One Monday afternoon in April 2016 I got to see something which, once seen, has been impossible to un-see.
I’m standing at a crosswalk in Nagano, Japan, reading a ditty on the back of a man’s shirt:
Indian Boys,
Indian Boys,
Oh how I love those
Indian Boys
The image of an American Indian dreamcatcher tells me this is not an ode to a boy band from Bangalore.
A middle-aged couple stands in front of me, dressed in a pastiche of American styles. The man in the Indian Boys shirt completes his outfit with leather-detailed jeans and cowboy boots. A saddle bag hangs from his belt. His companion is fully covered from head to toe by big brunette hair, a jacket with an American Indian-inspired pattern, skinny pants, and DayGlo-red sneakers.
The profile of the back of the man’s head suggests Japanese: I am in Japan, after all. But that does not prove his cultural identity. For all I know, they had been Korean war babies, adopted by an American couple. Their identity could be thoroughly white, western American.
I look around. Nobody appears to notice the couple. The big, brunette hair, alone, is incongruous, but nobody is giggling, nobody is staring or pointing. I wonder if I’m witnessing mentsu wo tamotsu (saving face) in action.
The lights change in our favor, the couple edges towards the crosswalk.
Now’s my chance to scoot ahead, and glance back quickly, as though checking for swerving cars. Front-on they certainly look Japanese, but that does not give me a reliable fix on their identity. I would never know their story.