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I’m at the famous Ginkakuji, the Temple of the Silver Pavilion (which isn’t silver) in Japan, with my friend Saki and her mother. It’s a cool day, but not uncomfortable, and we’ve gone out to see the temples from the ancient past and the bright red leaves of early December. Saki’s mother has been snapping pictures every so often, and she excitedly urges me and Saki to kneel in the traditional Japanese position by the garden. Saki does so naturally, and I try to look like I can do it just as well. I can’t help but think that they want to see the big clumsy foreigner imitate their delicate ways to get a good laugh.
The Japanese are born to kneel for hours on end without respite. I could never do it for longer than a minute or two before my legs start hurting or my feet fall asleep, and I know few Americans who could. I think I fit into Japan as well as a big, pale American can, which of course is not much. At least I’m not loud, obnoxious, or too tall. But an American of non-Asian descent can never be mistaken for a native of Japan, or vice-versa. When we drink green tea or eat sushi, they are amazed that we enjoy their food. When we pick up chopsticks instead of the fork that is often provided specially for us, they are amazed at our ability to eat the way they do. When we speak a word or two of Japanese, they gasp and shower us with praise at our fine mastery of their language.
The Japanese visitors to the temple try not to stare too obviously, and I don’t notice it until I see the photograph later. I’ve had Japanese people staring at me with varying degrees of obviousness for four months now, from toddlers at the supermarket to elderly ladies on the train. I’m used to it. Some are curious, just peeking at me out of the corner of their eyes. Others take on a mask of pure terror at my difference, scooting over, crossing the street, or even moving to the next train car to get away. It’s a strange experience, but I have almost come to love my terrifying special ness and the attention that comes with it.