A New Friend in an Unlikely Place

Over the din of Japanese, I could hear the distinct sound of accented English being spoken. I glanced in the direction of my mother tongue to see four men engaged in animated conversation. I was immediately drawn to them.

"Excuse me sir," I began, as I stopped at the gentleman who was at the end of the row of four men sitting on the stone wall in the public square, amidst a sea of locals. "Do you happen to know where I could find a Japanese soccer jersey?"

The man didn't hesitate. "Sure!" You just go down to the end of the block and turn left. Go up a-ways, and you'll find a sports shop." My look of helplessness must have convinced this man that I would never find this place on my own. "Here, I will take you there," he said.

"Thank you so much, sir, I really appreciate it! I'm looking for a Japanese soccer jersey for my son."

"I can show you where to find one, no problem," he said.

I guessed from his appearance and accent that he was from Africa. I wondered to myself. Cameroon? Nigeria? Sure enough.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Ghana," came the reply from my new guide, who was escorting me expertly through the insanely crowded streets of the Shinjuku district of downtown Tokyo. The streets were a crowded sea of humanity as wound our way through the throngs of shoppers, commuters and tourists.

"I'm from Detroit, Michigan," I volunteered.

"Oh, USA!" he replied. "What are you doing in Japan?"

"I'm here with a group of 24 American teachers. We are studying Japanese schools."

"Oh. How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks. I go home tomorrow. I need to find a soccer jersey for my son."

I waited a minute as we continued to walk. Wow, this place wasn't exactly close. After another block I asked, "How long have you been in Japan?"

"20 years."

Considering my next question, I was aware than I was engaged in a conversation between two gaijin, or foreigners. As a non-Asian, I was very aware of my "otherness". In many places I had traveled around the world I was relatively able to pass, at least visually, as a local. Here, it was clearly impossible. I was a non-Asian in a country of Asians. As was my new friend walking by my side.

"Wow, 20 years. Do they accept you in Japan?"

"Not really. Japan can be a pretty closed society. They don't really tell you what they think about you, but you just feel it, you know? I've lived in other Asian countries - Korea, China. In some countries, if they hate you, they just tell you. Not as much in Japan. You just kind of have to figure it out."

I pondered this response for a minute. I immediately thought about the familiar dichotomy between racist attitudes and behavior in the American South and North, of how in the South "you always knew where you stood", while in the North you just kind of felt the hatred, even if it wasn't always so overt.

"Here we are. Just go in right there."

My still unnamed friend gestured to a classic downtown Tokyo building, modern, narrow and multi-floored. There was a directory which indicated soccer, in Japanese and English, on the fifth floor.The sporting goods store was packed floor to ceiling with the same kinds of gear you'd find at Dunham's or Dick's. I entered and went straight to a small elevator at the back.

We ascended to the fifth floor. As the door opened, we were greeted by racks of familiar blue Japanese national team soccer jerseys. An earnest young woman, approached us, and my Ghanian friend immediately engaged her in Japanese. She pulled several jerseys off the racks and held them up for my inspection. I noticed the differences. Authentic team jerseys with name and number. Number only, no name. No name, no number. A choice for every price range.

I finally settled on a jersey that featured number 4, the number belonging to Keisuke Honda, the star midfielder of the Japanese National Soccer Team who plays professionally for A.C. Milan. This was the jersey that Zack wanted.

At that point, my quest nearly complete, I turned to my guide and new friend. "Thank you so much for helping me. Can I offer you anything for your help?"

"No, no" came the reply. "Are you on Facebook?"

"Yes." I removed my business card from my pocket and presented it. "My name is Rick. Rick Joseph."

"Rick Joseph", he repeated. He asked for a pen and wrote his name on a piece of paper.

"Mass Seidu Babatu" I said aloud.

"Yes, Mass. I will friend you on Facebook."

"May I have a picture with you?"

"Absolutely." I held up my camera and gestured to the sales clerk if she could take our picture. She readily agreed. I help up the jersey between us and she snapped the picture. It looked good. 

"Thank you so much, Mass. Remember, that you are always welcome in my home in Detroit."

"Thank you, Rick. I hope to see you there one day."

"I hope so, too."

I really did.