Rhema Baquero (Hyogo)
The train slows to a stop and fresh passengers step through the opening doors. The car is crowded during rush hour and across from me the bench packed full of commuters. The new passengers look to the empty spaces on either side of me, wide enough to fit two people each. They look at each other and choose to stand for the next eight stops. I rise from my seat at the coffee shop and meander to the women’s restrooms. A woman steps out and sharply gasps at the sight of me. Throwing her gaze to the ground, she skitters past me to safety. A child of three or four walks down the hill of my neighborhood with his hand in his mom’s. He looks up from his teetering steps and freezes. “黒外人! 黒外人! こわい!” Black foreigner! Black foreigner! SCARY! He screams and points directly at me. I can still hear him over the music in my headphones as I pick up my pace. On the train home from my birthday dinner, a Japanese man approaches my husband and I as we quietly chat by the door. He shouts at us in Japanese. Then he slurs in English, “Japanese only! Train for Japanese!” The doors open to the station before ours and he pushes my husband off the train. He tries to touch me as well, but my husband is back and in between me and the man. I look to the car for help, but everyone keeps their heads down. A year into living in Japan, I should be used to these common occurrences, but it is not always easy to be reminded that you are and always will be an outsider. I expected this before making the decision to move here. I read accounts, spoke with current POC residents and watched YouTubers tell their stories. I constantly face racism and microaggressions in America, so I hoped that I would be prepared for what I would face in Japan.
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