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Sometimes The Barrier Is In Our Head

Sometimes the Barrier Is in Our Head

A few years ago I had the opportunity to work in Japan. I was instantly captivated by the idea of living in a society that differed so radically from my own. Drawn to tales of exotic traditions and Eastern philosophies, I wanted to immerse myself in the culture. I hoped to gain a newfound intimacy with my spirituality and possibly even a deeper insight into my very existence. I figured I would start small. It also occurred to me that if my scheduled, near-religious experience fell through, I could still enjoy some seriously amazing sushi. Yet almost immediately after arriving in Tokyo, I had an experience that permanently altered my understanding of awareness and possibility.

After only two weeks in my new home, and before even my first sip of Sake, my Japanese cellphone got the better of me. I needed very specific help and my Japanese fluency was too poor to discuss robot space-phones. I had heard that many of the inhabitants of Tokyo were able to speak at least some English, however opening a conversation in the language of John Wayne, Emily Dickinson, and the Beatles, had so far not gone as hoped. Thus after much consideration I developed an extremely imaginative and elaborate plan. I would learn how to say, in Japanese, “Is there anyone here who speaks English?” And I would learn how to say it really, really well. Sometimes my genius knows no bounds.

I practiced in front of my Japanese friends until they told me my pronunciation was perfect. Then I practiced more. My friends said my sentence was text book. And still I kept practicing. Finally, after my friends were a chopstick’s width away from strangling me, I felt I was ready. I went to the mobile phone store, walked up to the counter, and stood tall as I loudly and proudly stated my question in steel forged Japanese.

I was met with a blank stare. The clerk in front of me looked confused. I repeated myself. Again, nothing. I went over it in my head. I knew I had it right.

I repeated myself a third time. Everyone in the store was looking at me now, all as if I was speaking Seahorse. How could this be? Not knowing what else to do I, very creatively, tried slowly repeating myself yet again. All of a sudden one of the clerks said, “Ah!” while his eyes lit up in understanding. I exhaled in relief. We both smiled. You could feel the energy build in the room. We had accomplished the impossible. The language barrier had been obliterated! We would soon rejoice in conversations about signal strength and cat emoticons! Then he quickly shook his head and solemnly said, “No.”

. . .

It wasn’t until a few months later, while standing in Naka-Meguro train station, that I realized exactly what had happened. As I stood there waiting for my train, an old Japanese man walked over to me. He smiled warmly and gestured towards me with his hand as he said something that I didn’t understand.

It must have been clear to him that I didn’t understand because he repeated himself. It didn’t help, I still had no idea what he said. He looked at me confused and he repeated himself once more. My Japanese had improved quite a bit by then and I was surprised I couldn’t recognize a single word. So I reacted quite intelligently by making a very awkward mumbling sound and pathetically shrugging my shoulders.

He furrowed his brow before slowly asking again, in perfect English, “Are you an American?”

I shut my eyes in disbelief and embarrassment. He had been speaking English the entire time. The reason I didn’t hear it was simple: I was expecting Japanese.

I felt like an idiot. After apologizing and having a delightful conversation, the old man and I went our separate ways. It was then that I realized that was exactly what had happened in the mobile phone store. When I walked in, blue eyed and blond haired and very American looking, no one had expected to hear flawless Japanese come out of my mouth. So they didn’t.

It blew my mind. The experience was a radical display of the power of perception. It reignited a mindset that had almost been lost to the sea of adulthood, a mindset of constant questioning of what is possible. I have since felt compelled to discover why I think the way I do about, well, everything. I am saturated with an unyielding wonder of all that may be out there that I am not aware of, simply because I am not expecting even the possibility. Just one more reason to get out and see the world.

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