I do not know Japan.
I am a baby, sitting on my ankles—REPORT ANY ABANDONED LUGGAGE TO AIRPORT PERSONNEL—smiling up at him, 70 years old and gently insisting, “I am not a teacher!” FLIGHT TO TOKYO BOARDING IN 20 MINUTES FROM GATE A74. Yes, but please, tell me about the Kakure Kirishitan, the Hidden Christians who continued to adore Christ while tucked away in the mountains or else to die for Him, my brothers and sisters I’ve never met who live in the book on your lap. NOW BOARDING ZONE ONE. We smile. We bow. We are invited to stay with Jun in south Japan, but we board our flight knowing we are going north.
I do not know Japan, but Jun’s quiet heart blossoms with astounding hospitality, with hues of warm tiramisu Oreos and Baumkuchen, the colors of his Buddhist and Shintoist skin that he said cannot be peeled. He says he is Christian. I pray that God will show him Christ’s skin was peeled not so His glory and love could be shared with other gods.
I do not know Japan.
I stall, frozen in a bewildered smile, beleaguered by the formidable machine announcing the same unintelligible message again and again and the 4’4 lady behind me, ready for me to finish buying my sack of hand soap refill so she can make her purchase and head home for dinner. Impasse. I beelined for the independent, self-checkout machines, but now I find myself utterly incapacitated by my infant-like illiteracy and forced into dependence upon charades with the kind lady behind me. She gestures for me that the machine demands an answer: plastic bag, or no plastic bag? It will cost me if I want one. ARIGATO. I know this word! I smile, bow my thank you, and hurry to move aside without bagging my purchase because I’ve already taken time from the people behind me.
I do not know Japan, but because I made the choice to come here, the people whom I meet must make their choice: attempt to politely avoid me for fear of a language they do not know, politely help me with Japanese and charades and Google Translate, or politely use as much English as they know to speak with me. No matter what choice they make, politeness reigns.
I do not know Japan.
Walk along the street with fast traffic towards the mountain bald as a hen with missing neck feathers, find the shopping center with ATMs, the DAISO dollar store, and the public toilets. I know those toilets now—if I press the green button, an alarm sounds until an attendant comes speaking Japanese to Stall Number 4. All I can do is point at the contents that the alarm button didn’t flush, make an over-dramatized pleading and apologetic face, and offer my hands up in distressed ignorance. She points to that black blob on the wall that I thought had no purpose—it flushes. Everyone is relieved.
I do not know Japan, but heading home means thinking backwards and facing the traffic that drives on the left and crossing the busy street when the blue man lights up and walks. Darkness has already begun and the five-second song on the city-wide speakers confirms that it is 5:00 in the evening. The musical announcement of the hour also happens at 7:00 a.m. and noon, but now I walk towards the sun descending in a blanket of watery mango over our northern fishing village.
I do not know Japan—I’ve only just arrived, and no matter how many books, blogs, and articles I read, Japan shows up in the heart of the Samurai, and I dare say that takes more than three weeks to know. Let me cradle all the nuggets I can possibly gather in my cheeks like a chipmunk unable to digest it all at once but storing it up like treasure. I was told that humility would pave favor before me if I walk in it. I am a child again.
