As the escalator carried me skyward, the first Japanese person I saw held a microphone in his hand. A camerawoman stood at his side, and a white girl peered over his shoulder.
We locked eyes — the first and last time a stranger readily made eye contact with me — and I looked away, anxious to find my way through Terminal 1 of the Narita International Airport.
Up ahead, I spotted an information desk and made a beeline for help.
“English?” I asked.
The pretty young woman behind the desk nodded, and at my request, produced a map. I love maps, and as I felt myself relax, I glanced back toward the motley crew that had stared at me on the escalator.
They were gone — or rather, they were right behind me.
“Excuse me,” said the man with a microphone, grinning broadly. “I am reporter with local television. Can we interview?”
I looked around, confused. “Me?”
The camerawoman smiled, and behind her, the white girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What did you expect?”
Scanning their faces, I couldn’t help but smile at the earnesty. Just say yes, I thought.
“Why not?” I smiled back.
The next two minutes were probably extremely disappointing for the TV crew; they asked me (through the girl, who I realized was a translator) why I was in Japan, and how long I was staying. Just traveling through, I said — only here for the night. When I explained that I was going on to Myanmar, to work as a journalist, the man with a microphone grew visibly excited.
“You reporter! Like me!” he said through his ever-present smile. I nodded. “Kinda!”
When it felt like the interview had run its course, I asked the news team if they would take a selfie with me. They were ecstatic, until I explained that it was just for my Facebook and Twitter – not The Myanmar Times.
I had only been in Japan for a few minutes, and already I found myself explaining who I was, where I was going. Even though I have said it a hundred times to a thousand friends and family back home, the words carry a different weight when I’m 6,000+ miles from Tennessee.
“I’m traveling to Yangon, Myanmar to work as a journalist for the Myanmar Times, through the Princeton in Asia program.”
Many people (namely, my mother) think I’m crazy to do this. Why leave the Land of the Free, and my loved ones, and everything I have ever known, to work in a country that most Americans have only heard of from a Seinfeld episode? Couldn’t I have found a job in the good ole’ U.S. of A.? What if I get strangled by Burmese pythons or jailed military juntas?
There are obvious answers. At the most basic level, there are the clichés you might find on any #whitegirl Instagram (Because travel is cool, and so in for my generation, and I think they have Starbucks there!) And then there’s the fact that Princeton is an internationally recognized academic brand, which makes the decision to join PiA a savvy career choice.
But the reason I listed when I applied for the program had nothing to do with travel or resume building, and everything to do with that TV crew – it’s about identity. Growing up in the South as a white, heterosexual, able-bodied, Christian, upper middle class male, I’ve had a privileged identity handed to me. I never needed to define myself for anybody, because people have largely taken me at face value.
The TV crew saw me and recognized that I was different, that I didn’t belong. For once in my life, I had some explaining to do. I have chosen a new identity, and though I still carry my old self within me, this new identity has a lot to learn from the Eastern world.
Take, for example, my sweet airplane neighbor and first international teacher, Yasuko.
It was just the two of us in Row 50 of a Boeing 747, flying across the world together for 12+ hours. Me being me, I desperately wanted to communicate with her – we managed, through a mixture of notes, smiles and broken English.
She explained that she was a researcher who just finished up a trip to Chicago to examine primary accounts of a submarine wreck in the 1920s; I explained my trip to Myanmar. She was very excited for me, but nervous in a way that reminded me of my own mother. Later, when the complimentary red wine gave her a coughing fit, I poured her some water from my Nalgene. You would have thought I saved her life, the way she thanked me and bowed. When we roared onto the runway, she squeezed my hand. “I hate this part,” she whispered. “Me too,” I said.
She taught me how to spell Yasuko (her name), and how to recognize rice paddies (hint: it’s all the farmland), and that the best sushi in the airport would be in Terminal 2. But more than that, she taught me that making international friends can be easier than you think.
I miss Yasuko now, sitting in the lobby of the airport. Her sushi recommendation was excellent. (I think) I ordered the “Ikuranegimagurudon Udon Set” from a sushi restaurant that had zero English speakers (note: for some reason, I keep using Spanish here. I asked the waiter “que tipo de pesca?” and he looked at me like I had lost my mind.) It was fish — I never did figure out what kind — and rice and noodles and delicious. The Kirin Beer was good too, similar to Stella, but with more hop – even if the advertisements had me geeking out.
I never did catch the local news, so I’m not sure if this kid from Tennessee made it to the small screen. After dinner I headed to the 9h hotel in Terminal 2 where, for $40, I got a shower, a locker and a small pod to sleep in. Nine hours later I am rested and ready to finish my trip.
It’s 3,000 miles to Yangon from here, another 7 hours by plane. It’s another chance to form friendship with an airplane neighbor, another chance to say “why not?” when somebody approaches me with a question.
It’s another chance to define myself beyond the boundaries I had before, and I cannot wait to start.
NOTES: The airport is a testament to Japanese efficiency, and I found it remarkably easy to navigate. Signs are clearer, easier to understand than in America, and the shuttle system between terminals gave me freedom to roam. I snapped a few photos of the hustle and bustle here.
