Goldilocks

GOLDILOCKS

That summer I spotted the profile of bleach blond locks on the platform at JR Sannomiya station. Her hypnotic derriere was visible from miles away, but her chest protruded even more.

“Where are you from?” I inquired, walking up to her, getting my mack on, as she looked me over with big, piercing, blue grey Betty Boop eyes.

“Romania.”

“You know where is Romania?” Pores oozing attitude.

Since my departure from the West, I had not paid attention to white women but, she, was, fine. In fact the only white women who attracted me, even before my arrival here, were Eastern, central European and Nordic women, specifically Danish women.

Like most Eastern and central European women I met here, Henrietta was a hostess, in great demand by Japanese men, especially with her peroxide hair. She made bank from middle-aged Japanese men who paid her large sums to pour their drinks and stroke their egos along with the added privilege of conversing with her. Humility was not in her vocabulary and even as she rejected me, as though she was flicking a bug off her arm, it was somewhat refreshing to finally meet a woman with an edge and an air of confidence.

“I would love to take you back to California with me,” I jested.

“Is that what you tell all the Japanese girls?” You tink I’m yellow cab?”

“Anyway, I’m getting married,” showing me her rock. “So you’re late.”

“Is he from Romania too?”

“NO, of course not! I live in Japan, he’s Japanese.”

“He’s a very lucky guy,” I amused, seething with envy.

“No Japanese dude can handle that!” I thought. And with a cockiness alien to Japanese women she blurted,

“I know he’s lucky and I’m gonna make him know too.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“He is very kind and considerate. He is soooooo different from other Japanese men.”

“Well just gimme your number anyway and we’ll go to Starbucks or supm. Maybe you can invite me to the wedding. I’ve never been to a Japanese wedding before.”

Reluctantly she gave up the digits, not knowing that I had sussed her out and accurately presaged her future in my bed with her lips, southern and northern sets, caressing me. In my prediction her insecure Japanese husband would insist that she ceases all hostessing activities and employment for that matter and become fully dependent on him. After which he would neglect her, opting for fifteen-hour workdays over fulfilling her needs. He would then impregnate her, escalating his neglect after the birth of the child and definitely leaving her saddled with all the childcare and household duties. All this of course would take some time, maybe a couple of years but, not wanting to be the fox crying sour grapes, I kept my prophecies to myself. Moreover, as my days of dating white women were now behind me, I was afflicted with acute and incurable yellow fever which rendered me otherwise occupied, so I could’ve waited. Time was on my side.

Henni perhaps had not heard of the common Japanese saying relating to men, particularly Japanese men: Tsuta sakana ni wa esa o yaranai (You never feed a fish you’ve already caught.) It is often reported by many Western women who marry Japanese men, that once they are married, the exceptional, kind, loving open minded Japanese males they once knew, cease to exist and regress to the average uncaring, cold and inconsiderate economic animal which is the archetype of the Japanese male.

From online chat rooms to interviews I have conducted with strangers, most Western women who were married to Japanese men, reported stark frustration with their husbands after marriage. Japanese men with a preference for foreign women are fully aware that Western women would not tolerate their chauvinism, at least not initially. Resultantly, they modify their personalities to attract the apples of their eyes. Of course, there are exceptions. But in general, such is the case. In fact, this is by no means limited to Japanese men, as men in general use all manner of devices to attract women and Japanese men also utilize these tactics to attract Japanese women.

However, this phenomenon appears to be more prevalent among Japanese men than among men in the West. And if it is not so, most certainly, more women – Japanese and otherwise – voice their discontent about this actuality in Japan than do women in the West. Among the couples who met in the West, the women recalled how compassionate and egalitarian their Japanese men were, but all that changed drastically when they moved to Japan and the males were reintroduced to their society of origin. They were blind to the pressure that their husbands or boyfriends would experience, to reconform to their social norms and, incognizant of the impact it would have on their relationships, many times ending in divorce. Certainly, there are happy unions between Japanese men and Western women, but most such women to whom I spoke, four out of five expressed unhappiness and frustration.

In all fairness, this frustration is by no means limited to the Japanese male Western female union, as frustrations abound in unions between Japanese women and Western men. It is widely known that differences in culture, religion and intellect between two parties can be deleterious to marital longevity. It is also commonly known that Japan is a society aversive to critical thinking, where interpersonal problems are solved predominantly through underdeveloped emotions, as opposed to effective discussions. Among my married students, many frequently report not conversing with their spouses, sometimes for over a decade. But more impacting than actual cultural differences of the parties involved, is the types of culture from which the parties originate.

Intercultural relationships are less problematic if both parties hail from cultures which place a high value on tradition and conformity or are both from non-traditional cultures. Japan, a country the size of California, is an antediluvian, feudal, folk society, hidden under the façade of modernism. Still today intellectual thought (rikutsupoi) is near sinful and conformity is venerated. Therefore, intimate unions between Japanese and Westerners from traditionally nonconformist societies, contain innate elements of hardship, even before the parties meet. In the West it is widely known that similarities in educational levels are key determinants of longevity in intimate relationships. If one party holds a tertiary education, while the other only a high school education, the relationship is more likely to fail. This disequilibrium in education between parties and the consequential likelihood of failure is tantamount to the intellectual imbalance in relationships between feudal, traditional, conformist Japanese parties and nontraditional Westerners.

Peace in this union requires that either the nonconformist party conforms, or vice versa. If both parties live in Japan, transformation pressure bares greater on the nontraditional party to at least appreciate popular village psyche though inversely, adjustment to folk society is far more difficult for the nontraditionalist than the other way around. From my unscientific finding, most white Western men express discontent with their Japanese wife, especially after the birth of their children. Citing her 180-degree change after childbirth, rants about wives withholding sex are especially rampant. However, a common religion serves to ameliorate the innate potential discord in the ‘NippoWestern’ union and functions well as an intercultural lubricant. Evidence of this was found among the Western Christian men I have met in Japan, many of whom arrived as missionaries and none of whom had any complaints about their Japanese spouses, who were also followers of Christ.

Starbucks in Sannomiya was where Henni and I first agreed to meet, where I hustled in cold, pouring rain to make it at 11, fully anticipating her flaking. At Starbucks I waited 45 minutes before giving up to wander in the library for a browse through the classifieds for a second job. As probability would have it, I found an ad requesting a teacher for junior high schools in the Akashi Junior High School District, which had to be filled in two days. After rapidly firing off a resume to them, I dashed home to change into my suit and flashed back to Sannomiya where I rang the company from their lobby, to verify the receipt of my resume.

“When are you available for an interview,” queried the voice at the other end. “What floor are you on?” I investigated.

“We are on the second floor.”

“Then I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

During the interview, after a very quick analysis of the company, I told them of fabricated plans to get married and raise children in Japan, because I knew that’s what they had wanted to hear. It gave the impression of stability, certainly masking my whoring tendencies. It worked and three days later I began employment.

Henrietta was by no means apologetic for standing me up in the rain and or not calling. “Hey, it was raining,” she reasoned, justifying her dis. But that was okay, I had found the perfect job teaching at junior high schools. Specifically, I sought to avoid high schools as I knew it wouldn’t have been long before I ended up like my buddy Big T, a dried out player from the 5 boroughs who had come to Japan in the good old bubble days. T impregnated one of his high school students during his tenure as an Assistant Language Teacher. Indeed, it was the potential for exactly that kind of drama which kept me away from Japanese high schools. Sex junkie that I was, that would have unquestionably been my destiny. However, escaping a life of drama in the States, I had decided that drama should be limited to the stage or in front of a movie camera, but certainly not in my life. And to that end, I chose to teach at junior high schools. With the students being 12 to 15 years old, I saw my daughter – who was then 14 when I left her in the States - in many of my female students and found nothing sexual about them. Moreover, the trains, in particularly Japan Rail, provided an endless supply of beautiful and available women on tap.

Months passed when Henni and I bumped into each other, she on her way from Japanese language school, I on my way to work. After all, to her surprise, I was now working for the school she attended. The shock on her face when she first saw me, the absolute last person she’d wanted to behold.

“What are you doing here?!” she screamed.

“You did me a favor. Remember when you stood me up in the rain? I found a job where you’re studying Japanese.”

“See, aren’t you glad you met me? You can’t be mad at me anymore.” Relieved that something positive accidentally resulted from her standing me up in the freezing rain.

Frequent random encounters became the norm and on every occasion, I mentioned Starbucks in sarcasm.

“I’m so busy, but I am gonna make it up to you.”

After a year I began to notice a bulge in her clothing, which became more visible, along with a marked change in countenance as months passed. The once boisterous and cocky Romanian had wilted to a depressed Bo Peep, seeming to be in a deep funk every time we met. The more her belly protruded, the fatter she thought she was and the more her husband neglected her.

“How’s married life?” I asked her once.

“I hate him! Do you see what he did to me? Pointing to her rotund abdomen.

“He doesn’t even look at me now.”

Some months later I saw Henni pushing a stroller with her son, by then reporting that she was completely neglected by her husband and now existing in the typical sexless Japanese marriage. Her son was then nine months old, and she had been existing in a sexless marriage since shortly after the child was conceived. It was then that we finally made it to Starbucks as we had planned some eons back. During our conversations, or more accurately, her venting, I struggled not to say, “I told you so,” and in the pursuing year I supported her in friendship as best as I could, mostly facilitating her venting about her inconsiderate husband and how he no longer returns home until the wee hours of the morning. In her native Romania she was a law student who had experienced severe physical abuse at the hands of her alcoholic father, who finally left when she was a teenager. Her mother followed suit, abandoning her to her grandmother.

“I made the biggest mistake of my fucking life.”

“No you haven’t, he is going to change.” Knowing full well that yes, she had made a grave mistake and no, he wasn’t going to change.

“If I had known you were so kind, I would’ve married you instead.”

“And moved to California,” I interrupted, though that would’ve never happened. I would not have been returning to Cali with any color other than yellow.

“So desu ne.” (That’s right, isn’t it?)

“And this would have been your son,” looking at me as though she had missed the chance of several lifetimes.

“Hey don’t worry,” I comforted.

“He can still be my son and though you’re already married, I can still be your husband.”

After a few more dates accompanied by her son at Starbucks in Sannomiya, I informed her of my plans to travel to Jamaica for an extended period, struggling with the reality that we could do nothing about my two-and-a-half-year-old desire to at least bury my head in her voluptuous bosom before I left.

“Don’t forget about me and your son in Jamaica, okay.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ll email you.”