Strangers in the Ethnic Homeland: Japanese Brazilian Return Migration in Transnational Perspective

INTRODUCTION

Ethnicity and the Anthropologist

Negotiating Identities in the Field

INTRODUCTION: A HOT SUMMER DAY

IT WAS AN AUTUMN DAY in September when I stepped off the train into the scorching heat after a three-hour trip from central Tokyo to Ota city in Gunma Prefecture. I had arrived in Japan just four days earlier to start phase 2 of my fieldwork after close to nine months in Brazil. As I walked out onto the station platform, I looked up at the imposing structure of the shopping center that towered over the station, which brought back fleeting memories of those grand, indoor shopping centers in Brazil (os shoppings). In fact, the shopping in Brazil had become such a symbol of progress that every sizable Brazilian city seemed to need a glamorous shopping or two to demonstrate that it had fully emerged from the rural backwaters to become a modern, proud city. However, I had no time to reminisce about my experience in Brazil. I was in Japan and had changed my mentality accordingly. Unlike Brazil, which had been a completely foreign country for me, Japan was familiar, and as a Japanese descendant from the United States, I always felt I belonged here, although I had never stayed in the country for longer than a month and a half. Compared to the uncertainty I felt when stepping off the plane in Brazil, I felt confident in Japan: I was a partial insider and knew how to behave, how to adapt and mix in with the Japanese, and what to expect. Usually, I could be ethnically Japanese enough to get by without any problems and avoid some of the difficulties that complete foreigners would conceivably have. Therefore, I did not expect the disorienting confusion that would confront me in the coming weeks of fieldwork—not because of my status as a foreigner, but precisely because I was not completely foreign in Japan.

Ota city and the adjacent Oizumi town are part of an industrial area in Gunma Prefecture that has the highest concentration of Brazilian nikkeijin (Japanese descendants born and raised outside of Japan) in Japan. In 1996, 10 percent of the town’s population of 42,229 consisted of registered foreigners (this excludes unauthorized immigrants), 76 percent of whom were nikkeijin. The nikkeijin are employed both in the factories of large multinational companies and in hundreds of smaller, subcontracting firms. The Japanese Brazilian immigrant community is quite cohesive and supported by an expanding array of ethnic businesses. The local government has welcomed the Japanese Brazilians and provides many services. The schools in the area have created special classes and instruction for nikkeijin children. Even local Japanese businesses post signs and instructions in Portuguese and sometimes even hire Portuguese-speaking salesmen. A number of nikkeijin labor broker companies operate in the area, providing extensive employment and housing services.

Being a nikkeijin myself (a second-generation Japanese American), I had decided to work in a factory with the Brazilian nikkeijin as a dekasegi (temporary migrant worker) in order to conduct participant observation in the true anthropological spirit. From what I had heard so far, however, my prospects of getting a factory job were not very good. Despite the contacts my Japanese professors in Tokyo had with employers hiring foreign workers, none of them had been able to secure a job for me. After arriving in Japan, I had come once to Ota city in order to speak with Mr. Honkawa, a local government official responsible for its international residents. He had kindly agreed to contact employers on my behalf but had not yet succeeded in placing me in a factory. Armed with a bunch of shokaijo (letters of introduction), which are a basic necessity in Japan if one wishes to get anything done, I had returned to Ota city again in order to discuss any possibilities with him. It had been quite an effort to collect the shokaijo from my Japanese professors on such short notice, and I was hoping that they would do the trick, in standard Japanese fashion.

The building where Mr. Honkawa’s office was located was not far from the station. As I stepped up to the entrance, the automatic glass doors slid open, beckoning me inside. I proceeded up to the International Exchange Office and entered with a polite and formal bow and the standard Japanese greeting. The office workers looked up and welcomed me, smiles of familiarity on some of their faces. Mr. Honkawa was on the telephone but gestured for me to wait in one of the comfortable armchairs on the other side of the room where guests were received. As I sat down, an impeccably dressed and made-up OL (office lady) emerged from an adjacent room with a wooden tray bearing a cup of tea. The young woman gracefully placed the teacup on the low table before me with a "dozo (please help yourself) and a slight bow. I thanked her politely and took a sip. I had gone through the ritual many times before, and it was all so very routine. The Japanese demeanor and subtle body comportment expected in such situations were so conditioned that they had already become automatic reflexes for me—part of my Japanese habitus."

Mr. Honkawa was off the phone in a few minutes and quickly came over. I stood up to greet him with a formal bow, and he began a short, pleasant chat. How was my trip from Tokyo? How was I adapting to Japan? What did I think of the heat?

After a few minutes, I presented him with my letters of introduction from my three Japanese professors and from the Tokyo Fulbright office. Mr. Honkawa seemed surprised that I had so quickly and diligently obtained the shokaijo and took a few minutes to read them, expressing his approval. He neatly put them back into their envelopes and placed them on the table before him.

Well, as I told you on the phone, we tried talking to the presidents of five local companies that employ lots of Japanese Brazilians, but unfortunately, they were all unwilling to allow you to work, Mr. Honkawa reported. "Also, our kyokucho (bureau director) spoke with one of the managers at Watanabe Industries, but unfortunately, they aren’t hiring any foreign workers right now."

Mr. Honkawa then began going through a list of reasons why employers were hesitant to hire me. They did not want researchers observing their operations and treatment of foreign workers, they thought a period of four months was too short to train and employ me, they were worried about my personal safety, they were not as willing as before to hire new workers because of the recession, etc.

There was a slight pause. However, there is one remaining possibility. I spoke with someone named Matsushita Guilherme—he’s a Japanese Brazilian who is the manager of a local Brazilian food store. Speaks good Japanese. He’s agreed to show up at two o’clock and may be able to do something for you. By the way, if the factory job doesn’t work out, how would a job at a Brazilian food store be?

No, that wouldn’t work, I was quick to reply. It has to be a factory where I can observe Japanese and Japanese Brazilian workers together.

Mr. Honkawa looked a bit troubled, betraying the expression of someone who has run out of options. By that time, I had basically given up on the prospect of being able to work in a factory in Ota or Oizumi.

Please, don’t be too concerned, Mr. Honkawa, I tried to reassure him. Even if I can’t work in a factory, I could live in this community, contact various Japanese Brazilians, interview them, and maybe socialize with them on the weekends. This was basically what I was doing in Brazil. It was a very disappointing alternative for me, but I had no choice, and I did not want Mr. Honkawa to feel bad about letting me down after his many sincere efforts.

Well, let’s see what Guilherme has to say, Mr. Honkawa concluded.

I tried to keep my hopes up but was rather pessimistic about the last remaining option. If important Japanese professors and high-ranking local government officials could not find me a job, what could a local Brazilian food store owner do for me?

It was a while before Guilherme appeared, arriving close to 20 minutes late in standard Brazilian fashion. He carried nothing besides a cellular phone and was casually dressed, his attire marking him as a Japanese Brazilian. Despite his Japanese physical appearance, his comportment was distinctly un-Japanese. He did not bother to bow, nor did he go through any of the formal Japanese greetings.

Guilherme and I exchanged meishi (business cards), and Mr. Honkawa handed him my letters of introduction, carefully mentioning the names of the prestigious Japanese institutions from which they came. Guilherme did not seem too interested in the letters of introduction. After all, he was Brazilian, not Japanese.

I began with an extensive self-introduction and expressed my desire to work in a factory with Japanese Brazilians. Again, I laid down all the conditions: I would work strictly as a volunteer without pay, I would never use the name of the company in my research, I would wear a uniform and would do the same work as the Japanese Brazilians, and I would do overtime.

There was a long pause after my words. Guilherme looked at my meishi again, his face hesitant. Well, working in a factory is a complicated issue since you are on a cultural activities visa, even if it’s strictly as a volunteer for research purposes, he remarked with a troubled expression. He paused for a few moments, still thinking the matter over, then asked, How long did you say you would work?

Four, maybe five months, I said, my final hopes sinking. I knew my intention to work only for a relatively brief period was also a serious disadvantage. At most, I expected an I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise anything. Such a response would have been equivalent to a refusal in my mind.

Finally, Guilherme spoke. Well, I can get a job for you at the air conditioning unit of Toyama Electric right away. There are lots of Japanese Brazilians in that factory. Can you start working tomorrow?

I was dumbfounded and speechless at the unexpected offer. I had not expected him to be able to find me a job, least of all right on the spot. Start working in a factory tomorrow? Suddenly, the prospect seemed daunting. I had expected at least one week to psychologically prepare myself for a grueling and fast-paced assembly line job.

Tomorrow? It was my turn to sound hesitant.

Yes. The response was matter of fact. He seemed a bit puzzled at the sudden tone of reluctance in my voice after my eager plea. I wanted a factory job, didn’t I?

Uh, well… I can’t really start working so soon, I was finally able to gather together a coherent response. My baggage is still at a Tokyo hotel and it would take at least two days for it to get here.

Monday then?

There was another pause on my part. Yes, I think I can start working on Monday.

Guilherme was already standing up. O.K. I will meet you in front of the Ota station Sunday around noon and will drive you to the company apartment where you will be living.

I stood up, bowed, and thanked him profusely with every polite Japanese expression I could think of. Guilherme smiled briefly, shook my hand, and quickly departed, leaving Mr. Honkawa and me to marvel at what had just happened. Very un-Japanese, I thought, watching Guilherme leave the room.

The letters of introduction remained on the table.

IDENTITY AND THE FIELDWORKER: THE SUBJECTIVE BASIS FOR OBJECTIVITY

And so began my fieldwork experience in Japan. On Sunday, Guilherme picked me up at the Ota train station as promised (he was only 15 minutes late this time). As I soon found out, Guilherme was one of those middlemen who introduce Brazilian nikkeijin to Japanese-run labor broker firms, which technically hire the nikkeijin and then place them in various Japanese factories. The next day, I found myself working side by side with Japanese and Japanese Brazilian workers in the inspection section of one of the air conditioner assembly lines at Toyama Electric in Oizumi town. The factory was huge, with roughly 10 percent of the work force nikkeijin (including a good number of Japanese Peruvians). I was also housed in a nearby apartment with Japanese Brazilians. I conducted participant observation in this environment for four and a half months before I moved to Kawasaki city in Kanagawa Prefecture, another region with a sizeable Japanese Brazilian populace.

I had attempted to find a factory field site by dutifully following an ethnic adaptational pattern that had been so successful for me in the past—acting as Japanese as possible. Yet, for the first time, this strategy had shown severe limitations. Instead, it had been a Brazilian sense of informality and a willingness to bend the rules—the jeitinho brasileiro (the Brazilian way of doing things)—that had finally landed me a factory job. However, I did not fully anticipate that the manner in which I gained access to the field would determine the way I was ethnically perceived by the natives (both Japanese and Japanese Brazilians) and therefore significantly influence my effectiveness as a fieldworker.

The inspection section of the air conditioner assembly line at Toyama factory, where the author worked for four and a half months.

The cramped quarters in which most Japanese Brazilians live in Japan. Usually, two Japanese Brazilians would be assigned to a room of this size, called a hachijyoma (a room with eight tatami mats).

In this chapter, I wish to provide a candid account of my personal experiences in the Toyama factory and how my ethnically ambiguous status influenced my fieldwork and collection of ethnographic material. This type of self-reflexivity in the field is becoming increasingly prevalent in anthropology in recent years and is best summarized by what Tedlock (1991) calls a shift from participant observation toward the observation of participation.¹ As is true with all anthropologists, I had quite idiosyncratic field experiences, a product of my peculiar personal qualities and the particular dynamics of the social milieu I confronted. However, I hope my personal reflections will shed light on some enduring issues and problems related to fieldwork.

Since anthropological data is obtained through interaction with informants, it is undeniable that the personal characteristics of anthropologists directly affect the process of field research. Therefore, a consideration of anthropologists’ self-experiences in the field helps clarify their relationships with informants, how the ethnographic data was obtained, and the personal biases and cultural factors that structure their selective perceptions. This is necessary for understanding the inherent limitations, incompleteness, and general reliability of the ethnographic analysis.

In this manner, a self-reflexive discussion of the fieldworker’s subjectivity is not fundamentally incompatible with the understanding of the scientific process of fieldwork, but is essential to it. As Hortense Powder-maker (1967:9) once observed, A scientific discussion of field work method should include considerable detail about the observer: the role he plays, his personality, and other relevant facts concerning his position and functioning in the society studied. Indeed, an ethnography that completely ignores the anthropologist’s own experiences in the field in favor of a sanitized and depersonalized account can be considered problematic on methodological grounds despite the resulting aura of scientific objectivity (cf. Whitehead and Conaway 1986:3).² Ultimately, this distorts the nature of the anthropological endeavor, in which the subjective experiences of the observer in the field are intricately involved with what is observed and the reactions of the observed. Given the multitude of methodological and epistemological difficulties inherent in fieldwork, a frank assessment of the personal subjectivities involved is a means to salvage what objectivity is possible. As George Marcus notes, objectivity (rather than the often presumed subjectivism)… arises from… a scrupulous, methodological practice of reflexivity (1995:112).

However, as Myerhoff and Ruby (1982:7, 24) point out, there is a fine line between self-reflexiveness and self-centered narcissism. According to Rosaldo (1989:7), the problem with current, self-reflexive ethnographies is the tendency of the self-absorbed Self to lose sight altogether of the culturally different Other (see also Scheper-Hughes 1992:28). The purpose of anthropological self-reflexivity should not be self-exploration but methodological clarification and a better understanding of how the informants’ lives were observed and interpreted.³ Some knowledge of the self is a prerequisite for knowledge about others encountered in the field, which is why Clyde Kluckhohn (and to a lesser extent, Margaret Mead) instructed their graduate students in anthropology to undergo psychoanalysis (see Mead 1952:345; Nader 1986:98, 113).

Anthropologists in the past have relied on the theoretical frameworks they use to analyze ethnographic materials to self-reflexively understand the fieldwork process itself. Some classical examples include Berreman’s (1972:xvii–lvii) analysis of his field experiences in a Himalayan village from a social interactionalist perspective and Devereux’s (1967) use of clinical psychology to reflect on fieldwork and methodology in social science. In a similar vein, I will examine how fieldwork involves a constant negotiation of identity between anthropologists and their informants. A number of researchers have discussed the relationship between the anthropologist’s evolving sense of identity and the fieldwork process (Kondo 1986, 1990; Myerhoff and Ruby 1982; Whitehead and Conaway 1986).⁴

Identity refers to a conscious awareness of who one is in the world based on association with certain sociocultural characteristics or membership in social groups. The individual’s identity consists of two components: the self and social identity. The self (or self-identity) is the aspect of identity that is experienced and developed internally through the individual’s own subjective perceptions and experiences of the social environment. However, an identity is also externally defined by others in accordance with standardized cultural norms and social roles, which can be called the individual’s social identity.

Self-identity and social identity are not conceptually exclusive as some have suggested (e.g., Castells 1997:6–7), since both influence the individual’s composite perception of identity. Others have questioned this distinction altogether because both are ultimately mediated and constituted by cultural meanings and constructs (Kondo 1990:34). However, collapsing the distinction may be equally problematic because identity is not only a matter of cultural constructs but one of competing cultural constructs. In other words, it is undeniable that discrepancies and conflicts frequently occur between the cultural categories that individuals use to define their inner selves (self-identity) and the cultural categories imposed on them by others (as their social identity).⁵ This can lead to a fragmented experience of identity, the domination of one of these aspects of identity over the other, or some type of synthesis between these incongruous elements. Since identities are internally experienced and externally defined in various ways as individuals engage in relationships with different people in constantly shifting social contexts, they develop multiple and sometimes conflicting selves (cf. Ewing 1990).

Undoubtedly, the identities that anthropologists bring to the field have a profound impact on the fieldwork process. When anthropologists enter the field, they are perceived by the natives in a certain manner in accordance with pre-existing social categories and roles (cf. Berreman 1972; Kondo 1986; Lutz 1988). In other words, the observer is also being observed by the natives, and what they observe has a significant influence on the observer’s research possibilities and access to ethnographic knowledge (cf. Escobar 1993:383). As Gerald Berreman remarks (1972:lvi), The nature of [the anthropologist’s] data is largely determined by his [social] identity as seen by his subjects (cf. Cicourel 1964:42). The social identities that informants ascribe to anthropologists structure not only how they will be perceived but also what will be freely divulged to them and what they will be allowed to observe.⁶ As a result, fieldworkers must engage in a constant presentation of self and impression management in an attempt to negotiate their identities in a manner that will allow them to be accepted by the natives and provide access to the type of ethnographic data desired.

Anthropologists in the past have frequently been seen by the natives as religious missionaries, or suspected of being spies or various types of government officials (see Berreman 1972; Du Bois 1986:224; Nader 1986:100; Weidman 1986:255). Others have been seen as journalists, reporters, artists, prostitutes, and even ancestor spirits or deities (Horowitz 1989; Landes 1986; Williams 1967:43–44). In such cases of mistaken social identity, anthropologists have struggled to convince their informants that they are actually researchers and do not have other motives or agendas. However, it is not only their professional identities that are at stake—fieldworkers must also deal with informants’ perceptions of their ethnic, national, gender, and class identities. In other words, the whole self must be continuously negotiated with the natives throughout the fieldwork process in a manner that will be favorable for research purposes. In the following sections, I explore my own experiences in this regard with a strong emphasis on the ethnic aspects of identity.

WHO IS THE ANTHROPOLOGIST?: THE RESEARCHER’S AMBIGUOUS ETHNICITY IN A MULTIETHNIC FIELD SITE

One of my primary objectives in the field was not only to understand the Japanese Brazilians’ experience in Japan and their ethnic perceptions of the Japanese but also to study Japanese ethnic attitudes toward the Japanese Brazilians. I wished to avoid a one-sided study that focuses exclusively on the Brazilian nikkeijin immigrant minority without any understanding of the ethnic reactions of the Japanese majority. Of course, I realized that this type of multiethnic fieldwork would be quite complicated since I would have to be accepted by two separate groups constituted through mutual social exclusion and quite distinct in identity and self-consciousness. However, I felt well positioned to study both sides of this ethnic encounter given my own ethnicity and past experiences.

Before going to Japan, I had spent eight and a half months in Brazil in the cities of Porto Alegre and Ribeirão Preto in the states of Rio Grande do Sul and São Paulo, where I conducted almost 70 interviews with various Japanese Brazilians and participated extensively in community activities. I was openly accepted by both Japanese Brazilian communities because of my ethnic status as a fellow nikkeijin from America who spoke Japanese and was becoming proficient in Portuguese. Therefore, I expected ready access and acceptance by the Japanese Brazilians in Japan as well. At the same time, I felt that because of my Japanese descent and my unusually strong Japanese cultural background, I would also be readily accepted among the Japanese, as had always been the case in the past. However, the maintenance of such dual social identities in the field was a much more complicated and delicate process than I had initially imagined.

ACCEPTANCE AND UNDERSTANDING: JAPANESE BRAZILIAN PERCEPTIONS OF THE ANTHROPOLOGIST

As expected, the Japanese Brazilians responded to me with friendliness and active interest, and I was quite successful in establishing rapport and gaining acceptance. I had no problems negotiating either my ethnic identity among them as an American nikkeijin or my professional identity as an anthropologist because they were quite familiar with these social identities and quite sympathetic toward such people. My informants were very conscious of their nikkeijin counterparts in the United States—the Japanese Americans (nipo-americanos)—and were generally quite interested in me. There was a strong feeling of commonality between us as Japanese descendants born and raised abroad who shared some similar ethnic experiences, and this facilitated interaction from the very beginning. My proficiency in Portuguese and extended stay in Brazil undoubtedly strengthened this ethnic bond and the feeling of common background. Of course, before I introduced myself to individual Japanese Brazilians, there was some initial confusion about my ethnicity. For instance, one nisei woman remarked, I wasn’t quite sure whether you were a [Japanese] Brazilian or a Japanese at first. I saw you together with the Brazilians and you wore the same uniform, but you also spoke Japanese to the Japanese workers. Others had similar initial impressions. I found your accent [in Portuguese] to be strange when I first saw you, another remarked after I finally had a chance to formally introduce myself. But now I understand. It’s an American accent.

In addition, I was directly sharing the experiences of the Japanese Brazilians in Japan by assuming the social class identity of a dekasegi and working alongside them on the assembly line. Since I had found my job through the same labor broker firm that supplied Toyama with Japanese Brazilian workers, I wore the same blue uniform (which was different from the gray uniforms of the Japanese Toyama workers), which immediately symbolized our ethnic and social class solidarity.

My reasons and motives for being in the factory—that is, my professional identity as an anthropologist researcher—were also readily understood and accepted, if not openly welcomed by the Japanese Brazilians. Since many of them are relatively well educated, they could easily relate to the concept of a graduate student doing research in a foreign country and conducting participant observation in a factory with his informants. Most knew what an antropólogo was, and others were familiar with pesquisa de campo (fieldwork). A few even told me they had taken anthropology or sociology courses while they were university students. I was sometimes asked what conclusions I would draw from my research about them, how the Japanese Brazilians were different from the Japanese Americans, or whether my thesis would be published as a book. Others openly wondered when I would be conducting an interview with them. Of course, my social identity as a graduate student researcher in the factory indicated that I was not an ordinary dekasegi in Japan like the Japanese Brazilians. However, this apparent difference in social class identity did not create any distance between us since the Brazilian nikkeijin were middle-class in Brazil. Like them, I had experienced a decline in social class status in Japan by assuming the identity of a dekasegi. The only difference was that I maintained some semblance of my former middle-class identity in the factory, whereas they did not.

This ethnic and professional acceptance among the Japanese Brazilians was further reinforced by the general tendency of Brazilians to be friendly, receptive, and hospitable even toward outsiders and strangers. Call it national character or Latino warmth, but the contrast with ordinary Japanese was quite stark. In fact, I did not find my acceptance among the non-nikkeijin Brazilians in the factory to be any less than among the Japanese Brazilians despite our supposedly greater ethnic distance. Both Japanese Brazilians and Brazilians were equally interested in the Japanese American in their midst. In fact, word of my presence spread among them in the factory so that after a while, some of the individuals I met for the first time had already heard about me from their companions. Yeah, you’re that Japanese American researcher guy, right? a few confirmed when I introduced myself.

Because of my ethnic and social class affinity with the Japanese Brazilians and their complete understanding of my professional identity as an anthropologist, I was considered an insider among them as much as someone born and raised in the United States could be. As far as some of them were concerned, I was like one of them—another nikkeijin dekasegi trying to earn money in Japan—except that I happened to have research motives as well. Of course, a strong consciousness of difference between them and me always remained, even in the factory. I was sometimes told: Your life in Japan must be easier than ours because you are an American [i.e., more respected than Brazilians in Japan] or because you are a researcher.

Undoubtedly, my status as a partial insider among the Japanese Brazilians made them more willing to talk for long hours about personal feelings and experiences that they might have been reluctant to divulge to outsiders, especially to Japanese researchers from Japan.⁷ In fact, virtually all of them were receptive to my requests for interviews and almost no one expressed any reluctance.⁸ I conducted a total of 47 interviews with the Japanese Brazilians in both Oizumi/Ota and Kawasaki, an industrial city adjacent to Tokyo that has a lower concentration of foreign workers. Most were two to three hours long, with a few lasting up to five or six hours. A good portion of my informants in Oizumi and Ota worked directly with me in the factory, providing me with an ideal opportunity to build rapport and even friendship before the interview. However, I also branched out broadly (by using the snowball approach) and contacted individuals outside the factory, who were just as open and receptive to my research and included some of my best informants. I also conducted interviews with Japanese Brazilians who were not factory workers, such as ethnic business owners, graduate students, and those working as liaisons and assistants for local governments and labor broker firms, and finally, with leaders of nikkeijin assistance organizations.

The only problem I encountered with the Japanese Brazilian dekasegi was simply one of time. Interviews were often very difficult to arrange because of their hectic work schedule, which frequently included overtime until late at night as well as work on Saturdays. Most of them (myself included) would be very tired after a long day of work, and many would have other commitments on Sundays, virtually the only day off for some. Appointments were sometimes canceled (or no one would be home when I arrived) and a good number of interviews required two or three separate visits to complete. However, once I was able to schedule an interview, even those who were the most busy were very willing to talk for a long time, and I never felt like a nuisance or unwanted intrusion.⁹

AMBIGUITY AND SOCIAL DISTANCE: JAPANESE PERCEPTIONS OF THE ANTHROPOLOGIST

Compared to the receptive and accessible Japanese Brazilians, the Japanese workers at the Toyama factory were a completely different story. The contrast was virtually night and day. This was personally quite dismaying since I had never had any doubts about my ability to be openly accepted as an ethnic Japanese. I had been socially comfortable with various Japanese my entire life, beginning with my many years in Japanese Saturday school, then during my short trips to Japan to visit relatives, and later in encounters with Japanese professors, graduate students, and other youth. My different background as a Japanese descendant born and raised in America had been less an ethnic hindrance than a cultural asset and a focus of active interest and appreciation. In addition, I spoke Japanese almost like a native and could even pass as one for most purposes if I wanted, since I became completely synchronized with the Japanese social environment after a few months in Japan. However, during my fieldwork, the Japanese I encountered and the dynamics of the social situation were completely different. I was dealing with Japanese factory workers, not students or professors, and I was in an assembly plant, not a school or university.

Negotiating an Ethnic Identity: From Nonperson to Ethnic Anomaly

Although most of the Japanese Brazilians are not phenotypically distinct from the Japanese, because those in the factory wore a different, blue-colored uniform as temporary migrant workers contracted from outside broker firms, this became an ethnic marker that clearly distinguished them from the Japanese workers at Toyama. Since I wore the same uniform, the ethnic and social class identity of "nikkei burajirujin dekasegi rodosha" (Brazilian nikkeijin migrant worker) was automatically imposed upon me by the Japanese. This external perception of my social identity was apparently confirmed by my behavior—not only did I work on the assembly line, I spoke in Portuguese to the Japanese Brazilians all the time, ate lunch with them in a separate room reserved for nikkeijin workers, and clustered with them during break. As far as the Japanese were concerned, I was as Brazilian as samba and carnaval, and there was no reason to think otherwise. It was a disorienting experience—a true case of mistaken identity.

Therefore, I was treated by the Japanese in the same way that the Japanese Brazilians are treated on the factory floor—with ethnic isolation and utter indifference. Close to a thousand Japanese Brazilians had been working in Toyama for several years now and they had long since lost their ethnic novelty. Because of the linguistic and cultural barriers, most of the Japanese workers were unwilling to interact with these ethnic strangers or had decided that it was simply not worth the effort. On their part, the Japanese Brazilians had grown accustomed to this neglect and socialized only among themselves. As a result, the Japanese had learned to react to the Brazilian nikkeijin with detached indifference, limiting interaction mainly to work instructions and an occasional stray remark. All that really mattered was that the Brazilian nikkeijin continued working diligently, and so far they had without causing any real problems.

The anthropologist in the field.

The reaction to me was no different. None of the Japanese workers talked to me (except to give me work orders) and no one showed any type of personal interest in me or bothered to ask who I was. There were no greetings, no smiles of recognition in the morning, no small talk. It was as if I was not there as a person and the only thing they cared about was my physical presence as an automaton installing utility cables and pressure gauges onto the machines. In fact, no one even bothered to ask or remember my name and instead simply called me "gaijin-san" (Mr. Foreigner).

In fact, I was reminded of Clifford Geertz’s famous description of how indifferently the natives initially reacted to him and his wife when they first arrived in a Balinese village. His words fit my experience very aptly:

Everyone ignored us… people seemed to look right through us with a gaze focused several yards behind us…. Almost nobody greeted us; but nobody scowled or said anything unpleasant to us either, which would have been almost as satisfactory…. If we ventured to approach someone… he moved, negligently but definitely, away… they acted as if we simply did not exist. (1973:412–13)

However, whatever the initial reaction of the natives, many anthropologists stick out in the field like a sore thumb. As Geertz quickly adds:

The indifference, of course, was studied; the villagers were watching every move we made, and they had an enormous amount of quite accurate information about who we were and what we were going to be doing. (1973:413)

This obviously was not the case for me since I was not ethnically visible in the field. I knew that at Toyama, the Japanese workers were not watching me, studying me, or wondering who I was. In fact, they knew who I was—another faceless Japanese Brazilian migrant worker out of hundreds who worked temporarily in the factory and constantly circulated in and out. There was nothing special about me, and therefore, no reason to bother to interact with me. The persistent social neglect and lack of attention from the Japanese workers quickly became unbearable. It was such a stark contrast to the previously positive receptions of me in Japan.

For a while, I tried to convince myself that my status as a virtual nonperson on the factory floor would be a significant advantage. After all, was this not the ideal fieldwork situation—to be able to observe without being observed, without distorting the natural behavior of the natives by the presence and watchful gaze of the anthropologist? However, it was patently obvious that if I remained personally undistinguishable in the field—the same as the other Japanese Brazilians who worked diligently around me—I would never have access to the Japanese workers, nor would I ever be able to conduct interviews with them about their attitudes toward the Brazilian nikkeijin. More important, a good fieldworker is socially engaged, not passive, withdrawn, and observing from an objective distance in an effort not to disturb the social environment. The most interesting observations and insights in anthropology come from active interaction with informants, not inaction.¹⁰ Therefore, the social identity that the Japanese had imposed on me as a Japanese Brazilian migrant worker was clearly detrimental.

At times, I almost expected something to happen—some collective event or incident that would reveal to the Japanese who I really was and cause them to open up to me, something analogous to the police vice raid on the Balinese cockfight that apparently allowed Geertz to show his solidarity with the villagers and made him the center of attention and affection.¹¹ I waited, but that magic moment obviously never came.

I knew that passivity in the field would lead nowhere. Thus, my attempt to negotiate my identity with my Japanese informants began in earnest. Despite my persistent efforts, however, considerable confusion and ambiguity remained about who I was and what my motives were.

At first, the task of clarifying my ethnic and professional identity to the Japanese workers and gaining their understanding and acceptance seemed simple enough. I would begin talking to them in Japanese, then quickly find a chance to personally introduce myself. Yet, given the difficult situation I was in, my presentation of self was fraught with difficulties from the very beginning and did not lead to the smooth social acceptance I had hoped. The fundamental problem was that I had to disrupt their previous ethnic and social class perceptions of me as a Brazilian nikkeijin and dekasegi a number of times before I could convey to them who I really was (i.e., my self-identity). Whenever I began speaking to a nearby Japanese worker, the reaction would frequently be subdued surprise since the Japanese Brazilians are not expected to speak fluent Japanese. After a short chat, I would then explain that actually, I am not Japanese Brazilian but from the United States. This would elicit another expression of surprise. What was an American doing in an electrical appliance factory in Japan? Actually, I would continue, I’m a graduate student from the University of California conducting research on Brazilian nikkeijin dekasegi. Another surprise. Sometimes there would be an expression of acknowledgment; at other times, the response would simply be, Really?

Not only did my presentation of self cause a number of expected surprises for my informants, the self-identities that I claimed did not easily fit into their familiar social categories, both ethnically and professionally. I would avoid introducing myself ethnically as a nikkeijin, but as someone who was born in America (amerika umare) or from America (amerika shusshin). Since I could not be accepted by the Japanese as long as I was perceived as another nikkeijin foreigner, this was a conscious attempt on my part to distance myself from the Brazilian nikkeijin in the factory by negotiating an identity as an ethnic Japanese, that is, as a Japanese descendant who could speak and behave Japanese and was therefore completely different from most nikkeijin. However, there were too many incongruities between the way I presented myself ethnically and the way I behaved. In Erving Goffman’s words, I had serious problems with impression management. Despite my attempts to demonstrate my Japaneseness in front of the Japanese workers, I wore the blue nikkeijin uniform and spent most of my time with the Japanese Brazilians speaking Portuguese, seemingly indicating that I belonged more with them than with the Japanese.

Fundamentally, my ethnic status remained ambiguous for the Japanese workers. Although I was seen more as a nikkeijin than as a Japanese, I did not conform to their stereotype of a foreign-born nikkeijin either—the way I spoke Japanese simply sounded too native. In fact, I was asked more than a few times whether I was Japanese by Toyama workers who did not know me personally, although my uniform clearly indicated that I was not. Of course, since I was not a hakujin (a white person), I did not fit their standard conception of an American either. And if I was really American, why in the world did I speak Portuguese?¹²

Negotiating a Professional Identity: Dekasegi or Researcher?

The Japanese workers also had trouble making sense of my professional self-identity as an anthropologist and researcher since they had no ready-made social category through which they could comprehend what I claimed to be doing. Coming from a working-class background without higher education, few had any idea what social science research was about, to say nothing of an anthropologist conducting participant observation in a factory. I certainly did not conform to their limited notion of a graduate student researcher, which was probably dominated by images of working in science laboratories or studying in large libraries with lots of obscure books. The concept of participant observation or fieldwork simply did not exist for them. Therefore, my declared professional self-identity seemed inconsistent with my actual working-class social identity in the factory as a dekasegi. Why would an American researcher from the well-known University of California work as a lowly, unskilled migrant worker in Japan, even if it were for research purposes? It was simply too hard to believe for some. Perhaps, the only indication that I might indeed be some sort of researcher was my peculiar and persistent habit of scribbling down notes on a small pad during short breaks in production.

Thus, I was very difficult to socially categorize and to culturally understand, which is generally a prerequisite for sustained social interaction in any society. Not only was my ethnic and professional status quite ambiguous, there was considerable discrepancy between my self-asserted identities and my actual behavior. This resulted in a conflict between my inner sense of self (as a Japanese and as an anthropologist) and the manner in which I was perceived by the Japanese workers through the standard social identities of nikkeijin and dekasegi. Although a number of the Japanese workers seemed to completely accept what I told them about myself at face value, most remained uncertain.

No one openly challenged my personally asserted identities, but I received many hints that they were doubtful, confused, or simply did not believe me. Sometimes, I was asked, You are really a dekasegi, aren’t you? Even some of those Japanese informants I came to know quite well as personal friends were quite skeptical at first. One Toyama worker, who ended up being one of my closest friends and best informants in Oizumi, admitted during our final dinner together that despite our numerous conversations, he had initially refused to believe that I was actually a researcher. Only when you asked me for an interview did I begin to realize that maybe you were a researcher, he told me. This revelation was quite surprising to me since he had given me no indication of his doubts. It was also disorienting since it showed how little the other Toyama workers probably trusted my identity claims.

This was true even among my supervisors. For instance, during my final days in the factory, my hancho (group leader) came up to me and observed: You must not have been able to save lots of money during your stay in Japan because you didn’t do a lot of overtime. I reminded him that I was a student and had not earned a salary for my work because I had a fellowship. The most extreme reaction came from a kumicho (foreman) at one of the sections where I worked for a few days. On the first day, I had introduced myself extensively to him, and we even had a friendly chat during break. However, one of my co-workers later told me that when I had left for the restroom, the kumicho told the other workers that he thought I was crazy and had simply lost my mind. He can’t deal with the fact that he’s a dekasegi in Japan, so he’s creating some kind of fantasy that he’s American and doing research, the kumicho supposedly concluded.

Other Barriers to Social Acceptance

There were other barriers that prevented me from being socially accepted by the Japanese at the Toyama factory. My employment through an outside nikkeijin labor broker firm indicated that I was not only a nikkeijin foreign worker but a hi-seishain (a nonregular, temporary worker) who did not belong to the Toyama company as a direct employee. In fact, Japanese hi-seishain employed in a similar manner experienced the same social isolation at Toyama that the nikkeijin did. Therefore, my blue uniform constantly felt like a stigma that branded me not only as a nikkeijin foreigner but also as an outside employee who could not be socially accepted as part of the firm. My lack of acceptance was probably exacerbated by the fact that the Toyama workers in my section were considered heisateki (closed, exclusionary) even by Japanese workers from other sections.

Even among the Japanese workers who accepted my self-identity as a university researcher, the consciousness of my higher social class status sometimes became a barrier. One worker even told me directly, Generally, I don’t like college-educated types—they think they are so smart. One of my closest Japanese informants spoke to me about how he was nervous and hesitant when I first began interviewing him because of an inferiority complex (rettokan)—as a less-educated factory worker, he felt he could not say anything that was intelligent enough for a graduate student’s research. I was conscious of this potential problem and therefore made a special effort not to emphasize my social class identity as a university researcher to my Japanese informants after the initial introduction. In this sense, my willingness to do manual factory work actually helped reduce this sense of difference.

One other social barrier should be mentioned—gender. Christena Turner, who also conducted participant observation among Japanese workers, discusses this issue at length:

There is very clear gender segregation in most situations in Japan and a high consciousness of gendered differences in language and cultural practice. One of the consequences of this situation is that women are less threatening because they are less powerful. Another consequence is that a female researcher has the freedom to speak to women and to men alone or in groups, whereas it is more difficult for men to speak either to a woman alone or even to small groups. (1995:27)

As a male anthropologist, I encountered especially serious problems of access to female informants because of the considerable segregation that existed between male and female Japanese workers at Toyama. Men and women generally sat separately during break at different tables and stood in separate groups during the morning assembly, talking only among themselves. At a group level, conversations across gender lines were quite rare, and any notable interaction occurred only between certain individuals (motivated partly by romantic interest among the younger workers). Sometimes, I felt that the gender segregation was almost as notable as the ethnic segregation in the factory.

Therefore, my gender identity was another obstacle to fieldwork. Most of the female workers were quite shy and simply did not talk to the foreign workers in the factory, especially if they were men. After a while, however, I became quite skilled at cornering hapless female workers on the factory floor and forcing them to talk to me, at which point they discovered that I spoke Japanese and was rather easy to converse with. Fortunately, I was able to engage a number of female workers in friendly and extensive conversation, and even the shyest among them eventually opened up to me, telling me at length about her personal frustrations and the discrimination she felt as a female employee. However, all of them were very reluctant to be interviewed outside the factory, and I did not wish to force the issue. I obviously realized that it would be highly inappropriate for me to meet them at home, especially if they lived alone in company dormitories. Even my offers to meet them at kissaten (cafés and coffee houses) were received with strong reluctance. The contrast was again quite vivid with Japanese Brazilian women, who were just as sociable, accessible, and willing to talk and associate with me as the men. My requests for personal interviews were never considered threatening, and even when I visited them alone in their apartments, it was never an issue. As a result, my nikkeijin interview sample is quite balanced, according to the sex ratio of Japanese Brazilian migrants in Japan.

Therefore, because of these numerous ethnic, social, and gender barriers, I was never accepted by the Japanese workers at Toyama at the group level despite my persistent attempts to negotiate my identity in a favorable manner and constantly engage them in conversation on the assembly line. Collectively, there was