My Favorite Customers

It was a busy Friday night at the restaurant.  People came in and out, oblivious to the feelings of the servers that hid so well behind that plastic smile.  When you serve, nothing can get to you.  Your pay depends on how funny, helpful, and timely you are.  Some people switch out “funny” for “quietly respectful”.  It just depends.

In the back hallway, I covered my face and stood against the wall.  Just for 5 seconds.  Table 5 needs water.  Table 2 needs their check.  Table 10 needs 3 miso soups.  My brain ran as my eyes closed- and opened.  And then I ran.

“Sute-chan!  Did you get table 2’s check?!”

“I’m doing it now.”

“Did you see table 4 added extra sushi to their order?”

“No, I’ll write it down now.”

Time slowed for the customers as it raced on for us.  Then came the blow.

“Sute-chan, don’t go to the Japanese customer’s table anymore.”

“Hai.”  I didn’t ask.

“Japanese people are very particular.  If one thing is out of sorts, they get all upset about it.”

“Hai.”  Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what Japanese people are like, I thought inwardly.

A few minutes later, a more detailed and painful explanation came.

“One of the Japanese men, he’s allergic to foreigners.”

My heart dropped to the floor.  Pain seared through my chest as my plastic smile melted.  “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t like foreigners.  We’re not like that, but some Japanese people are very particular.  You weren’t what he was expecting.  It’s just expectations, you know?  You wouldn’t like it if you went to eat sushi expecting Japanese people and some Chinese person took your order, would you?  Don’t take it personally.”

The storm of the restaurant work became a storm in me- hot, red, fragmented.  The flames inside melted at the smile.  I only kept it up when speaking to customers.  I’m sick of the racism.  I could feel the hate- not just the prejudice of this man, but of all the Japanese people who had ever treated me the way he did.  Gaijin.  Foreign trash or novelty.  Either way, not a valuable person.

“God, I wish my favorite customers would come!” I prayed.  I wanted to smile genuinely towards people who appreciated my service- who would know my name and have a good time.

Miraculously, within 5 minutes, there they were.  Father and three year old, sushi loving, girl.  Mother was busy working that night, but the two of them were there. Two of my favorite customers!

And then it occurred to me.

The kingdom of heaven is like a busy restaurant.  The customers I have go there- and Jesus, the waiter there, serves all people, racist or kind, with the same focused diligence and love.  The racist man who complained to the restaurant about my imperfect Japanese presentation is His favorite customer.  The father and daughter who thank Him with every dish and enjoy joking with Him are His favorite customers.

This blew my mind.  These people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  Wow!  Thank God!  I am not the best customer by ANY means, and yet I’m Jesus’ favorite customer!  That’s the easy reaction to the story- and although it’s true, it’s not the only proper reaction for me.

Wow.  These people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  Jesus has called me to follow Him.  I say I follow His example.  My religious label, “Christian” means “little Christ”.  Kinda like, “Jesus wanna-be”.  Sometimes God tells us to do things or be things because He himself is that way.  (Ex.  “Be holy as I am holy.”)  For me, all this translates to this; these people are all my favorite customers.  Even if I know table 3 will only leave a 10% tip, even if I know table 6 tips based on how much I make them laugh, even though I am foreign trash to table 1, and even though table 7 loves and appreciates my service, these people are all Jesus’ favorite customers.  These people are all my favorite customers.

Aigasa

Every culture has its ways of flirting.  In America you joke around and… ok, so I haven’t quite figured it out yet.  If someone gives you their phone number on day one, that’s a red flag.  I’ve figured that much out.  Also if they try to figure out whether or not you’re single, that’s another flag.  Honestly though, I’m starting to get good at pinpointing when someone’s flirting.  I just don’t understand it well enough to put words to it yet.  Maybe after a few more blogs I can start a series on that.

For as much as I am at a loss when it comes to American cultures and flirting, I am very much aware of and utilize the Japanese system (if I am trying to flirt, which more often then not, I’m not).  I was reminded of a very cute Japanese flirt tool on Thursday at Crash, our weekly InterVarsity large group meeting.  We’ve begun to do different activities after Crash (nicknamed Aftermath).  One week we went to Krispy Kreme.  Another week Jordan made cup cakes.  Well, this last week we had an awesome “photo-booth” .  There was no “booth” per say, but we grabbed piles of crazy junk like stuffed gekos and tin-shiny pants, set up a blank background, and designated Raquel to take photos for the group.  My dear friend Rachel Mackey grabbed just the perfect thing for a series of awesome pictures; a love umbrella.  Yes, an umbrella with hearts where the rain slides down to and falls to the earth as gravity calls it to its cyclical fate.

“It’s an 愛がさ(aigasa)！” I exclaimed.

“A what?”

“A love umbrella!  In Japan, if there’s someone with an umbrella, say a boy named Tarou, and there’s a gal without one, say Saaya, Tarou can smoothly offer to walk Saaya to where ever she needs to get and walk exclusively with her under a tiny umbrella for however long she needs to walk.  Ergo, this umbrella is the perfect 愛がさ。”

“Aww!  That is so cute!”

Maybe that’s why I never really carried an umbrella.  I guess it was my way of flirting back- oh so innocently?

Japan

“So what’s Japan like?” I looked up at the curious college student sitting across from me.  She may only speak English as of now, but she sure didn’t want to stay that way- and she sure had a curiosity for my home country.

I laughed.  “Japan… Japan is beautiful.”

My thoughts were abruptly diverted to the eastern part of the world at 4 am on March 11th.  That was a rough morning- a rough month or three actually.  My thoughts weren’t really with me anymore much less my emotions.  Up to that point I had forgotten though… Japan is beautiful and I had forgotten.  There’s only so much beauty communicated by a picture of a woman.  Being with her is what blows people away.

Then I went home.  Summer was one of the most beautiful summers of my life.  Why?  Japan is beautiful.  Japan is beautiful and much like when you leave a beautiful person behind with a semblance of their appearance in your wallet and come back to her months later only to realize she was even more beautiful then you ever bothered to remember, Japan stunned me again.

It leaves me praying.  It leaves me praying for my beautiful home, a hypnotized slave to darkness, to come to life- real life.  You know that scene in Taken when the dad finally embraces his daughter after fighting for her with absolutely everything he is?  I’m praying for that moment… and that fighting spirit- well, few have it.  Few persist.  That’s why I have to.  No matter how many oceans apart I am from her, I need to fight on my knees for her- cuz if I don’t, days pass- and she’ll be gone.

the stranger

August 23rd, O’Hare Airport, Chigaco, IL, 2:07 pm local time.  Hour 28 of August 23rd.  9 to go.

My task after clearing US immigration and customs was to go from Terminal 5 to Terminal 1 in order to catch the flight leaving for Norfolk at 4:38 pm local time.  After that, it would be a slice of toast.  Ride the plane- meet my friends.  Go home.  Try to sleep- cuz I’d only had maybe and hour so far.  There was one blockage to my goal though.  The trains weren’t working and it is not practical to walk the entire distance between terminals 5 and 1.  Great.  I sure hoped they would get the trains working or hold my plane.  Missing a plane is one of the worse nightmares I imagine encountering-

I stood there on the platform slightly bouncing from anxiety wondering who would be a great person to call right now- but I left my phone off.  I didn’t need to dump my anxiety on anyone in order to be reassured by them that I’d be fine.  I knew I’d be fine- in my head I knew anyways.

Elongated minutes stretched themselves out only increasing the strength of my anxiety.  “Why weren’t they packing the train anyways?”  One train sat on the platform, half full by my calculations, ready to go as soon as things were fixed.  Once things got moving, the trains would come every five minutes at most, but still!  I could have fit half of the crowded platform on that train!  The answer to my question is simply, “Because we’re not in Japan.  Personal space comes before the practicalities of public transportation.”  Sigh.  That really frustrates me.

Finally, some noise making devise or other screeched rudely at the platform.  No music.  Oh well.  The screaming brought relief either way.  The doors of the half empty train closed and glided away with its easy load.  A few minutes later, an empty train rolled up and I found my way to the furthest possible location from the door.  I wouldn’t be getting off until the last stop so filling up the far end of the train was the polite way to go.  Just as the first train, only half of the people capacity filled the car before the doors closed and I finally was on my way to Terminal 1.

“Yeah, in Japan, this would be jam packed.”  The American guy  next to me was talking to the woman on his other side.  He stood about 6 feet tall- blue eyes, distinct nose, well kept beard, and wavy blonde hair topped off by a red cap.  “Some of my friends who are girls sharpen their keys and tuck them right there to jab guys away.  They also have all girl cars.”

“I miss those all girl cars,” I joined in.  “Did you just come from Japan?”

“Yeah.”

“What part?”

“Fukuoka.”

“Oh yeah?  I’m from Yokohama.”

“Really?  No way!”

Two foreigners on a train in O’Hare- both residents of Japan- or, I was…

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“Two years.  I love it.  I live out in this country town in the backwoods of Fukuoka.  This is my first time back to the states and I’m already missing it!” he exclaimed.  I was too.

It wasn’t a long train ride, but we sure found out a lot about each other.  He moved to Japan two years ago, is a doctor, and is NOT a TCK (for those of you who do not know what a TCK is, Wikipedia gives an awesome definition).

“No, I didn’t grow up over seas, but my dad’s company paid him for vacation, so we traveled a lot as a family.  Both my brother and I got careers in things that are very easy to be international with.”

I never caught his name.  “One serving friendships” are often that way.  All the same, his passion and love for Japan as a country and for its people and culture, despite the fact that he was raised in another, heated my heart like a blowtorch (a safe one that doesn’t burn you).  Refreshing was not the word.  It’s unusual to see someone so passionate about Japan.  I have that same passion in me.  It’s not activated unless the circumstances or people around me attempt to access it- but it’s there all the same- a part of my existence, my heartbeat.  Japan is a major component in my cultural makeup- and for someone to love it so much… well, it’s like I had found a brother.  I liked him.  He liked a major component of me- a major component of me that he was not born into like I was.  Yeah… I really liked him.

God, I really hope that I meet someone who’ll realize there’s a lot more to me than blonde hair and hazel eyes.  I hope there’ll be someone special who falls in love with Japan- because by doing so, they fall in love with a part of me.

chopsticks

Saturday night I was working at the Ramen Shop with Tiffany again.  I managed to get my foot in the sliding door of this home owned restaurant when Tiff had a minor hand incident a few weeks ago.  She burnt her hand bad enough not to be able to wash dishes- so I gladly filled in for the night.  I told them to call me if they ever needed a shift filled and this past Saturday was one of those times.

About halfway through the shift, the dishes started to pile up.  I took the sink and Tiff took the customers.  Every now and then the customers would pile up and I’d leave the confines of my solitary sink to seat customers, get menus, take orders, or deliver food.  Sometimes, I’d even clear tables.  Tiff handled that most of the night though, and that’s exactly what she was doing when she came across a very interesting pair of chopsticks.

“Steph… look at this.”  Tiff picked up the pair of disposable chopsticks to toss them into the trash when she saw something was written on the chopsticks.  Eleven digits neatly lined the end of the unbroken chopsticks in perfect handwriting.  Japanese penmanship will never cease to amaze me.

“A phone number?” I laughed.  It had happened.  Some Japanese guy eating his ramen had fallen head over heals for my drop dead gorgeous sister!  He leaned over to his buddies and remarked about her beauty.

“Look at that girl!  Isn’t she something?”

”塩ラーメン定食になります。(Here’s your

shio-ramen)”  Tiff walked in with his meal and set it before him.

”おぉっ。日本語上手ですね。(O-.  Your

Japanese is very good.)”  She smiles and thanks him for the compliment.  Wow.  Not only was she absolutely stunning- but her Japanese was flawless!

His friends saw the slack-jaw look that plagued his face.  That couldn’t be just good food.  “What’s the matter with you?  You smitten?”

“Hu?  Oh, no.  Of course not.”  Red color filled his cheeks.

“Uhu.  That’s why you’re blushing.”

“No.  No, I’m not blushing.  The food’s hot.  The day’s hot.  They don’t aircon this place enough.”

“Yeah, no.  The only thing hot enough to make your cheeks go red like that is that hot waitress over there.”

“Shut up.”

“Aha!  It’s true!”  His friend pauses.  “So… what’s keeping you?”

“What?”

“You heard me.  Ask her out.”

“No.”

His buddy shrugged.  “Fine.  Your loss.”

He mulled the possibility over in his mind over the course of the meal.  Would she think he was too forward?  Yet another weird Japanese guy trying to pick up an American girl?  What if…

His buddies got up to pay the bill and as they fought over who was paying, he grabbed a pair of new chopsticks and “scribbled” his phone number on them.  She probably wouldn’t even see them.  Even if she did, she probably had a boyfriend.  And even if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be interested in a local… but maybe.  Just maybe.

“Maybe he was on the phone and had to scribble a number down or something.”  Tiff’s voice brought me out of the movie scene that had unfolded itself in my mind in a matter of milliseconds.  “I saw him on the phone and writing stuff down and stuff.”

“Oh…”

And then I remembered… I was in Japan- not in America, the land of pickup lines and digits.  I’d given mine out a few times before I realized that numbers meant something more than friendship.

Settle down, Steph.  I told myself.  Things are less complicated here.  I guess American culture is starting to taint the way I percieve the world.