What does it mean to be an American? All my life, I’ve never really known how to answer this question. Where do you even begin? What does an American look like? Talk like? Act like? They say hindsight is 20/20. Although the Pacific Ocean is still an impassible chasm for even perfect vision, my time on the other side has opened my eyes in a new light toward the county I left behind, and perhaps towards the beginning of an answer. It has been over 11 months since I have set foot on American soil. This time of absence has enabled me to look back from a new perspective; or, more accurately, to look within – now that I am the gaijin, the foreigner, the other. Now that I am the American.
Oh beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
“Johnny, what is the weather like in your country?” My eyebrows stooped in confusion. What the heck? With a kind smile and expecting eyes, my Japanese co-worker patiently waited for the answer to his “simple” question as we huddled around the space heater on a bitter January morning. “uh.. well… it depends. America is really big,” I began to stammer. This question came with humorously unfortunate timing. While most of the country was suffering through the polar vortex, my SoCal homeland was basking in its eternal sunshine. What’s the weather like in America? I have no idea.
Johnny, do people in your country like this game? This music? Do people in your country do this? Eat this for breakfast? Know how to use chopsticks? My attempts to answer these innocent questions typically start in much the same way. Umm… sometimes? Maybe? Where do I even begin? What is this strange land I came from, that can’t even be described? Part of my job here has not only been to teach my native language, but to share my native culture – the latter no less boundless a task than the former. Yet through the Japanese fog, my mind has begun to fix on a beacon of light like truth shining from a far eastern shore. It’s peculiar how a culture and a people can be simplified into a certain essence that shines like a lighthouse on a cliff. From my island vantage point, that essence, which was previously too bright and pervasive to understand, can now be grasped – now that the familiar has become strange. Yet in that strangeness there’s a pleasant comfort – a comfort like home.
Koshien Stadium – home of the Hanshin Tigers
“It’s awesome! It’s a movie about kids playing baseball!” The English teacher sitting next to me looked confused during our lunchtime conversation about why The Sandlot is such a classic American film. “Oh ok. Are there many famous actors in it?” “Uh, no I don’t think so. Just a bunch of kids. And this one old guy. Oh and a giant dog!” This clearly wasn’t helping. I put down my chopsticks as my hands joined the struggle to articulate myself. “It’s… it’s… just so… American!” I sat back with a satisfied smile at my triumphant answer. She fished for something to say over another bite of onigiri. “Ah I see.” – a polite Japanese expression meaning “I don’t get it, but thanks for trying.”
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain
America is an identity. It’s not something without – something that can be seen or tasted. It’s something within – something that is felt and known. It was that something which I began to sense within me – a something that stood in stark contrast to my new environment. 11 months is a long time to not belong, to not understand and to not be understood. It’s a long time to be so different. But that’s ok, because I am different. In this nation that is worlds away from our own, I’ve begun to realize a simple but deeply profound truth. I am not Japanese. I am American. And oh, there’s a glimmering ocean of meaning there.
wandering the back-alleys of Kyoto
I’m not going to tear up. No way. Not in front of 5 Japanese schoolgirls. It was the last day of English club at Todou High School for the semester, and in honor of a soon approaching July holiday, I wanted to teach my students something special about my country. What I found was more than I was looking for. With a printout of lyrics to the Star-Spangled Banner, I began to explain in simple English the powerful significance of these words and the glorious story of their birth. I could see their smiles as the poem’s truly “American” essence bled through the paper. Then Whitney Houston brought it home. I had found a YouTube clip of the opening to the 1991 Super Bowl. During the height of the Gulf War, a stadium of proud Americans shared one of our national anthem’s all-time greatest deliveries. Now I was sharing it with a small group of uniformed students in a humid classroom. By the opening note there was already a curious feeling in my gut, like kindling in a family hearth. And the home of the brave! At the triumphant finale, that kindling now burned like a flood, pushing up through my throat and to my eyes. Oh America! I played if off with a casual sniffle like there was something spicy in my bento lunch. But that feeling was just so… so… American!
boat cruisin on Lake Biwa – America style
So exactly what does it mean to be American? I still don’t know. But maybe that’s not the point. I suppose it means lots of things to different people. Relative to Japan, the history of our nation is juvenile and the identity of our people a blur. We’re a kaleidoscope country – an ever-changing spectrum of dynamic colors moving in rhythm. Sometimes they seem to be dancing, sometimes fighting, yet nevertheless it’s a beautiful display. With each one of those colors comes a story built on memories. They’re simple, ordinary things, but they’re American things. Like drowsily watching football with dad after a Thansgiving feast. Or making smores with laughing friends around a sandy fire pit. Or black, square hats flying in the air from hands no longer belonging to students. Or a stadium full of spectators removing their hats to sing together a song which they can all share as their own. No matter how diverse these memories can be, they belong together. You see, America is more than just a memory or a feeling. It’s all of our memories and feelings. It’s a tapestry. And by divinely blessed chance, we’ve had the privileged birthright of weaving our own stories into that tapestry.
America! America! God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
I am the American. I carry with me 22 years of these memories that belong to a different land – these memories which have become part of who I am. That my story is currently being written on foreign shores makes it no less American. Identity does not easily forget it’s home. Though I now bike on the left side of the road, eat with chopsticks rather than a fork, or bow rather than shake hands, I am still an American. In fact, that identity has only become clearer as I share my memories and stories with those who didn’t share in their creation. So this Friday, as Americans around the globe celebrate the birth of their national identity, have a hotdog on me. In exchange, I have one request. Be grateful. Yes, be grateful. There are millions that can only dream of obtaining the national identity you were born with. Though we can’t quite define that identity, there is something very special about it that is envied far beyond our shores. So my fellow Americans, you are truly blessed. Believed that, and be grateful. And have a happy 4th of July.
From sea to shining sea!
KonnichiWhatsup 