Connor looked across the intersection ahead of him and saw what would have seemed, only a continent ago, a circus act. However, here it was something quite different. On the street corner in front of him stood a small gathering of Japan's renowned Goth kids. The small group stood around a young man, clearly the performer at that moment. He was tall and thin and dressed in what could have been a school uniform with slim gray trousers and a gray vest over a white collared shirt; the sleeves of which were rolled twice to his mid forearm. His shoes were black suede old-school Nike's with a large white swoosh and he wore a tiny black bow tie. This, however, was where the uniform code ended abruptly. His face was painted white as that of a kabuki actor. His lips and eyes were colored black with thick grease-based face paint. In his left hand he held an acoustic guitar while in his right he held an umbrella, though he neither played the guitar, nor was it raining.
The performer's entourage was dressed in a collection of satin and lace in black, red and white. They wore leather pants and frilled shirts. Their platform shoes helped them to levitate over others who were around them. These shoes, or more often boots, were shiny black patent leather and were adorned with buckles and straps. Their hair, already naturally dark, was dyed blacker than ink and they, too, had painted faces.
Connor watched as the young star moved, at times like a robot, to the cooing and appreciation of his adoring public. That this boy was clearly not a star, but only another member of that group, made his magnetism all the more intriguing. He was simply the member whose turn it was to shine at that moment. Also of note was the total disinterest paid to him by anyone not in his group. It was amazing that a boy could be so captivating and yet so invisible, both of which were the intended consequences.
On another corner stood groups of teens in their school uniforms, though their shirts were un-tucked and, like the Goth kids, their sleeves had been rolled up. These students either typed into their mobile phones or kicked a soccer ball between them. Amongst all of them there was a noise, a jubilant chatter which showed not only joy, but a homogeneous calm which existed amongst the four thousand syllables each seemed to utter a second.
All around them were others who were a blur of denim and leather. The entire public, outside of those conducting business inside each window, appeared young and firmly entrenched into whatever identity they had chosen, not threatened in the least by whoever else was in their proximity.
Connor felt great peace here, though at the same time a pressure. Connor wondered, having come from a society that prizes itself for being such a melting pot, whether it was within him to stand out. Did he know who he was enough to be able to show one face or another to these people? He wanted to. He was very much drawn to not only the individuality of each person, but to how none of them appeared to be alone. Each had a small group of satellites. What was certainly new to Connor was that whereas in America, each individual would have sought validation through the similarities he or she had to their peers, in Japan there was an incredible amount of intermingling. There were many distinctive groups and cliques. However, it was not at all uncommon to see a punk walking hand in hand with a skateboarder or a preppy student walking amongst a group clad entirely in leather. Japan seemed to inspire choice, but its influence stopped before the inevitable need for affirmation created the exact carbon copy replication which had been fought against in the first place. While this certainly made for a less cohesive viewing experience, there was great acceptance and harmony to be seen in this sea of those who wanted to be with their present company not to be mirrored by them, but to learn what made each individual unique. The healthiness of this seeking, in contrast to that in Los Angeles, was perhaps what made all of these unique individuals compatible.
In spite of recent events at home, or, maybe, very much because of them, Connor longed to know his identity in this way; to know his own fearlessness and how to simply let himself be the way these mere children so easily seemed to. He would be alone in his expression, which terrified him. Would any of these kids be this way were they alone? He almost allowed himself to think that they wouldn't. In the face of isolation, each would surely retreat to their own insecurities, his instinct argued. However, Connor was already starting to believe that in fact, many of these kids had been able to express themselves even before finding others to encourage them. Perhaps in the moment where we are most willing to accept our being alone, Connor figured, this world shows us definitively that we are very much not.
