NEW YORK, NY – 

My grandfather was a member of the Yakuza. He had a full body tattoo of traditional Japanese-designed snakes and was missing a big toe that he most likely self-sacrificed when he retired. (He always told me a rock fell on it while hiking.) During the hottest summer days, he only wore long-sleeved shirts to hide the tattoos on his arms. Growing up in Yokohama, Japan in the '80s, his tattoos existed as a profound symbol of cultural pride, individual heritage and simultaneously shame, to him and my family.

Japanese society has an interesting relationship with tattoos. Because of their historical association to the Yakuza, tattoos are most commonly frowned upon and famously banned in public baths. In stark contrast to life in America, almost 30% of the entire U.S.  population have at least one tattoo. Tattoos represent various forms of visual consciousness; they can be purely an aesthetic, a personal or political statement,  memento, means of intimidation or proof of belonging. I personally do not have one (as respect to my grandfather) but am mesmerized by people who decide to ink something permanently onto their skin.

Japanese is a remarkably beautiful language. It is intricate, subtle and poetic. English consists of 26 letters of the alphabet, whereas Japanese has two phonetic systems, in addition to a vast library of definition-based Kanji. The word “death” in Japanese can be written in multiple ways: 永眠 (eternal + sleep), 他界 (separate + world), 昇天 (climb + heaven) ⻑逝 (long + disappearance), all used interchangeably to contextual nuance. “Ai”  (love) is undeniably the most spotted letter I have seen tattooed in America. It stands as a single powerful visual symbol, written in 13 strokes and constructed from separate smaller
pieces that mean “heart”, “connection” and “fulfillment”. Running into a Japanese tattoo in New York City always offers an immediate commonplace of comfort and a sudden sense of intimacy. The letters expose a part of one's history or deepest core values that aren't  legible to everyone, almost like a mysterious code that only I could immediately crack. Whether seeing these tattoos on the subway or walking past them on 125th Street, the experience is always an unexpected special encounter.

America, to me, is a documentary. Despite its challenges, it is a captivating world of coexisting dimensions, as opposed to the homogeneous landscape of Japan. Living here for more than 20 years now, I've spotted countless Japanese tattoos on people and have come  to realize that we, as humans, have a collective fascination with foreign language and culture. I grew up listening to J-pop, and song lyrics were commonly written in English that made  absolutelyno sense. Similarly, clothing brands in Tokyo were named after made-up  English phrases and random words. Whether in error or not, the visual look and feel of English excited them and separated them from their mundane and serious Japanese  letters. I suppose Japanese letters (or use "characters" instead?) offer the same fascination to Americans.