Good evening, readers.
As some of you facebook followers may have noticed, last Saturday I took part in a "Dream Masquerade" photo shoot for my friend and professional photographer, Stephen. At 9am, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, slipped on my roommate's white dress, pinned up my hair, and waited anxiously for my team to arrive. At 10am, I heard the voices of Stephen, his make-up artist, Niki, and photo assistant, Amy, echoing from downstairs. At 10:15am, the transformation process began: the tickle of brushes, the poking on of silver sequins, and the curious glances of my fellow team members.
Before stepping out onto the main street, Shinjuku Dori 新宿通り, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A ghostly face hidden behind a painted mask peered back at me. I wondered about this girl. Her story. Her inner self. Her mask.
Following her out the door and into the outside world, I embarked on an unplanned journey of the foreigner, the 外人, the Other.
She continued to converse with her companions but though her dress felt light, the gazes and expressions of confusion and, even worse, horror weighed her down. The soles of her sandals seemed to disappear; she sank into the street as a woman's scowl struck her like a slap.
I caught the same train as she entered the confined space with more unsettling stares. She smiled. She laughed. But she still felt trapped under their stares.
I heard her subtle sigh as she swept passed the shutting doors. She then inhaled. A breath of freedom. She took comfort in the shadows of the underground where dirt smeared the walls and water trickled from lingering cracks above. She felt safe here. Below the turmoil of Tokyo. Out of reach.
Only the camera drew her out. Out of the darkness that hid her as well as her painted mask.
Out of her element, she faltered at first. She posed without flow. Rigid as a statue made of stone.
Suddenly, she became attuned to the guidance of the artist. Her arms loosened; her face relaxed.
Now immune to the sting of the glaring light, she let her eyes speak. They spoke. They dared the outsider label to crush her. The label retreated. It failed to dig its claws into her and belittle her efforts to make sense of the culture above.
She broke down the label, recreating it piece by piece. I read remembrance in her countenance. I entered her thread of thoughts. Images of her homeland. Condescension; conformity. The sense of shame: finding herself among the rest. The whole. The majority.
Now she knew what the Other felt. The sear of scrutiny. The puncture from persecution.
She apologized to those she wounded.
She forgave herself.
The sucking of the camera capturing her visage brought her back to the present. She donned the otherness mask and tilted her head upward, so that the light caught the sparkle of the sequined studs. She found beauty in her otherness and welcomed it along with the hurried gust from the rush of another passing train.
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