Excerpt: Not a Geisha
by Kimberly Palmer
~ a cultural memoir ~
The tall windows let sunlight stream into the large office, and turned the large man in front of me into a dark shadow. As he sat behind his desk, apparently reading a newspaper, I was so blinded by the bright light that I could hardly make out his facial expression. Should I walk in? Or was I supposed to wait to be invited? The secretary, Yamada-san, who had told me to follow her here, lightly knocked on the office door. "I know you must be very busy, but may we trouble you for a moment?" she asked in Japanese with a high voice. I thought her request was strangely tentative, given the fact that she said she had already arranged a meeting between me and Nomura-san, the boss of our office.
He put down his paper and stood up. My eyes adjusted; I could make out his smile. "Welcome, you must be Kim-san," he said, waving Yamada-san away with his hand. "Please come in." He walked towards me and sat on the couch in front of his desk, motioning for me to do the same. He towered over me - he looked about 6 feet tall -- and was wearing a light gray, three-piece suit with a vest, similar to bankers' uniforms in the 1920s. He held his tall stature proudly, and sat with his arms stretched across the couch as if he were entertaining at a cocktail party.
"We are very happy to have you here. We are very proud of our recent collaboration with the International Herald Tribune, it is a great thing for us, and a great opportunity for you. If you do well here you can go on and get a job at a top American newspaper." He paused and seemed to wait for a response.
"Thank you. I really appreciate you having me." That worked; he continued his monologue in near-perfect American English. "It will be hard for you. Our last intern was a man; he could spend time at night in Roppongi, and could talk to anybody, he did one story on Israeli immigrants; he had to walk around dangerous places at night. He even traveled and wrote stories from Hokkaido on discrimination against foreigners in the public baths. He was also very good at Japanese; I was shocked at how quickly he learned," he said. He paused, gazed across at me, and added, "By the way, please call me Nomura."
"Hai," I responded reflexively, before smiling nervously and quickly adding, "I mean, thank you, I will." After months of practicing Japanese in different scenarios, my brain must have been over-eager to use my new skill. He smiled, seeming somewhat amused, and said, "So, you speak Japanese?"
I told him I had studied it but still had a lot to learn. "Well, that is good. You will need it for your stories," he said. Then he stood up, shook my hand, and wished me luck.
As I walked back to my desk, I passed the copy editors and business desks. Male editors sat at desks near the windows, facing the rest of the newsroom. The Godiva chocolates I had presented to my editor when I arrived that morning were eaten and their little paper cups lay strewn across the editing desks. I sat down at my desk, which was nestled among the other feature reporters' desks. Unlike U.S. newspaper offices, our work spaces were not separated from each other with dividers. Papers from one reporter's desk spilled over onto the next, all ten desks shared four phones, and none had computers. The shared computers for writing stories and using the Internet were in the middle of the room. From anywhere on the floor, an observer could see and hear what was going on across the entire newsroom of about 80 people.
A middle-aged woman with a colorful scarf tied draped around her shoulders stood next at the desk next to mine, sorting through her pile of mail. I said hello. "I am Suzuki," she said, and returned to her mail. Then she turned back to me and asked if I had met Ohara-san, nodding towards the woman huddled over a desk behind us. I said I hadn't. Suzuki-san introduced us and explained to me that Ohara-san was in charge of the arts pages, and I should talk to her if I wanted to write any movie reviews. I nodded appreciatively and said I would love to. Ohara-san nodded and murmured affirmatively before turning back to her desk. Suzuki-san also turned back to her mail.
The notebook I had brought with me listed possible story ideas: Americans visiting Hiroshima and reflecting on World War II. Eating disorders among teenagers. The rise in homeless people. Gay culture. Asian-American communities in Japan. Tension between American soldiers and local Japanese towns. How women's self-defense courses are taught here. Living with HIV in Japan. Domestic violence shelters here. Without any contacts or knowledge of how to find statistics or experts, I wasn't sure how to even start exploring these ideas. Still, I was desperate to be taken seriously as a political reporter - and now I also wanted to show Nomura-san that women could also report on risky topics.
As I frantically punched in one Google search after another on one of the shared office computers, a thirty-something man in a dark suit sat down next to me. "Hello, I am new, my name is Kim," I said, smiling.
"Ah! Hello, I am Kawasaki. I am a business reporter," he said, smiling back and pushing his thick black hair back from his forehead. I went back to the computer. A few seconds later, he asked where I was from. I told him America. He asked if I would like to be language exchange partners. "I think it would be good for both of us," he said.
I enthusiastically agreed. I needed Japanese practice, and I also needed to get to know the other reporters in the office. I assumed we would make arrangements to have lunch sometime later in the week. "Tonight, after work, we can talk," he said. I told him I had to work until 10 pm, which was late; he said he did, too, so that was no problem.
After he got up, I wondered why he wanted English practice since he clearly spoke fluently and wrote political articles, in English, for a major English newspaper.
As I continued to Google, the few foreigners in the office asked me if I wanted to join them for dinner in the company dining room downstairs. The editors gave us tickets for free dinners if we worked after 7pm. I went down to dinner with Amanda, an outspoken Australian with red hair, and David, a soft-spoken American headed towards middle age. They both worked on the copy desk, checking translations for awkward English and rewriting stories in American-style journalism: main point on top and details later. At least in the direct translations from Japanese, the main point of the story often got lost near the bottom. We lined up with about a dozen other Japanese workers in the cafeteria. Most were men; some were in suits and others wore blue overalls and bandanas in their hair. Our choices were sushi, cooked fish with rice, or noodles. Our meal ticket also gave us green tea and water. Vending machines with beer and hot and cold tea drinks allowed workers to supplement their meals. As my turn approached, I tried to practice what I would ask for in my head. "Osakana, kudasai!" I wanted the fish. A tired-looking woman with a hairnet looked at me from behind the counter. I suddenly forgot the word for fish. I gestured to the fish, and said, "Kore, kudasai." ("That, please.") She answered with a loud, "Hai!" and slapped the fish on a plate, scooped up a mound of sticky rice from a large vat, and handed it to me.
Amanda and David called me over to their table as I struggled to balance my tray while pressing the button for green tea on the automated machine. As I sat down, they spoke to me as if we were good friends. "So, what do you think so far?"
I told them it seemed fine and I asked them how they liked their jobs. David gave me a smile, suggesting I had a lot to learn about how things worked. Then they started explaining that the Japanese editors didn't always treat the foreign workers with respect, and sometimes only gave them temporary contracts without benefits. Foreign workers didn't even receive a free copy of the paper that they helped produce everyday.Both of them seemed somewhat unhappy with their job situation. I briefly worried if I would start to feel the same way.
But Amanda and David also were comfortingly familiar amid all the strangeness, and Amanda seemed to have some good advice on handling the male editors. My ears perked up to her Australian accent. The coarseness sounded wonderfully Western among the soft, gentle tones of Japanese women.She had been working at the Asahi for over a year and had lived in Tokyo even longer. She told me to watch out for Shimoto-san, who was infamous for saying flirtatious things to the young foreign women, including asking about boyfriends. On the topic of dating, she warned me: All the foreign men in the city are interested in Japanese women, and the Japanese men see foreign women as sexual playthings. There was a no hope of finding a healthy relationship amid the twisted male fantasies about Western women. Through the hostess bars of Shinjuku, porn and mail-order bride industry importing Russian woman to Japan, Japanese men learn early on that we are one-dimensional. Her words almost seemed like a challenge. Western men had been frolicking in Japan since Dutch traders landed in the 1600s; why shouldn't Western women enjoy the same privileges?
Back upstairs, I worked for a couple more hours helping the copy desk rewrite translations. Ueno-san, the top editor under Nomura-san, had asked me to work on the copy desk during my first few weeks of work until I got a better sense of how the paper worked. At 10pm, the end of my official work hours, I was ready to head home. I was relieved not to see Kawasaki-san on the floor; I grabbed my bag and headed to the subway.
As I waited on the plastic chairs next to red-faced salary men and a handful of colorful office ladies, I thought I felt wandering eyes stealing glances at me - especially my chest. Otherwise, the other riders just looked down. Next to thin women wearing pencil-skirts and high heeled shoes, I was an overly-curvy, unkempt giant. My curly hair was messy and my black shoes with their clunky heels were as masculine as combat boots compared to the delicate stilettos surrounding me.
A man on the platform called my name. It was Kawasaki-san. He asked if I wanted to go get a drink. I said yes - how could I say "no" to the first Japanese person who seemed interested in being friends? He suggested taking the subway to Azabu-Juban, an upscale neighborhood, to a bar. As the hostess seated us at a table for two in the dark restaurant, I wondered if she thought I was getting paid for my time entertaining this business man. I wasn't sure what to order - I had only been 21 for eight months and had no idea what would seem natural. But the waitress didn't even ask me; she just turned to Kawasaki-san. He ordered us two "Nama" beers - whatever was on tap - and dumplings. In accented English - he spoke as if a weight was suppressing his tongue -- he explained that he had a wife and a one-year-old daughter, whom he hardly got to see because he worked so hard. I wondered to myself why he was sitting here, having drinks with me at 11 pm on a weeknight instead of going home. But I tried to stop myself from comparing what would be normal in the United States with what was normal here; I wanted to suspend judgment and try to dissolve myself completely in this new world. I came to Japan to escape from a predictable life; the last thing I wanted to do was hang on to familiar principles.
I tried to practice my Japanese, too, but after I attempted to use polite Japanese to ask if he wanted to eat a dumpling, and he thought I was asking him for his business card, we stuck to English. I told him about my difficulty in finding article ideas. He invited me to go to an interview with him at Peace Depot, a nonprofit anti-nuclear organization. A new young woman had just joined the staff; he thought talking to her might give me some ideas. I gratefully agreed.
Amanda's warnings turned out to be correct. As I Googled possible article ideas, Shimoto-san approached me. A few silver strands shone in his black head of hair. He glasses slid down his nose and he hunched over me, so close to me that I slide my chair back a little to get some space. "So, Kim-san, do you have a Japanese boyfriend yet?" he asked. I shook my head and smiled submissively. He also told me my clothes were "steki," or cool, and that my eyes were cute. I was determined to suspend judgment and to respond to his comments as I thought a Japanese woman would. But I wasn't sure how far I could let it go while still pretending to be comfortable.
After preparing short descriptions of some of my article ideas, I walked towards the male editors' desks along the windows and handed my list to Honda-san, the features editor I reported to. He spoke halting English and was so shy that he looked at papers in his hand during most of our conversations. His face was constantly pushed up into a wrinkled, worried expression, as if anticipating the next editing catastrophe.
He read through my list: an exploration of sexual harassment in the workplace in Japan, an investigation into why deodorant is not sold in this country, and a look at the strict rules for foreigners in Japan, such as carrying a government-issued foreigners' identification card at all times. He nodded and told me to come to the features' meeting on Wednesday.
At 3pm on Wednesday, the eight members of the features team gathered in the conference room next to Nomura-san's office. Honda-san sat at the head of the table. Karen, a pretty American woman who worked on the entertainment section, sat next to him. Aki, a young Japanese reporter who went to college in the United States and spoke American English, sat near me. She dressed in baggy sweaters and jeans, in contrast to the other Japanese women in the office, who looked like models in a Bloomingdale's ad. Izumi-chan, another young reporter with stylish blonde streaks in her hair, seemed even smaller sitting at this conference table than at her desk. She was tiny, and her flawless complexion didn't make her look any older. The other reporters and editors suffixed her name with the more diminutive "chan" rather than "san." Mike, a bald American who was about twice Honda-san's width, spread his notes out in front of him. Today, he was defending his story on divorced parents' visitation rights that was planned to run next week.
He explained that Japanese women who have children with foreign men in other countries are currently able to take their children without their partners' permission and return to Japan, where the fathers of their children have few legal rights. In a loud voice that seemed to reverberate against the large window behind Honda-san, Mike compared the situation to legalized kidnapping. He seemed angry.
After his rant, Karen asked him why he had only talked to fathers so far, and if he was going to write a well-reported story with enough sources. Aki suggested he talk to some Japanese parents groups, in addition to foreigners' groups. Mike reluctantly agreed.
Honda-san handed out copies of my story ideas to the group. My face turned red. Karen smiled and said it seemed like I was ambitious. The other reporters read through my list. I looked through the huge window of our conference room at the skyscrapers set against the darkening sky and waited for someone to start the critique.
"I think everyone knows about these foreigners rules. But what about this deodorant idea?" Karen asked.
"Can you have it ready by October 1?" Honda-san asked. That was three weeks away.
Somewhat shocked, I said yes.
Excerpted from
Not a Geisha Written by Kimberly Palmer
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Copyright © Kimberly Palmer. All rights reserved. Used with written permission from the author. Please contact the author for permission to use this article (includes reprints in mailing lists, newsletters, and/or any other purpose/format) and give details of its proposed use. Any and all use of this article in any way without permission is prohibited under copyright law.
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