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Japanese Gangsters

on August 09, 2014

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How a Black Man Gets a Hair Cut in Japan.

I’ve been going to the same barber in Osaka since 1991. As a fresh-off-the-boat “gaijin”, I recall the day I cautiously poked my head inside the entrance to this storefront parlor just across the way from my weekly mansion. The shop was wedged between a locksmith and a newspaper delivery vendor, all which composed the ground floor of this scruffy-looking, two story, apartment complex built in the 1970‘s, considered a relic by modern Japanese standards. Inside, were well-worn magazines - a faded blend of manga, nude woman and cigarette ads - that were piled in uneven stacks beneath a wooden, two-tiered coffee table. The dingy smell of tobacco lingered, turning the once sparkling wallpaper into various shades of yellow and brown. Near the entrance hung a huge poster showcasing rows and rows of Japanese squires, modeling hairstyles that offered an even further glimpse into a fashionable period long gone by. As I walked in, I nervously took a seat while the barber remained crouch...

The Gift of Time

This story is about a watch. One afternoon, as I leaned over the copy machine to clear out a jam, the chimes on the office door jingled ever so slightly. Like sun rays peeking through the early morning wood-blinds, there she stood. “ Koicnichiwaaaa... ” announced a woman with an uncertain voice. A scented breeze ushered her into the foyer. She was a “walk-in” --- a would-be client in search of an “ Eigo no Sensei ", or English teacher. Her name was Naori Fuji, age 23. Snapping to attention, the saleswoman led her to the brown velvet sofa which looked cheesy against her designer wear. Her freshly trimmed hair rested neatly on her shoulders, as she crossed her hands neatly on her lap . Ms Fuji was unusually coy , much more than the other well-dressed women who flocked to our school like flamingos to a waterhole. Speaking just above a whisper, she covered her mouth when she smiled ,...

The Long Journey Home

About the only thing more daunting than adjusting to life in a foreign country, is dealing with life coming back. Known as reverse culture shock, I watched many Japanese students stumble into the tar pit of shock and despair upon their initial efforts to repatriate into society after living a year or two abroad. They were not alone. My readjustment to life in the US, after two decades overseas, was itself mildly traumatic. On previous home-visits to Los Angeles, the longest I could bare staying in the country was about 10 days. After that, I started getting “the hebegeebies”. But this time, I was home for good. I remember nervously walking into a popular dive-bar downtown, in search of anything that could mimic the warmth and inviting atmosphere of the Far East. Instead, I quickly found myself the only black person in a room full of jovial whites southerners. Being the odd man out in a sea of caucasian faces is part of what drove me from the Sta...

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Japanese Gangsters

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