One August 26, 1961, while stationed with the U.S. Army at Fort Buckner, Sukiran, Okinawa, I
wrote my parents a typed, five-page, single-spaced letter. I do not remember writing it, but I hinted in
an earlier letter that I wanted to say something about my experiences in the
Far East. Mother kept it with all the
others I wrote from Okinawa. I reproduce this letter at length, with some editing. Despite its pompous
tone, I feel what I was trying to say 56 years ago still has validity
in 2017. Here goes:
I have had some conversation of late and some experiences
that have caused me to do a great amount of serious thinking. I seem to become tense and fraught when I
think too seriously, so it is easier not to think; but, unfortunately, there
are times when thinking cannot be avoided …
For a year and a half I have lived on this island that lies
between three seas. It has been a time
of countless new experiences, getting to know a different people and making new
friends. Never before have I been made
so conscious of my nationality, made so aware that I am an American. And since I was educated in a rather
old-fashioned view of patriotism, this consciousness takes a peculiar air.
It is extremely difficult to be an American. I have just begun to fully realize this. Americans who have never been in a foreign
country do not know how difficult it is.
Americans who are in foreign countries and who limit their existence to
life in the American “ghettos” found there do not know this either. And when you are an American who does not
want “ghetto” life and who likes people, regardless of their race or habits,
you are immediately subjected to shock, embarrassment, and frustration.
The first shock is the realization that every action,
regardless of its supposed insignificance, is not at all insignificant but is,
in fact, a weapon of war — a fantastic war of human minds and of immeasurable propensity
and a war that America is allegedly losing.
Almost everyone in the world, it seems, except Americans, know that we
are losing.
This war is not the war you read about in the
newspapers. What you read in the press
is only the visible manifestations of a rather tired ideological power
struggle. This war is not the war fought
through the government-planned programs, i.e.,
Voice of America, the Peace Corps, foreign aid and mutual assistance
pacts. The war is one of immediate human
relationships. The important battle is
the one that occurs when an American, be he tourist, government civilian, or
soldier, buys cigarettes in a Japanese shop, when an American has a beer in a
German brauhaus, when an American goes touring in Capetown, South Africa, when
an American orders a suit in London, when an American eats fried noodles in
Hong Kong. Everything depends on how the
American speaks, walks, or wears his clothes; a casual comment on some small
cultural difference or an excessive demand for a service can do more damage,
and can create a more lasting impression, than if a platoon of troopers raped
an entire Chinese girl’s school in the streets of Taipei. This is the war we are fighting. Unfortunately, most people do not realize the
magnitude of the battle — the battle that is that intimate moment in a life
when one human being looks at another and, in infinite space of time, decides
he does not like the other human being.
When that other human being is an American the battle is lost. To me it is a horribly sad, frightening
devastation and I wonder if we must be so helpless in the ignorance of our own
actions.
This is the first shock — the realization of the battle.
The second shock is the awakening to the fact that you, an
ordinary being, can be hated for what seems to be no apparent reason. This is, of course, the result of previous
encounters lost. But it is not a
pleasant feeling to walk the streets of a foreign town or village and look at
the people you pass and, as they look at you with either obvious curiosity or
seeming indifference, wonder what they are thinking about you, wonder just what
thoughts are passing through their heads.
Some people would say that what foreigners think of us isn’t
important. They would way: by god, we’re
the greatest and most advanced country in the world and these other people
ought to appreciate this and everything else we’ve done for them. If they don’t like the way we are, to hell
with ‘em.
Some years ago we could say this and feel quite secure. When an American says this today, however, he
betrays his country. Not only is such an
attitude fatal from the practical point of survival in this age, but it is
also, in my opinion, an ignorant, stupid expression of unthinkingness contrary
to all Christian doctrine that I know. …
I do not mean we must kow-tow. I
mean we must be decently honest. Only
the poor can afford to be arrogant.
It is the person who is aware of the battle we are engaged
in, aware of the influence of his actions, who suffers battle shock and
frustration. The more criminal element
that exists, the unknowing, uncaring American, does not suffer such emotions. He is in oblivion. But the American who tries to learn what the
people of other nations think of him and his country, who manages to become
intimate enough, say, with a Japanese to discuss personal subjects, who manages
to be somewhat a friend in the real sense of the word — this American is the
one who suffers.
From my own experience I know that an “international”
friendship is, in actuality, a painful experience. Aside from the obvious cultural and
linguistic differences between the individuals involved, there is the innate
and sub-conscious sense of national entity and/or race that hinders any but a
basically superficial rapport.
Therefore, there must be a totally unexpected and spontaneous occurrence
of some kind that will create a sense of comradeship that is greater than the
sense of nationality. I think I can
honestly say that I have experienced a few such unexpected occurrences.
The position of the American in such a situation is, I
think, much more difficult than the position of the other person, the
non-American. First, simply because he
is an American. The so-called “typical”
American image must be overcome.
America’s current dominant role in the world places the American in the
position of having to come to grips with the non-American’s culture and customs
first. The American’s friend has
probably already been “Americanized,” or at least somewhat Westernized in the
cast of the Asian, via the study of English, movies, TV, Coke, baseball and
social dancing. The burden of proof,
therefore, lies with the American. After
the American has become familiar with the other person’s history, social mores,
contemporary situation and perhaps his language, the going is easier. When the American makes this effort, he
expects his friend to make a similar effort.
This doesn’t always happen and the American is frightened by the fact
that he has received no response for his endeavor.
As Professor Segi remarks in Jiro Osaragi’s novel, “Tabiji,”
“… Human beings, you see, are constructed in a remarkably complicated way. Very often they do not show their real
feelings at all. And you can’t take them
apart, like watches or radios, to examine them. …”
There will always be differences between the individuals
involved. But if it is a true friendship
the differences will be no greater than between two persons of the same
nationality and background. And these
differences will be understood in terms of the individuals, rather than in
terms of national images.
It is, however, disturbing to be told that you are not
thought to be a typical American because you are quiet, polite and interested
in the people of the country you are in, rather than loud, demanding and
deprecating of that country’s way of life.
I say this because I have been told that I am not a “typical American”
for these reasons. But how is one
supposed to feel when told such a thing?
It is a compliment to me, yes, but the inference made is not
complimentary. Bluntly, the question is:
What have my fellow Americans been doing?
