"But, I Don't Get Down Like That!"

Original cover art of the first edition of "Hi! My Name is Loco and I am a Racist"

Last weekend I was interviewed by Mark Kennedy at Real Gaijin and spoke a bit about the thought process and events that led up to that book’s creation and the launch of my writing career here in Japan. Apparently, that interview has generated a lot of interest in that book so as a treat for my sucstack community, I’m gonna post a few choice excerpts from that book. If you’ve never read it, I hope this little taste lets you know what you’d be in for once you’ve dived in.

Enjoy!

“But, I don’t get down like that!”

(An excerpt from the introduction to “Hi! My Name is Loco and I am a Racist”)

Hi! My name is Loco. That’s not my real name, of course. Just a pseudonym I’ve taken on for so many reasons I could fill a book…in fact, I’ve gone ahead and filled a book.

I’m a native New Yorker, born and raised in Brooklyn. I currently live in Yokohama, Japan, where I put my degree in English to use teaching junior high school kids and a dozen or so private students how to speak my mother tongue. My hobbies are reading, watching movies, taking pictures of trains & stations, social networking, and playing basketball with my boys on the weekends…but my passion is writing. I do it every day, even if only in my head…

And, oh yeah…I’m a racist.

Cover art of the second edition, on sale now!

The book you're about to read is a selection of stories and reflections. Half are from my experiences before coming to live in Japan, and half are from those I’ve had over the eight years I've resided here. Some of these writings were originally part of my blog, Loco in Yokohama, which I’ve kept for the past three years. All have contributed to my current state of mind in both subtle and profound ways.

The dream of writing a book about life in Japan— which I would wager is shared by every writer or wannabe writer who has ever lived here — is one I'd put on hold until now. Why was the dream deferred? Well, because the Japan Book, written by an English instructor, whether fiction or non-fiction, is practically a cliché. So I told myself that if I couldn't find subject matter related to my life in Japan that hadn't been covered so thoroughly that I could cut and paste it from ten books written the previous year, then I wouldn't do it.

Fast forward almost a decade.

A decade spent in Asia learning about myself and teaching about my world, tearing down shrines of ignorance and erecting temples of understanding, learning the true measure of love and the true meaning of loss, indulging hate, and enduring what really violent thoughts can do to a mind reluctant to act on them, discovering the writer I had the potential to be and uncovering the obstacles that lay in-between living my dreams and having them deferred.

It's been quite a ride so far. One I wouldn’t trade for anything.

BUY Hi! MY Name is Loco and I am a Racist NOW!

During my time here I've paid careful attention to the work of other foreigners living here- mostly the content creators- via the books they've written and the blogs they keep. I’ve watched their videos and vlogs and listened to their radio shows and podcasts. I’ve run into them in person in the streets and met/tweeted up with them at bars and cafes around Yokohama and Tokyo. They come in various flavors of humanity, different races, cultures, and nationalities.

Most of the successful and popular Japan-based creators tend to stick with “positive” stories and light material; shrines and temples, anime and language study tips, food, fashion, festivals, and females. Others might delve into the creepy and the kooky, mysterious and spooky (of which there is plenty- some even fascinating), but the woolly mammoth in the room has often gone ignored; or worse, denied. Creative folk, either knowingly or not, seemed to be unwilling or unable to deal with what I felt to be the most glaring of issues here.

It made me feel a little paranoid, to say the least.

I questioned whether what I was seeing was real or a figment of my imagination. Was I suffering from delusions of persecution? They’re not exactly unknown among expats here, that’s for damn sure. Maybe that was the reason I saw the behemoth while many did not, or could not.

Some of these content creators would, on occasion, partially acknowledge it with their right hand, but somehow manage to dismiss it with the left. A post of theirs might read something like: “I sat down on the train today and this Japanese guy sitting beside me suddenly stood up and stormed off into the next car, looking back at me angrily as he walked away. That’s rather odd, I thought. But then my nose informed me what the issue was. I was wearing a new aftershave, and Japanese people are sensitive to foreign fragrances. I was also wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and the Japanese are very particular about these kinds of things. They prefer a more professional attire, especially when it comes to foreigners, and rightfully so. I'm glad I didn't jump to conclusions like some other bloggers do. It was all my fault. I felt really bad for having disrupted this guy’s peace of mind. I hope I see him again tomorrow so I can apologize.”

Others, though, were either oblivious or in total denial; like contestants on a wacky game show where they’re made to wear blindfolds and try to guess objects from their feel. Hand one contestant a freshly used condom and, despite the “lubrication” and “ribbing,” they’ll invariably say it’s a balloon, inflate it, and make a balloon animal just to prove their point. Hand another contestant a dildo, and they’ll stroke it like a sculptor does clay, and say, “I know this shape, especially here at the tip and here around the base. It’s so familiar, Wait! I've got it! It’s an o-miyage (souvenir) from a Japanese Penis matsuri. I wrote my doctorate thesis on these fertility festivals. It’s a quirky time-honored tradition that dates back to before America and its bloody Black Ships came and tarnished this great country! Am I right?”

It's that kind of crazy up in here!

Well, in October 2008, I said “Enough of this shit!” (I think those were my exact words), started blogging, and proceeded to give that neglected prehistoric pachyderm some overdue attention. The reaction was mixed, but the reception was mostly considerate. Over the course of several months, I was fortunate enough to build a readership, practically one reader at a time. It seemed some people had been dying to talk about the mammoth and were ever on the lookout for a suitable venue. Loco in Yokohama came along and met this need head-on. I've been blessed with some of the greatest readers: thoughtful, intelligent, critical, and challenging; a burgeoning writer’s wet dream.

Others were not so thrilled that I had the audacity to tell my stories. These Happy-Go-Lucky Guys (I call them) did not take too kindly to my negative words about their beloved Japan. They viewed and treated bitter malcontents (they call me) as a plague on two houses: That of the Japanese and their own.

To be fair, some of these Happy-Go-Luckies were truly oblivious to the mammoth for, though they might occasionally smell the piles of dung it leaves everywhere, it did not reveal itself to them in its full glory. The Japanese would generally behave differently in their presence, for reasons that became clear the longer I stayed here, got to know people, and observed the goings-on. One reason being the reception whites receive in Japan is a bit different than the reception some other ethnic groups receive, especially Chinese and those of us of a darker hue. (Invariably, these Happy-Go-Lucky types were Caucasians who think Japanese are colorblind and treat all foreigners equally). Some of these guys and gals will defend this notion by any means necessary.

The comments they’d leave on my posts would run the gamut, ranging from YouTube crude: “You niggers make me sick with your constant whining! Kneel and suck it like the rest of us, and be glad no one’s throwing a rope around your neck."

To disbelief: "You seem like a nice guy, Loco-sensei, and pretty intelligent, too. So I just can’t understand how you can be so off when it comes to Japanese people. They’re so harmless and polite. Maybe you’re just a little over-sensitive, or misunderstanding them due to the language and cultural differences. Perhaps if you studied Japanese..."

To something approaching solution-oriented: “You apparently have an excess of energy, evidenced by your long, fascinating post, so why don't you put it to more productive use and do something about it? The onus is on you to change their minds. Writing blog posts in English just isn’t going to cut it. Get out there and show them that black people aren't all the same. Some are really good people, smart and kind-hearted, like you. For God's sake, Loco, be a game changer, not a complainer."

To dismissively condescending: “Some people come to this magical and mysterious land with unstable minds and a certain amount of dung already encrusted in their nostrils. And, please forgive me for pointing this out but, particularly Negroes…ahem…I mean, people who are descendants from that dark, feral continent. Personally, I believe you people are born with trace amounts of dung in your noses, thus you smell it wherever you go. The further you travel from your own kind, the more pronounced the smell becomes. I’m pretty sure I’ve read a scientific study or two that has proven just that. So, I must conclude then that what you smell is your own stench! Why don’t you go back and live among your own kind, where everything naturally reeks of dung, ‘cause then you’ll be more comfortable, no? And leave the Japanese to the people who understand them, accept them, and love them for the adorable, unadulterated child-race that they are.”

With assurance that you'll find yourself in the minority of a minority, and the target of baffling conjecture and derisive censure from the majority, I began to understand why people avoided talking about the beast. It was easier to just live and let live, and tread the path of least resistance with a clothespin pinched on your nose.

But, I don't get down like that.