, white and blue.  Many Japanese cultural conventions did not come easily, and for quite a long time I did resist, clinging to my native culture like grim death.  So, despite the often extreme effort it took to live American in Japan, I continued to push and yank, and wrestle and pin to the mat anything that was out of my comfort zone.  The plan was to Americanize all of Japan so that I would feel comfortable.  So, I baked brownies. Made lasagna.  Celebrated Thanksgiving with turkey, gravy, sweet potato pie, dressing, squash and all the trimmings. Bought the biggest artificial Christmas tree I could find (which was not easy), scoured the town for anything that looked like a Christmas decoration, and made many more.  I ordered DVDs from the States, spoken only English (for the most part) at home, met with my American friends on a regular basis to complain about Japan, voted in the Federal elections, filed my USA taxes and resisted, resisted, resisted. I quite honestly wore myself out trying to live the American life right here in Japan. 

Don’t get me wrong – at the time, I was completely unaware of what I was up to – there were two of me really… split personality.  One happy lady was thoroughly enjoying the new culture everyday by cheerfully, breathlessly, eagerly, passionately embracing all that was Japanese.  I  danced down the roads with kimono-clad ladies during matsuri (festival); I welcomed every guest into my home with green tea and a treat; I sang at the neighbor karaoke night, brought up the rear lugging portable shrines through the streets, suffered through sake overdose, ate noodles with the best slurp I could muster.  The other lady, well, she was AMERICAN. 

Yes, I really enjoyed, but this is the thing:  I was enjoying, but as a tourist enjoys and  it was quite a few years before I realized that unlike a tourist I would not go home…this was my home:  I LIVED here.  And before I knew it the kimono-clad ladies dancing down the street for the umpteenth time was no longer as interesting.  For heaven’s sake…hey, that matsuri comes each and every year.  The newness wore off and, curiously, what was left had become familiar.  Where did Japan go?

So, the tourists had gone home, but I was still here and I had to find my comfort zone.   So I retreated and surrounded myself in America as best I could. What else could I do?  But the funny thing was while I was retreating, I was also trying to adapt and blend in: 

 “Hey honey,” I asked my husband one summer’s day, “if I wear these sunglasses do you think people here might think I am Japanese?”  They were rather big.  Hid most of my face...or so I thought.  Cool.

“Are you kidding?” he said.  Yeesh, talk about bursting a very comfortable bubble.

Ok, back to the suitcases, and I won’t lie:  I went to the USA with empty suitcases (after all I am not completely out of the expat club yet) and I lugged them back brimming with a lot of stuff that  I frankly would be just fine without.    It seems that the roots of that first culture spread wide and deep and its grip though may loosen a bit, remains firm despite constant competition.  In the end, I have to say that yes, in fact, I have adjusted and adopted many conventions of this culture:   I take off my shoes before entering the house, I finish a conversation on the phone by bowing, I suimasen (excuse me, or sorry) anyone and everyone as much as possible, I sneak eat Japanese food (otherwise my husband would get it), and I even cast my eyes down and look away when the situations calls for it.  So yes, I have become a bit…hmm, Japanesey  And yes, by becoming a bit “Japanesey” it has made it easier for me to live here, but complete, utter, assimilation?  I don’t think so.  And actually, just the thought of is quite scary  -- not that the Japanese are the Borg or anything but because a lot of who I am was shaped by my USA culture so losing that somehow would seem like losing me.  I have adapted though.. relaxed, accepted the differences, founded a nice middle ground – and that is okay – for now…but check back with me in a few years because who knows, I may feel differently then.  But in the meantime, a couple of more suitcases please!