Homie

By Tiffany Tse, ALT, Kumenan, 2006-07

On a peaceful morning, a piercing scream invaded the aisles of the supermarket. A group of girls I taught stampeded in my direction, peppering me with dizzyingly rapid and incomprehensible Japanese as I strained to decipher each word. Like every other interaction I had shared with my students, this exchange was a struggle. Their excitement faltered, an awkward silence followed, and the posse drifted away, leaving me alone and deeply frustrated.

Living in Japan robbed me of a crucial ability—the power to communicate eloquently with other people. My Japanese vocabulary was limited to simple phrases and only permitted short, clumsy conversations. I grew disappointed as each passing day was a failure to connect, a source of mounting aggravation. At times, I was such a coward that I found myself practicing avoidance tactics in order to escape uncomfortable situations.

It was during one of those moments as I tried to evade several third year students that I felt a hesitant tap on my shoulder. Behind me stood Kanta, shifting his weight from foot to foot and holding up a CD. Without saying a word, he tapped at the plastic case.

He was pointing, with a puzzled frown, to the name of a song called “Homie.”

I laughed out loud. Kanta had asked me to define an expression that couldn’t be found in any English-Japanese dictionary. This common American slang word had found its way to rural Japan, where a curious fourteen-year old student now wondered about its meaning.

“It means ‘friend’,” I explained, relieved I could explain the term so easily. “Tomodachi.”

In choppy Japanese, I asked Kanta about the CD. He confessed his fondness for hip hop and soon we were exchanging names of famous artists we both liked. To my surprise, he began to demonstrate choreographed dance movies which, he admitted, he’d stolen from music videos on the internet.

Although our encounter was brief, it seemed to give Kanta the boldness to approach me and ask anything, whether he needed more help defining English street language or whether he wanted to shamelessly inquire into the intimate details of my life. With gestures, facial expressions, and plenty of laughter and courage, I managed to answer his questions and form a fragile bond based on our shared passion for hip hop.
Over time, I developed connections with other students. Our relationships were often based on a common link—we both adored Tom Cruise, we detested natto, we loved Arashi’s music. I found myself enjoying the conversations as we giggled and gestured our way through each one. These friendships brightened my day and eased the loneliness of living in such a small town. Though my inept Japanese was no better, I grew attached to each student and considered them my friends, confidants, and supporters. I knew they felt the same when, on my last day in Japan, Kanta approached me.

“Thank you,” he announced solemnly. “You are my homie.”

I wanted to tell him so much—that he had broken the ice with his first question, that he would do great things in life, that I thought he was funny, smart, and a great dancer.
But instead, I just replied, “I’ll miss you, homie.”



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