Another Kind of Goodbye

I've been musing a bit recently on my stint as a Japanese homemaker, N.B. 主夫 not 主婦, and the idea came to me to write something, most likely in Japanese, about my rather odd experience of failing to get across to people what it is I do for a living and simply resorting to saying I'm a housewife. Funny conversations typically ensue, and I am dragged further into the world that is the daily life of a married, middle-aged Japanese woman. With that in mind, I started with the following, in Japanese but don't worry, I'll translate it too.

今日、七月七日、日本のどこかで誰か七夕を祝うかもしれないが、俺は名古屋からどことも知れない場所まで東海道線の普通電車に乗る予定しかない。車両の外、側面図が我と別れて消えてしまう。各街は同じ街みたいだし、俺の各場所の思い出も消えてしまう。その思い出を逆方向に行く電車に置いて他の忘れやすいながめに入る。

　蒲郡と豊橋の間にどこかで特定の名前も知らないタロウという若者も三人同級生も乗ってくる。タロウと彼の仲間があっちこっちにある空席に座らないままに立っている。「何でかな…」と自分に言ってタロウ組にじっと見つめる。しんしんと彼らはなんか笑い話と語りかける。その四人仲間は何と話してるかよく分からなくて、俺が分かれるのは「バラバラバラバラバラバラ外人バラバラバラバラだろう？」って、血も燃えるようになって怒れていく。「何でそんなにすっごく怒れるような気分しとるか、お前は」と聞くとしてタロウは自分の眼に見る。答えは「ワカンナイ」

Today, the 7th of July, somewhere in Japan someone must be celebrating Tanabata, but the only thing I have on my agenda is to take a train from Nagoya to God-knows-where on the Tokaido line. The view outside the car splits off and disappears; each town looks to be the same town, and as such my memory of each place disappears. I put those memories on a train going the opposite direction on which they enter yet another entirely forgettable scene [a really bad translation of nagame, which is used to describe particularly breathtaking views of the countryside].

Somewhere between Gamagori and Toyohashi some teenager for whom I don't have a particular name but will call "Taro" gets on the train with three of his classmates. He and his friends refuse to sit separately in seats scattered here and remain standing. "Why?" I muse to myself and stare transfixed at the group of them. Quietly, "Taro" starts to tell them some kind of anecdote; I can't really understand what the four of them are saying, but what I do catch, "yada yada yada yada gaijin yada yada yada," makes my blood boil. "Taro" looks into my eyes as if to say, "what's got you so bent outta shape?" My answer: "I dunno."

I should probably add that the town I live in, Mito, is roughly half way between Gamagori and Toyohashi. Everytime I come back here, I feel this intense weight of unwelcome that makes me think I'm arriving for the first time, even though I've lived here for years. I constantly have to shake off the locals' "astonishment" that a whitey is getting off at Aichi-Mito station, a reaction that is initially quaint but after three years becomes patently ridiculous. That and the oppressive humidity have rendered me all too willing to let my memories of this place pass as I head somewhere else.