The one thing I just don’t think I’ll get used to here is the noise. The constant, coming-from-every-corner, perky-voiced noise telling me constantly to watch out for the trains, to buy this brand of tea, to be careful of where I put my feet on the platform, and to watch and wonder as Pocari Sweat beats them all!
It’s perhaps the most annoying thing about Japan. And as a Japanese major, trust me, I don’t find many horribly annoying things at all; granted, the constant, unabashed staring can be grating, but really when you’re a blond, blue-eyed girl in Japan, you’re really just asking for it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. But the noise – please someone tell me there’s a giant mute button somewhere? Maybe hidden on Tokyo Tower? Because pretty soon an attack from Godzilla is going to look pretty divine if it means all the hidden speakers blaring at me are shut off because some 90-foot-tall, scaled, green menace is rampaging around the city.
For those of you who don’t know what I mean, or who haven’t been to Japan since the invention of the mini-speaker, let me elaborate. Everywhere one goes, one is accosted by sound. On the train, there are pre-recorded announcements of stops, reminders not to smoke, and pleas to give seats to the elderly and pregnant. These pre-recording, for some reason, are always followed by a live announcement made by the conductor conveying the same information. Why are we given the information twice, in both Japanese and then English, both live and recorded? No idea.
In the market or grocery store, every employee who sees you greets you with a hearty “Welcome!”. This is great; this is the customer service edge that Japan cuts off America’s pitiful, Wal-Mart greeter head with. It says, “huloo there, we really value you taking time out of your busy day to be here, so we’re going to yell real loud and make it known!” But apart from the real, live, somewhat over-excited people actually talking to you, there are hidden speakers and stereos all over stores, squeaking slogans and singing high-pitched jingles about salad dressing and skin care creme. The other day, there were dual-stereos perched above the frozen foods section cheerily chirping on about “99 cent deals” over and over and over again; I had the urge to rip them from their perch above the frostbitten waffles and smash them into itty, bitty pieces. Because frankly, a person can only take so many cute, little girl voices squealing at them about deals.
What is perhaps most uncanny about all the noise is how good everyone gets at tuning it all out; people around me barely seem to acknowledge the wings and dings of public announcements. They have all grown accustomed to what one of my friends who visited Japan called “their own little box.” No matter how loud, how crowded, how hot or how stinky someplace gets, no one will ever act as if they notice; they are all in their own private place, totally cool, where no one else can touch them. While this is to a certain extent admirable, and sure as all hell proves my theory that all Japanese people are really one breakthrough experience away from being a revenge-seeking Zen-monk, it can also be very, very disturbing.
People have gotten so good at tuning out all the noise thrown at them, all the people constantly around them, that perhaps they have gotten too good at ignoring the things they need to pay attention to.
It’s estimated there is one vending machine for every 23 people, meaning that in Japan, there is not only a reliance, but an expectation for faceless, instant service. You can get hot and cold drinks, any type of food, cigarettes, batteries for your numerous portable devices, CDs for long trains trips, film and camera for vacations, adult books, umbrellas, and even get your fortune told – all from a vending machine. It eliminates the need for a convenience store at all. You can get almost all your daily needs without having to interact with a human being at all.
Is it any wonder then, that it is mainly in Japan where we see instances of “hikkomori,” or the confined and socially withdrawn individual? Recently, other countries in Asia report the same type of problem, but in Japan it has long been a widespread problem. Hikkomori are people who refuse to leave their home for over six months, withdrawing from society and being completely alone. They aren’t crazies who draw on the wall and have tea parties with their best friends Barney and Mussolini; they just see no need to put themselves under the daily pressures of society and instead feel they can do better without anyone else. So they just lock themselves in their houses, have all their stuff delivered, work from home (if they work), and live their lives in complete and utter solitude.
Now, of course, a lot of blame must be put onto the hardship of the Asian school and work systems for the hikkomori phenomenon. But isn’t the integral assumption that everyday – on the train, in the market, on the street – you can do essentially the same thing, ignoring everything and everyone around, just somewhat unsettling? So maybe there’s so much noise because it’s thought that it’s necessary to break through people’s little shells. Or maybe people have those shells because there’s so much noise. Hmmm. A real “chicken or the egg” scenario, no?
Anyway, if you want me, I’ll be outside. Getting yelled at by some disembodied, sterile ladies to “stand behind the yellow line” so I don’t get my toes chopped off when the train comes by. Hey. Fine. That’s cool with me. Because there’s conforming to a foreign culture so you can be polite, such as not talking to loud in public places and not dressing obscenely, but when you’re blond-haired, blue-eyed, and frankly never going to fit in no matter what you do, it’s okay to make funny faces at the toddler across from you and give up your seat to the woman who looks older than your 80-year-old grandmother. Because you know what? I just don’t think I’m ever going to be able to stay in my “own little box.”
