I told him about Texas and my pen pal abroad. One day another cousin, a kid my age, found me sitting next to a globe in the back of the seminary. Sometimes I’d leave the church, walk around the building, and toss rocks until my palms started bleeding. Sometimes a pack of boys wandered into town for church, and I’d be made to sit with them, and they’d ask about my cousins, and I’d clam the fuck up. I sat around while they made each other up, weaving and dyeing their hair, wrestling on the carpet, and when their mothers came in they’d give me a glance, but that’s all it was. My cousins looked at me like I was an alien. Most summers growing up, it’s where I spent the interludes between school. Lakeland was the first place I came into contact with poor white folks, and Lakeland was the first place I came into contact with generational poverty, and Lakeland was the first place I came into contact with the notion that sometimes people, black people especially, don’t leave a place because we simply cannot. Remnants of chattel slavery litter the town. It’s got a stoplight and a church and a basketball court.īefore she passed, my grandmother’s mother talked about the white family she’d worked for. My father grew up in this town by Lakeland. Most of my family lives in Florida, smack in the center of the state. This, I figured, was worth the trip alone. A common denominator was physical safety: Fewer tail lights to be stopped over. I spent the Spring Googling “black in Japan” and “black Japan expat” and “black Japan living.” Black residents cited the country’s cleanliness, and the culture of respect. Fuji and selfies on top of Tokyo Tower and the festival, and he just shook his head and winced and booked his twelve-hour flight. I told Dave that made sense, the plan was foolproof, we’d have time for the main island’s major cities and a quick jaunt to Fukuoka (on an entirely separate island) and a quick glimpse of Mt. If everything worked out, we’d finish our trip with the Shinjuku Eisu. The plan was to stay for a couple of weeks. When I told the whiteboy that story, he gave me this look. Instead, we gradually, slowly, proceeded to forget one another entirely, the way kids do everywhere, every day. Told me how his sister danced in the Shinjuku Eisa festival and I wrote that, one day, I’d see it, we’d visit each other, hash our shit out. Dude mostly just sent pictures of comics he’d been reading, but sometimes he’d take photos and label them: “sky,” “school,” “park.” He told me about Mt. Here was something that wouldn’t get my ass kicked.
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At the very least, I thought, Japanese was a popular language-a lot of students took it. The things I was supposed to have been invested in-like running a ball, slightly concussed, up and down a field or boxing over Homecoming dates in the parking lot-were hardly foreign, but felt like more of a compromise. I fought all the time, with everyone, over everything.
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It had absolutely nothing to do with my life.īut I was a gay boy, a black gay boy, in a place and time that seemingly eschewed everything I stood for. Growing up in Houston, I studied Japanese in school.
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We had a cupboard full of mugs from Sweden, and some salt shakers from Peru, and, some weekends, my father wore a kimono around the living room, mumbling after shitty NFL calls in German. There are millions of us, and we never think we’ll go-but my boyfriend Dave and I were going we’d bought the tickets, booked the Airbnbs, and one night before we left, a whiteboy in a bar asked what any of that had to do with me. The island lived in my imagination the way it does for gaijin all over the world. Partly because I’d always wanted to, but mostly because the chance had presented itself. The plan was to spend a few weeks in Japan. A few months back, I landed in Narita Airport, and from there I took a rail to the center of Tokyo.